The Mists of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “Yes, sing for us, child,” said Morgause, and Arthur added his entreaty.

  “Yes, it is long since I heard your voice, and it is still the sweetest voice I have ever heard . . . perhaps because it is the first voice I remember hearing,” Arthur said. “I think you sang me to sleep with lullabies before I could talk plain, and you were no more than a child yourself. Always I remember you best like that, Morgaine,” he added, and before the pain in his eyes, Morgaine bent her head.

  Is this what Gwenhwyfar cannot forgive, that I bear for him the face of the Goddess? She took Drustan’s harp and bent her head over the strings, touching them one by one.

  ” ‘Tis tuned differently than mine,” she said, trying a few strings, and then looked up as there was a commotion in the lower hall. A trumpet blew, harsh and shrill inside the walls, and there was a tramp of armed feet. Arthur half rose, then sank back into his seat as four armed men, bearing sword and shield, strode into the hall.

  Cai came to meet them, protesting—it was not allowed to bear weapons into the King’s hall at Pentecost. They shoved him roughly to one side.

  The men wore Roman helmets—Morgaine had seen one or two of those preserved in Avalon—and short military tunics and Roman armor, and thick red military cloaks streamed out behind them. Morgaine blinked—it was as if Roman legionaries had walked out of the past; one man bore, at the end of a pike, the carved and gilded figure of an eagle.

  “Arthur, Duke of Britain!” cried out one of the men. “We bear you a message from Lucius, Emperor of Rome!”

  Arthur rose from his seat and took a single step toward the men in legionary dress. “I am not Duke of Britain, but High King,” he said mildly, “and I know of no Emperor Lucius. Rome has fallen and is in the hands of barbarians—and, I doubt not, impostors. Still, one does not hang the dog for the impertinence of the master. You may say your message.”

  “I am Castor, centurion of the Valeria Victrix legion,” said the man who had spoken before. “In Gaul, the legions have been formed again, behind the banner of Lucius Valerius, Emperor of Rome. The message of Lucius is this—that you, Arthur, Duke of Britain, may continue to rule under that style and designation, provided that you send him, within six weeks, imperial tribute consisting of forty ounces of gold, two dozens of the British pearls, and three wagonloads each of iron, tin, and lead from your country, with a hundred ells of woven British wool and a hundred slaves.”

  Lancelet rose from his place, leaped forward into the space before the King.

  “My lord Arthur,” he cried, “let me flay these impudent dogs and send them yelping back to their master, and tell this idiot Lucius that if he wants tribute from England he may come and try to take it—”

  “Wait, Lancelet,” said Arthur gently, smiling at his friend, “that is not the way.” He surveyed the legionaries for a moment; Castor had half drawn his sword, and Arthur said grimly, “No steel may be drawn on this holy day in my court, soldier. I do not expect a barbarian from Gaul to know the manners of a civilized country, but if you put not your sword back into its sheath, then, I swear, Lancelet may come and take it from you as best he can. And no doubt you have heard of sir Lancelet, even in Gaul. But I want no blood shed at the foot of my throne.”

  Castor, baring his teeth with rage, thrust his sword back into his sheath. “I am not afraid of your knight Lancelet,” he said. “His days were long gone in the wars with the Saxons. But I was sent as a messenger with orders to shed no blood. What answer may I take the emperor, Duke Arthur?”

  “None—if you refuse me my proper title in my own hall,” said Arthur. “But say this to Lucius: that Uther Pendragon succeeded Ambrosius Aurelianus when there were no Romans to aid us in our death struggle against the Saxons, and I, Arthur, succeeded my father Uther, and my nephew Galahad will succeed me on the throne of Britain. There is none who can lawfully lay claim to the purple of the emperor—the Roman Empire rules no more in Britain. If Lucius wishes to rule in his native Gaul and the people there accept him as king, I will surely not come to contest his claim; but if he lays claim to a single inch of Britain or Less Britain, then he shall have nothing from us but three dozen good British arrowheads where they will do him most good.”

