The Mists of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Then she thought of a younger Gwydion, following Gareth about like a puppy. Gareth is his Lancelet, she thought. What will come of this? But her disquiet was swallowed up in malice. Surely it is time, she thought, that Lancelet should have to answer for all he has wrought.

  Niniane stood at the crest of Camelot, looking down at the mists that surrounded the hill. She heard a step behind her, and said, without turning, “Gwydion?”

  “Who else?” His arms came around her and held her tight, and she turned her face to kiss him. He demanded, without letting her go, “Does Arthur kiss you like that?”

  She freed herself from his embrace to confront him. “Are you jealous of the King? Was it not you who told me to gain his confidence?”

  “Already Arthur has had more than enough of what is mine—”

  “Arthur is a Christian man—I will say no more than that,” Niniane said, “and you are my dear love. But I am Niniane of Avalon, and I account to no man on this earth for what I do with what is mine—yes, mine and not yours. I am not Roman, to let some man tell me what I may do with what the Goddess gave me. And if you like that not, Gwydion, then I shall return to Avalon.”

  Gwydion smiled, the cynical smile she liked least about him.

  “If you could find the way,” he said. “You might find that not so easy any longer.” Then the cynicism slipped from his face and he stood holding Niniane’s hand lightly in his and said, “I care not what Arthur may do in the time remaining to him. Like Galahad, he may have his moments, for he will be a long time without them.” He stared down at what looked like an ocean of mist surrounding Camelot. “When the mist clears we will see Avalon from here, perhaps, and Dragon Island.” He sighed and said, “Did you know—some of the Saxons are moving into that country now, and there has been hunting of the deer on Dragon Island, though Arthur forbade it.”

  Niniane’s face hardened in anger. “A stop must be put to that. The place is sacred, and the deer—”

  “And the little folk who own the deer. But Aedwin the Saxon slaughtered them,” Gwydion said. “He told Arthur that they shot at his men with poisoned elf-arrows, so he gave his men leave to kill as many of them as he could find. And now they hunt the deer—and Arthur will go to war against Aedwin, if he must. I wish Aedwin had a better cause—in honor I must fight to protect those who look to Avalon.”

  “And Arthur goes to war for their sakes?” Niniane was surprised. “I thought he had forsworn Avalon.”

  “Avalon, perhaps, but not the harmless folk from the island.” Gwydion was silent, and Niniane knew he was remembering a day on Dragon Island. He slid his fingers along the tattooed serpents on his wrists, then pulled the sleeves of his Saxon tunic down over them. “I wonder, could I still pull down a King Stag with only my hands and a flint knife?”

  “I doubt not that you could, if you were challenged,” said Niniane. “The question is, could Arthur? For if he cannot . . .”

  She left the question hanging in the air, and he said somberly, watching the enclosing mist, “I do not think it will clear. Mist hangs here always, so thickly now that some of the Saxon kings who send messengers cannot find their way. . . . Niniane! Will Camelot too go into the mists?”

  She began to fling him back some careless word of jest or reassurance, then stopped and said, “I know not. Dragon Island is defiled, the folk dying or dead, the sacred herd prey to the Saxon hunters. Northmen raid the coast. Will they one day sack Camelot as the Goths overthrew Rome?”

  “If I had known in time,” Gwydion said with smothered violence, striking one fist against the other, “if the Saxons had brought word to Arthur, he could have sent me—or some other—to protect that holy ground where he was made King Stag and made the sacred marriage with the land! Now the shrine of the Goddess has been overthrown, since he did not die to protect it, his kingship is forfeit.”

  Niniane heard what he did not say: And mine. She said, “You knew not that it was endangered.”

