The Mists of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “Do you think I have need of charms or spells, kinswoman?”

  Morgaine laughed. “I should have used another word. Young men seem mostly to want a fair face and little more.”

  “Well, Morgaine, Accolon is younger than you, and you have certainly captivated him to the point where he has no desire for a younger woman—or a fairer one. I am not the one to reproach you, my dear. You were married against your will, and your husband could be your grandsire.”

  Morgaine shrugged. “Sometimes I think Uriens knows—perhaps he is glad that I have a lover who will not tempt me to leave him.”

  A little hesitantly—she had never asked Morgaine any personal question since Gwydion’s birth—Morgause said, “You and Uriens are at odds, then?”

  Morgaine gave again that indifferent shrug. “I think Uriens cares not enough for me to be at odds one way or the other.”

  “How like you Gwydion?” Morgause asked.

  “He frightens me,” said Morgaine. “Yet it would be hard not to be charmed by him.”

  “What do you expect? He has Lancelet’s beauty and your powers of mind—and he is ambitious as well.”

  “How strange that you should know my son better than I do,” Morgaine said, and there was so much bitterness in the words that Morgause, whose first instinct was to rap out a sharp reply—Morgaine had deserted her son, why should it surprise her?—patted the younger woman’s hand and said, not unkindly, “Oh, my dear, once a son is grown out of your lap, I think anyone knows him better than his mother! I am sure that Arthur and his Companions, and even your Uwaine, all know Gawaine better than I do, and he is not even a hard man to understand—he’s a perfectly simple man. If you had reared him from a babe you still would not understand Gwydion—I freely confess that I do not!”

  Morgaine’s only answer was an uneasy smile. She turned to look at the lists, where the first events were starting; Arthur’s fools and clowns were dancing about in ridiculous mock battles, flapping pig’s bladders for weapons and cloth banners, garishly painted, in the place of shields, until the watchers were guffawing at their capers. They bowed at last, and Gwenhwyfar, in an exaggerated parody of the gesture with which she would later bestow prizes to the real winners, flung them handfuls of sweets and cakes. They scrambled for them, to more laughter and applause, then capered away to the good dinner waiting for them in the kitchens.

  One of the criers called out that the first match would be a trial combat between the Queen’s champion, sir Lancelet of the Lake, and the King’s, sir Gawaine of Lothian and the Isles. There was a tumult of applause as they came onto the field—Lancelet slender, dark, and still so handsome, despite the lines in his face and the grey in his hair, that Morgaine felt her breath catch.

  Yes, thought Morgause, watching her younger kinswoman’s face, she loves him still, despite the years. Perhaps she does not know it herself, but there it is.

  The combat was like an elaborately choreographed dance, the two moving round one another, their swords and shields ringing loud. Morgause could not see that either of them had the slightest advantage, and when at last they lowered their swords, bowed to the King, and embraced each other, they were cheered impartially and applauded without the slightest favoritism.

  Then came the horse games: demonstrations of fancy riding, a man riding an unbroken horse to master it—Morgause faintly remembered a time when Lancelet had done some such thing, perhaps at Arthur’s wedding—it seemed very long ago. After that, there were individual duels on horseback, with blunted spears which could nevertheless unhorse a rider and give him a nasty spill into the field. One young rider fell twisted on his leg and was carried away screaming, the leg sticking out at an improbable angle. This was the only serious injury, but there were bruises, smashed fingers, men flung senseless to the ground, and one who barely escaped being kicked by a badly trained horse. Gwenhwyfar gave prizes at the end of all this, and Morgaine too was called by Arthur and asked to distribute several prizes.

  Accolon had won one of the prizes for riding, and as he came to kneel and accept the prize from Morgaine’s hands, Morgause was astonished to hear a low, but perceptible hiss of disapproval somewhere in the stands. Someone softly but audibly whispered, “Witch! Harlot!”

  Morgaine colored, but her hands did not falter as she handed Accolon the cup. Arthur said in a low voice to one of his stewards, “Find out who that was!” and the man slipped away, but Morgause was sure that in such a crowd, the voice would never be recognized.

  When Morgaine came back to her seat at the start of the second half of the entertainment, she looked pale and angry; her hands, Morgause noted, were shaking, and her breath coming fast in her throat.

  “My dear, don’t worry about it,” said Morgause. “What do you think they call me, when it is a year of poor crops, or when someone has had justice done to him and would rather have gotten away with his villainy?”

  “Do you think I care what that rabble think of me?” Morgaine said scornfully, but Morgause knew her indifference was pretended. “I am loved well enough in my own country.”

  The second half of the games began with some Saxon churls demonstrating the art of wrestling. They were huge hairy men, hair not only on their faces but all over their near-naked bodies; they grunted and strained and heaved, with hoarse cries, grappling and wrenching with bone-cracking strength. Morgause leaned forward, shamelessly enjoying the sight of their male strength; but Morgaine turned her eyes away in squeamish distaste.

  “Oh, come, Morgaine, you are growing as prudish as the Queen. What a face!” Morgause shaded her eyes with her hand and glanced down to the field. “I think the mock battle is about to begin—Look! Is that Gwydion? What can he be doing?”