  Castor, pale with fury, said, “My emperor foresaw some such impudent answer as this, and this is what he bade me say: that Less Britain is already in his hands, and he has imprisoned King Ban’s son Bors, in his own castle. And when the Emperor Lucius has laid all of Less Britain waste, then he will come to Britain, as did the Emperor Claudius of old, and conquer that country again, in despite of all your painted savage chiefs smeared with woad!”

  “Tell your emperor,” said Arthur, “that my offer of three dozen British arrowheads holds good, only now will I raise my offer to three hundred, and he gets no tribute from me but one of them through his heart. Tell him, too, that if he harms a single hair on the head of my Companion sir Bors, I shall give him to Lancelet and Lionel, who are Bors’s brothers, to skin him alive and hang his flayed corpse from the castle walls. Now go back to your emperor and give him that message. No, Cai, don’t let anyone lay a hand on him—a messenger is sacred to his Gods.”

  There was an appalled silence as the legionaries strode out of the hall, turning crisply on their heels and letting their mailed boots stamp and ring on the stones. When they had gone a clamor arose, but Arthur raised his hand and quiet fell again.

  “There will be no mock battles on the morrow, for we will have real ones soon,” he said, “and for prizes I can offer the plunder of this self-styled emperor. Companions, I would have you ready to ride at daybreak for the coast. Cai, you can handle the provisioning. Lancelet"—a faint smile as he looked at his friend—"I would leave you here to guard the Queen, but since your brother is prisoned, I know you will wish to ride with us. I shall ask the priest to say holy service for those of you who wish to be shriven of any sins before you ride into battle, tomorrow at dawn. Sir Uwaine"—his eyes sought out his newest Companion where he sat among the younger knights—"now I can offer you glory in battle instead of war games. I beg you, as my sister’s son, to ride at my side and cover my back against treachery.”

  “I am honored, m-my king,” Uwaine stammered, his face glowing, and in that moment Morgaine saw something of how Arthur had inspired such great devotion.

  “Uriens, my good brother-in-law,” said Arthur, “I leave the Queen in your care—remain at Camelot and guard her till I return.” He bent to kiss Gwenhwyfar’s hand. “My lady, I beg you to excuse us from further feasting—there is war upon us again.”

  Gwenhwyfar was white as her shift. “And you know it is welcome to you, my lord. God keep you, dear husband.” And she leaned forward to kiss him. He rose and went down from the dais, beckoning.

  “Gawaine, Lionel, Gareth—all of you—Companions, attend me!”

  Lancelet delayed for a moment before following him. “Bid me also God’s blessing as I ride, my queen.”

  “Oh, God—Lancelet—” Gwenhwyfar said, and, regardless of the eyes on her, she flung herself into his arms. He held her, gently, speaking so softly that Morgaine could not hear, but Morgaine saw that she was weeping. But when she raised her head her face was dry and tearless. “God speed you, my dearest love.”

  “And God keep you, love of my heart,” Lancelet said very softly. “Whether I return or no, may he bless you.” He turned to Morgaine. “Now indeed do I rejoice that you are to pay a visit to Elaine. You must bear my greetings to my dear wife, and tell her I have gone with Arthur to the rescue of my kinsman Bors from this knave who calls himself the Emperor Lucius. Tell her I pray God to keep her and care for her, and send my love to our children.”

  He stood for a moment silent, and for a moment Morgaine thought he would kiss her too; instead, smiling, he laid his hand against her cheek. “God bless you too, Morgaine—whether or no you want this blessing.” He turned to join Arthur where the Companions were gathering in the lower hall.

  Uriens came to the
dais and bowed to Gwenhwyfar. “I am at your service, my lady.”