  “And for that too I blame Arthur,” Gwydion said. “That the Saxons could think of doing this without consulting him—does it not say to you how little they think now of his High Kingship? And why do they think so little of him? I will tell you, Niniane—they think little of any king who is cuckold, who cannot rule his women—”

  “You who were reared in Avalon,” she said angrily, “will you judge Arthur by the Saxon’s standards, which are worse than those of the Romans? Will you let a kingdom rise or fall because of some notion of how a man should keep his women in bonds? You are to be King, Gwydion, because you bear the royal blood of Avalon and because you are the child of the Goddess—”

  “Pah!” Gwydion spat and followed it with an obscenity. “Did it never occur to you, Niniane—perhaps Avalon fell as later Rome fell, because there was corruption at the heart of the realm? By Avalon’s laws, Gwenhwyfar has done no more than is right—the lady shall choose who she will for her consort, and Arthur should be overthrown by Lancelet! Why, Lancelet is the son of the High Priestess herself—why not set him to be King in Arthur’s place? But is our king to be chosen because some woman wants him in her bed?” Again he spat. “No, Niniane, that day is done—first the Romans and now the Saxons know how the world’s to be. The world is no longer a great womb bearing men—now the movement of men and armies settles things. What people now would accept my rule because I was the son of this woman or that? Now it is the king’s son who takes the land, and shall we turn away a good thing because the Romans did so first? We have better ships now—we will discover lands beyond the old lands that have sunk in the sea. Will a Goddess who is tied to this one patch of earth and its crops follow us there? Look at the Northmen who are raiding our coasts—will they be stopped with the Mother’s curses? The few priestesses that are left in Avalon—no Saxons or wild Northmen will ever ravish them, because Avalon is no longer a part of the world in which these wild raiders live. Those women who live in the world that is coming will need men to guard them. The world now, Niniane, is not one of Goddesses, but of Gods, perhaps of one God. I need not try to bring Arthur down. Time and change alone will do that.”

  Niniane’s back prickled as if with the Sight. “And what of you, King Stag of Avalon? What of the Mother who sent you forth in her name?”

  “Do you think I mean to go into the mists with Avalon and Camelot? I mean to be High King after Arthur—and to do that, I must keep the glory of Arthur’s court at full height. So Lancelet must go, which means that Arthur must be forced to banish him, and probably Gwenhwyfar as well. Are you with me, Niniane, or not?”

  Her face was deathly white. She clenched her fists at her side, wishing that she had the power of Morgaine, the power of the Goddess, to rise like a bridge from earth to sky and strike him down with the lightning force of the outraged Goddess. The crescent moon on her brow burned with rage.

  “Am I to help you by betraying a woman who has taken the right the Goddess has given to all women, to choose what man she will?”

  Gwydion laughed mockingly. “Gwenhwyfar gave up that right when first she knelt at the feet of the slave’s God.”

  “Nevertheless, I’ll have nothing to do with betraying her.”

  “Then you will not send me word when she sends her women away again for the night?”

  “No,” said Niniane, “by the Goddess, I will not. And Arthur’s treachery to Avalon is nothing to yours!” She turned her back on him and would have moved away, but he caught and held her there.

  “You’ll do what I command you!”

  She struggled to free herself, at last wrenching her bruised wrists from him. “Command me? Not in a thousand years!” she said, breathless with fury. “Beware, you who have laid hands on the Lady of Avalon! Arthur shall know now what sort of viper he has taken to his breast!”

  In a towering rage, Gwydion grabbed her other wrist and pulled her toward him, then struck her full force across the temple, and she fell to the ground without a cry. He was so full of wrath that he let her fall without a
move to catch her.

  “Well did the Saxons name you,” said a low, savage voice from the fog. “Evil counsel, Mordred—murderer!”

  He turned with a convulsive moment of fear and looked at the crumpled body of Niniane at his feet. “Murderer? No! I was only angry with her—I would not hurt her—” He stared around him, unable to make out anything in the thickening mist, yet knowing the voice.

  “Morgaine! Lady—my mother!”

  He knelt, panic clutching at his throat, raising Niniane up, searching for a heartbeat, but she lay there without breath, without life.