  Gwydion had leaped into the field, and waving away the crier who hurried to him, called out in a strong, clear voice which could be heard clearly from one end of the field to another, “King Arthur!”

  Morgause saw that Morgaine had sunk back, white as death, and was clutching the rails with both hands. What was the lad about? Was he going to make a scene here before half of Arthur’s people, demanding the acknowledgment that was his?

  Arthur rose, and Morgause thought that he too looked uneasy, but his voice was ringing clear.

  “Yes, nephew?”

  “I have heard that it is customary at these games to allow a challenge, if the King is willing. I ask now if sir Lancelet will meet me for a challenge fight!”

  Lancelet had once said—Morgause remembered this—that such challenges were the bane of his existence; every young knight wanted to master the Queen’s champion. Arthur’s voice was grave. “It is customary, but I cannot speak for Lancelet. If he agrees to this match, I cannot refuse him, but you must challenge him directly and abide by his answer.”

  Morgause said, “Oh, damn the boy! I had no idea this was what he had in mind . . .” but Morgaine somehow felt she was not so displeased, after all.

  A wind had come up, and dust from the field was blowing, blurring the summer glare of the dry white clay of the field. Gwydion walked through the dust to the end of the lists, where Lancelet was sitting on a bench. Morgause could not hear what either of them said, but Gwydion turned angrily and shouted, “My lords! I heard always that a champion’s duty is to meet with all comers! Sir, I demand that Lancelet now meet my challenge or yield up his high office to me! Does he hold his post because of his skill at arms, or for some other reason, my lord Arthur?”

  “I wish,” said Morgause, “that your son were still young enough to have his breeches well dusted, Morgaine!”

  “Why blame him?” asked Morgaine. “Why not blame Gwenhwyfar for making her husband so vulnerable? Everyone in this kingdom knows she favors Lancelet, yet no one cries out ‘witch’ or ‘harlot’ when she comes before the people.”

  But Lancelet, below them, had risen and strode to Gwydion; he brought back his gloved hand and struck the younger man smartly across the mouth. “Now indeed you have given me cause to chastise your ung
entle tongue, young Gwydion. We will see who refuses combat now!”

  “I came here for that,” said Gwydion, unmoved by blow or words, though there was a small trickle of blood on his face. “I will even grant you first blood, sir Lancelet. It is fitting that a man of your years should have some advantage.”

  Lancelet spoke to one of his marshals, who came to take his place as master of the lists. There was a considerable murmuring in the stands as Lancelet and Gwydion took swords and faced the King for the ritual bow which began the contest. Morgause thought, If there is a man in that crowd who does not believe that they are father and son, he must have poor eyesight.

  The two men raised swords to each other, their faces now hidden by helmets. They were within an inch of the same height; the only difference between them was between Lancelet’s battered old breastplate and armor, and Gwydion’s newer, unstained gear. They circled one another slowly, then rushed in and for a moment Morgause lost track of the separate strokes, which were nearly too fast for the eye to follow. She could see that Lancelet was taking the younger man’s measure, and after a moment he pressed hard and struck a mighty blow. Gwydion caught it on the side of his shield, but the force behind it was so enormous that he reeled, lost his balance, and measured his length on the field. He began to scramble up. Lancelet put his sword aside and went to help the young man to his feet. Morgause could not hear what he said, but the gesture was good-natured, something like, “Had enough, youngster?”

  Gwydion pointed to the trickle of blood down Lancelet’s wrist from a small cut he had managed to inflict. His voice was clearly audible.

  “You drew first blood, sir, and I second. Shall we decide it with one more fall?”

  There was a small storm of hissing and disapproval; first blood in these demonstration matches, since the contestants fought with sharp weapons, was supposed to end the fight.

  King Arthur rose in his place. “This is a festival and a courtesy challenge, not a duel! I will have no settling of grudges here, unless you fight with fists or cudgels! Continue if you will, but I warn you, if there is a serious wounding, you will both be under my gravest displeasure!”

  They bowed and moved apart, circling for their advantage; then they rushed together, and Morgause gasped, watching the fierceness of it. It seemed that at any moment one or the other might rush in under the shield and inflict a mortal wound! One of them had gone to his knees—a rain of blows on the shield, the swords locked together in a deadlock, and one was borne closer and closer to the ground . . .

  Gwenhwyfar rose and cried out, “I will have this go no further!”

  Arthur cast his baton into the lists; by custom, a fight was instantly stopped when that happened, but neither man saw, and the marshals had to pull them apart. Gwydion stood fresh and erect, smiling as he pulled off his helmet. Lancelet’s squire had to help the older man to his feet; he was breathing hard, sweat and blood pouring down his face. There was a perfect storm of hissing, even from the other knights on the field; Gwydion had added nothing to his popularity by shaming the hero of the people.

  But he bowed to the older knight. “I am honored, sir Lancelet. I came to this court a stranger, not even one of Arthur’s Companions, and I am grateful to you for a lesson in swordplay.” His smile was the very reflection of Lancelet’s own. “Thank you, sir.”