  If she laughs at the old man, Morgaine thought with a sudden, fierce protectiveness, I will slap her! Uriens meant well, and the duty was no more than ceremonial, a minor tribute to kinship; Camelot would be very well in the hands of Cai and Lucan, as always. But Gwenhwyfar was accustomed to diplomacy at court. She said gravely, “I thank you, sir Uriens. You are most welcome here. Morgaine is my dear friend and sister, and I will be happy to have her near me at court again.”

  Oh, Gwenhwyfar, Gwenhwyfar, what a liar you are! Morgaine said sweetly, “But I must ride forth and visit my kinswoman Elaine. Lancelet charged me to bear his news.”

  “You are always kind,” said Uriens, “and since the war is not in our countryside, but across the channel, you shall go when you wish. I would ask Accolon to escort you, but it is likely he must ride with Arthur to the coast.”

  He really would leave me in Accolon’s care; he thinks good of everyone, Morgaine thought, and kissed her husband with real warmth. “When I have paid my visit to Elaine, my lord, may I have leave to visit my kinswoman in Avalon?”

  “You may do your own will, my lady,” said Uriens, “but before you go, will you unpack my things? My valet can never do it so well as you. And will you leave some of your herbal salves and medicines for me?”

  “To be sure,” she said, and as she went to make all ready for her journey, she thought with resignation that no doubt, before they parted, he would want to sleep with her this night. Well, she had endured it before this, she could do so again.

  What a whore I have grown!

  12

  Morgaine knew that she dared make this journey only if she made it one step at a time, one league at a time, one day at a time. Her first step, then, was to Pellinore’s castle; bitter irony, that her first mission was a kindly message to Lancelet’s wife and his children.

  All that first day she followed the old Roman road northward through rolling hills. Kevin had offered to escort her, and she had been tempted; the old fear gripped her, that she would not find the way to Avalon this time either, not dare to summon the Avalon barge; that she would wander again into the fairy country and be lost there forever. She had not dared go after Viviane’s death. . . .

  But now she must meet this test, as when she had first been made priestess . . . cast out of Avalon alone, with no test save this, that she must be able somehow to return . . . by her own strength, not Kevin’s, she must win entry there again.

  Still she was frightened; it had been so long.

  On the fourth day she came within sight of Pellinore’s castle, and at noon of that day, riding along the marshy shores of the lake which now bore no trace of the dragon which once had lurked there (though her serving-man and woman shivered and clung together and told each other horrible tales of dragons), she caught sight of the somewhat smaller dwelling which Pellinore had given to Elaine and Lancelet when they were wedded.

  It was more villa than castle; in these days of peace there were not many fortified places in that countryside. Broad lawns sloped down toward the road, and as Morgaine rode up toward the house, a flock of geese sent up a great squawk.

  A well-dressed chamberlain greeted her, asking her name and business.

  “I am the lady Morgaine, wife of King Uriens of North Wales. I bear a message from the lord Lancelet.”

  She was taken to a room where she could wash and refresh herself, then conducted to the great hall, where a fire burned and wheat cakes were set before her, with honey and a flask of good wine. Morgaine found herself yawning at the ceremoniousness of this—she was, after all, a kinswoman, not a state visitor. After a time, a small boy peered into the room, and when he saw that she was alone, came in. He was fair, with blue eyes and a splashing of golden freckles on his face, and she knew at once whose son he was, though he was nothing like his father.

  “Are you the lady Morgaine that they call Morgaine of the Fairies?”

  Morgaine said, “I am. And I am your cousin, Galahad.”

  “How do you know my name?” he asked suspiciously. “Are you a sorceress? Why do they call you Morgaine of the Fairies?”

  She said, “Because I am of the old royal line of Avalon, and fostered there. And I know your name, not from sorcery, but because you look like your mother, who is also my kinswoman.”

  “My father’s name is Galahad too,” said the child, “but the Saxons call him Elf-arrow.”

  “I came here to bear your father’s greetings to you, and to your mother, and to your sisters too,” Morgaine said.