  “Morgaine! Where are you? Where are you? Damn you, show yourself!” But there was only Niniane, lifeless and unmoving at his feet. He clasped her to him, imploring. “Niniane! Niniane, my love—speak to me—”

  “She will not speak again,” said the bodiless voice, but as Gwydion turned this way and that in the fog, a woman’s solid figure materialized out of it. “Oh, what have you done, my son?”

  “Was it you? Was it you?” Gwydion demanded, his voice cracking in hysteria. “Was it you called me murderer?”

  Morgause stepped back, half afraid. “No, no, I came but now—what have you done?”

  Gwydion flung himself at her, and she held him, stroking him as she had done when he was twelve years old. “Niniane angered me—she threatened me—as the Gods witness it, Mother, I meant her no harm, but she threatened to go to Arthur and tell him I plotted against his precious Lancelet,” Gwydion said, almost babbling. “I struck her, I swear I meant only to frighten her, but she fell—”

  Morgause let Gwydion go and knelt beside Niniane. “You struck an unlucky blow, my son—she is dead. There’s nothing you can do now. We must go and tell Arthur’s marshals and stewards.”

  His face had gone livid. “Mother! The marshals—what will Arthur say?”

  Morgause felt a great melting within her heart. He was in her hands, as when he had been a little helpless child whom Lot would have killed, his life was hers, and he knew it. She folded him to her breast.

  “Never mind, my love, you mustn’t suffer for it, any more than for any other you killed in battle,” she said, looking down with triumph at Niniane’s lifeless body. “She could have fallen in the fog—it’s a long way to the bottom of the hill,” she said, looking over the brow of Camelot, where it descended steeply into the mist. “So, catch hold of her feet thus. Done is done, and nothing that happens to her now can make a difference.” Her old hatred of Arthur surged up; Gwydion would bring him down, and he would do it with her help—and when it was done, she would be at his side, the lady who had set him on his throne! Niniane was no longer between them; she herself alone should be his support and his help.

  Silently, in the fog, the slight body of the Lady of Avalon disappeared into the mists. Later Arthur would call for her and when she did not appear, send men to search; but Gwydion, staring as if hypnotized into the mists, thought for a moment that he saw the black shadow of the Avalon barge somewhere on the waters between Camelot and Dragon Island. It seemed to him for a moment that Niniane, robed in black as the Death-crone, beckoned to him from the barge . . . and then it was gone.

  “Come, my son,” said Morgause. “You spent this morning in my rooms and the rest of the day you must spend with Arthur in his hall. Remember, you have not seen Niniane this day—when you come to Arthur, you must ask for her, even seem a little jealous, as if you feared to find her in his bed.”

  And it was balm to her heart that he clutched at her and muttered, “I will. I will, my mother. Surely you are the best of all mothers, the best of all women!”

  And she held him for a moment and kissed him again, savoring her power, before she let him go.

  16

  Gwenhwyfar lay wide-eyed in the darkness, waiting for the step of Lancelet, yet thinking of Morgause, smiling—almost leering—as she murmured, “Ah, I envy you, my dear! Cormac is a fine young man, and hearty enough—but he has none of the grace and beauty of your lover.”

  Gwenhwyfar had bent her head and said nothing. Who was she to scorn Morgause, when she was doing the same thing? But it was too dangerous. The bishop, on his last Sunday, had preached a sermon on the great commandment against adultery, saying that the chastity of wives lay at the very root of the Christian way of living, since only by married chastity did women redeem the sin of Eve. Gwenhwyfar recalled the tale of that woman taken in adultery, whom they had brought to Christ; he had said, Let that one who had done no sin, cast at her the first stone. There had been none guiltless to cast it—but here in her court, there were many who were sinless, with Arthur himself to cast that stone. Christ had said to the woman, Go and sin no more. And that was what she must do. . . .