  Lancelet managed to summon from somewhere his old smile. It exaggerated the resemblance between them almost to the point of caricature. “You bore yourself most bravely, Gwydion.”

  “Then,” said Gwydion, kneeling before him in the dust of the field, “I beg of you, sir, grant to me the order of knighthood.”

  Morgause caught her breath. Morgaine sat as if she had been turned to stone. But from where the Saxons sat there was a burst of cheering. “Crafty counsel indeed! Clever, clever—how can they refuse you now, lad, when you have stood up well to combat with their own champion!”

  Lancelet glanced at Arthur. The King sat paralyzed, seeming frozen, but after a moment, he nodded. Lancelet gestured to his squire, who brought a sword. Lancelet took it and belted it around Gwydion’s waist. “Bear this always in the service of your king, and of the righteous cause,” said the old knight. He was deadly serious now. All the mockery and defiance had gone from Gwydion’s face; he looked grave and sweet, his eyes raised to Lancelet, and Morgause saw that his lips were trembling.

  Sudden sympathy for him rose in Morgause—bastard, not even an acknowledged one, he was even more of an outsider than Lancelet had been. Who could blame Gwydion for the ruse by which he had forced his kinsmen to notice him? She thought, We should have taken him long since to Arthur’s court, had him privately acknowledged even if Arthur could not do so publicly. A king’s son should not have to do this.

  Lancelet laid his hands on Gwydion’s brow. “I confer on you the honor of a Companion of the Round Table, by permission of our king. Serve him always, and since you have won this honor by craft rather than brute strength—though indeed you have shown that too, well enough—I name you among this company, not Gwydion, but Mordred. Rise, sir Mordred, and take your place among the Companions of Arthur.”

  Gwydion—no, Mordred, Morgause remembered; for the naming of a Companion was a rite not much less serious than baptism—rose and heartily returned Lancelet’s embrace. He seemed deeply moved, almost unhearing the cheers and applause. His voice broke as he said, “Now I have won the prize of the day, whoever is judged winner in these games, my lord Lancelet.”

  “No,” Morgaine said quietly at Morgause’s side, “I do not understand him. That is the last thing I would have expected.”

  There was a long pause before the Companions ranged themselves for the final mock battle. Some went to drink water or swallow a hasty bite of bread; some gathered in little knots, arguing about which side they should take in the final games; others went to see to their horses. Morgause went down to the field where a few of the young men lingered, Gareth among them—he towered over the others by half a head, making him easy to pick out. She thought he was talking to Lancelet, but when she came closer she discovered her sight had deceived her; he was facing Gwydion, and his voice sounded angry. She caught only the last few words.

  “—what harm has he ever done you? To make a fool of him before the whole field—”

  Gwydion laughed and said, “If our cousin needs protection before a whole field of his friends, God help Lancelet when he falls among the Saxons or the Northmen! Come, foster-brother, I doubt not he can protect his own reputation! Is that all you have to say to me after all these years, brother, to chide me that I have distressed someone you love so well?”

  Gareth laughed and caught Gwydion into a great hug. He said, “Same reckless young one, you are—what put it into your head to do that? Arthur would have made you knight, if you had asked him!”

  Morgause remembered: Gareth did not know all the truth about Gwydion’s parentage; no doubt, he meant only, because you are his sister’s son.

  Gwydion said, “I am sure of it—he is always kind to his kinsmen. He would have made you knight, Gareth, for Gawaine’s sake, but you took not that road either, foster-brother.” He chuckled. “And I think Lancelet owes me something for all those years I have walked about wearing his face!”

  Gareth shrugged ruefully. “Well, it seems he bears you no grudge, so I suppose I too must forgive you. Now you, too, have seen how great-hearted he is.”

  “Aye,” said Gwydion softly, “he is so—” then raised his head and saw Morgause. “Mother, what do you here? How may I serve you?”

  “I came only to greet Gareth, who has not spoken with me this day,” said Morgause, and the big man bent to kiss his mother’s hand. She asked him, “How will you fight in the mock battle?”

  “As always,” said Gareth, “I fight at Gawaine’s side, in the King’s men. You have a horse for fighting, do you not, Gwydion? Will you fight with the King’s side, then? We can make a place for you.”

  Gwydion said, with his dark eni
gmatic smile, “Since Lancelet made me knight, I suppose I should fight with the army of sir Lancelet of the Lake, and at Accolon’s side, for Avalon. But I will not take the field at all today, Gareth.”

  “Why not?” Gareth asked and laid his hand on the younger man’s shoulder, looking down at him as he had always done—Morgause thought of a younger Gareth, smiling down at his little brother. “It is expected of those who have been made knight—Galahad will fight among us, you know.”

  “And which side will he take?” Gwydion asked. “His father Lancelet’s, or that of the King who has made him heir to his kingdom? Is that not a cruel test of his loyalties?”

  Gareth looked exasperated. “How then would you divide the armies for the mock battle, save by the two greatest knights among us? Do you think either Lancelet or Arthur believes it a test of loyalties? Arthur will not take the field himself, just so that no man will have to make the choice whether to strike at his king, but Gawaine has been his champion since he was crowned! Are you going to rake up old scandal? You?”