  “Nimue is a silly girl,” said Galahad. “She is a big girl, five years old, but she cried when my father came and would not let him pick her up and kiss her, because she did not recognize him. Do you know my father?”

  “Indeed I do,” said Morgaine. “His mother, the Lady of the Lake, was my foster-mother and my aunt.”

  He looked skeptical and frowned. “My mother told me that the Lady of the Lake is an evil sorceress.”

  “Your mother is—” Morgaine stopped and softened the words; he was, after all, only a child. “Your mother did not know the Lady as I did. She was a good and wise woman, and a great priestess.”

  “Oh?” She could see Galahad struggling with this concept. “Father Griffin says that only men can be priests, because men are made in God’s image and women are not. Nimue said that she wanted to be a priest when she grew up, and learn to read and write and play upon the harp, and Father Griffin told her that no woman could do all these things, or any of them.”

  “Then Father Griffin is mistaken,” said Morgaine, “for I can do them all and more.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Galahad said, surveying her with a level stare of hostility. “You think everyone is wrong but you, don’t you? My mother says that little ones should not contradict grown-ups, and you look as if you were not so much older than I. You aren’t much bigger, are you?”

  Morgaine laughed at the angry child and said, “But I am older than either your mother or your father, Galahad, even though I am not very big.”

  There was a stir at the door and Elaine came in. She had grown softer, her body rounded, her breasts sagging—after all, Morgaine told herself, she had borne three children and one was still at the breast. But she was still lovely, her golden hair shining as bright as ever, and she embraced Morgaine as if they had met but yesterday.

  “I see you have met my good son,” she said. “Nimue is in her room being punished—she was impertinent to Father Griffin—and Gwennie, thank Heaven, is asleep—she is a fussy baby and I was awake with her much of the night. Have you come from Camelot? Why did my lord not ride with you, Morgaine?”

  “I have come to tell you about that,” Morgaine said. “Lancelet will not ride home for some while. There is war in Less Britain, and his brother Bors is besieged in his castle. All of Arthur’s Companions have gone to rescue him and put down the man who would be emperor.”

  Elaine’s eyes filled with tears, but young Galahad’s face was eager with excitement. “If I were older,” he said, “I would be one of the Companions and my father would make me a knight and I would ride with them, and I would fight these old Saxons—and any old emperor too!”

  Elaine heard the story and said, “This Lucius sounds to me like a madman!”

  “Mad or sane, he has an army and claims it in the name of Rome,” Morgaine said. “Lancelet sent me to see you, and bade me kiss his children—though I doubt not this young man is too big to be kissed like a babe,” she said, smiling at Galahad. “My stepson, Uwaine, thought himself too big for that when he was about your size, and a few days ago he was made one of Arthur’s Companions.”

  “How old is he?” asked Galahad, and when Morgaine said fifteen, he scowled furiously and began to reckon up on his fingers.

  Elaine asked, “How looked my dear lord? Galahad, run away to your tutor, I want to speak with my cousin,” and when the child had gone, she said, “I had more time to speak
with Lancelet before Pentecost than in all the years of our marriage. This is the first time in all these years that I have had more than a week of his company!”

  “At least he did not leave you with child this time,” said Morgaine.

  “No,” said Elaine, “and he was very considerate and did not seek my bed during those last weeks while we waited together for Gwen’s birth—he said that I was so big, it would be no pleasure to me. I would not have refused him, but to tell the truth I think he cared not at all . . . and there’s a confession for you, Morgaine.”

  “You forget,” said Morgaine with a grim little smile, “I have known Lancelet all my life.”

  “Tell me,” Elaine said, “I swore, once, I would never ask you this—was Lancelet your lover, did you ever lie with him?”

  Morgaine looked at her drawn face and said gently, “No, Elaine. There was a time when I thought—but it came never to that. I did not love him, nor did he love me.” And to her own surprise, she knew the words were true, though she had never known it before.