  It was not his body she desired. Morgause, sniggering over the lusty young man who was her lover, would never have believed how little difference that had made to either of them. Seldom, indeed, had he ever taken her in that way which was sin and dishonor—only in those first years, when they had had Arthur’s acquiescence, to try and see if Gwenhwyfar could bear a son to the kingdom. There had been other ways to find pleasure, which she somehow felt less of a sin, less violation of Arthur’s marriage rights in her body. And even so, it was not that she desired so much, only that she should be with him . . . it was a thing, she thought, almost more of the soul than the body. Why should a God of love condemn this? He might condemn the sin they had done, for which she had done penance over and over, but how could he condemn this, which was the truest love of the heart?

  I have taken nothing from Arthur which he desired or needed of me. He must have a queen, a lady to keep his castle; for the rest, he wanted nothing of me save a son, and it was not I but God who denied him that.

  There was a soft step in the darkness; she whispered, “Lancelet?”

  “Not so.” A glimmer of a tiny lamp in the darkness confused her; for a moment she saw what seemed a beloved face, grown young—then knew who it must be.

  “How dare you? My women are not so far but that I can scream aloud, and there is none will believe that I summoned you here!”

  “Lie still,” he said. “There is a knife at your throat, my lady.” And as she shrank away, clutching the bed clothing, “Oh, don’t flatter yourself, madam, I came not here for rape. Your charms are too stale for me, my lady, and too well tasted.”

  “That’s enough,” said a husky voice in the dark behind Gwydion. “Don’t mock her, man! This is a dirty business, snooping at bedchamber doors, and I wish I’d never heard of it! Quiet, all of you, and hide yourselves around the chamber!”

  She recognized Gawaine’s face as her eyes adapted to the dim light, and beyond them a familiar form. “Gareth! What do you here?” she asked, sorrowfully. “I thought you Lancelet’s dearest friend.”

  “And so I am,” he said grimly. “I came to see no worse done to him than justice. That one"—he flicked a contemptuous gesture at Gwydion—"would cut his throat—and leave you to be accused of murder!”

  “Be still,” said Gwydion, and the light went out. Gwenhwyfar felt the pricking of the knife at her throat. “If you speak a syllable to warn him, madam, I will cut your throat and take my chances explaining why to my lord Arthur.” The point dug in till Gwenhwyfar, flinching with pain, wondered if it had actually drawn blood. She could hear small noises—the rustle of garments, the clink of weapons hurriedly muffled; how many men had he brought to this ambush? She lay silent, twisting her hands in despair. If only she could warn Lancelet . . . but she lay like a small animal in a snare, helpless.

  Minutes crawled by for the trapped woman silent between her pillows and the knife. After a long time, she heard a tiny sound, a soft whistle like a bird call. Gwydion felt the tensing of her muscles and asked in a rasping whisper, “Lancelet’s signal?” He dug the knife again into the yielding skin at her throat, and she whispered, sweating in terror, “Yes.”

  She felt the straw beneath her rustle as he shifted his weight and moved away. “There are a dozen men in th
is room. Try to give him warning, and you will not live three seconds.”

  She heard sounds in the antechamber; Lancelet’s cloak, his sword—ah, God, would they take him naked and weaponless? She tensed again, feeling in advance the knife driving into her body, but somehow she must warn him, must cry out—she opened her lips, but Gwydion—was it the Sight, how did he know?—thrust his hand cruelly over her face, smothering the cry. She writhed under his suffocating hand, then felt Lancelet’s weight on the bed.

  “Gwen?” he whispered. “What is the matter? Did I hear you crying, my beloved?”

  She managed to writhe away from the concealing hand.

  “Run!” she screamed. “It’s a trick, a trap—”

  “Hell’s doors!” She could feel him, like a cat, springing back.

  Gwydion’s lamp flared; somehow the light went from hand to hand, until the room was filled with light, and Gawaine, Cai, and Gareth, with a dozen shadowy forms behind them, stepped forward. Gwenhwyfar huddled under the bedcover, and Lancelet stood still, quite naked, weaponless.