Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [139]
All the space before the church seemed to have sprouted colorful tents and pavilions, like strange mushrooms. To Morgaine it seemed that the bells of the churches rang day and night, hour upon hour, a jangling sound that oppressed her nerves. Arthur greeted her, and for the first time she met Ectorius, the good knight and warrior who had fostered her brother and his wife, Flavilla.
For this venture into the world outside, at Viviane’s advice, Morgaine had laid aside the blue robes of an Avalon priestess and the spotted deerskin overtunic, and had put on a simple dress of black wool, with linen under-dress in white, and a white veil over her braided hair. Soon she realized that this made her look like a matron; among the British women, young maidens went with their hair unbound and wore dresses dyed in bright colors. They all took her for one of the women from the nunnery on Ynis Witrin, near to the church, where the sisters wore such somber robes; Morgaine said nothing to undeceive them. Nor, although he lifted his eyebrows and grinned at her, did Arthur.
To Flavilla he said, “Foster-mother, too many things are to be done—the priests want to speak to me of my soul, and the King of Orkney and the King of North Wales want audience with me. Will you take my sister to our mother, then?”
To our mother, Morgaine thought; but that mother has become a stranger to us both. She looked in her mind for any joy in this meeting and found none. Igraine had been content to let both her children go, the child of her first joyless marriage, the love child of her second; what manner of woman could she be then? Morgaine found that she was stiffening her mind and heart against the first sight of Igraine. I do not, she thought, even remember her face.
Yet when she did see Igraine, she realized that she would have known her anywhere.
“Morgaine!” She had forgotten, or remembered only in dreams, how rich and warm was Igraine’s voice. “My darling child! Why, you are a woman grown, I see you always in my heart as a little maiden—and how worn and sleepless you look—has all this ceremony been heavy on you, Morgaine?”
Morgaine kissed her mother, again feeling tears choking at the back of her throat. Igraine was beautiful, and she herself—again words from a half-memory flooded her mind: little and ugly like one of the fairy folk—did Igraine think her ugly too?
“But what is this?” Igraine’s light hands touched the crescent on her brow. “Painted like one of the fairy people—is this seemly, Morgaine?”
Morgaine’s voice was stiff. “I am a priestess of Avalon, and I wear the mark of the Goddess with pride.”
“Fold your veil over it then, child, or you will offend the abbess. You are to lodge with me in the nunnery.”
Morgaine set her mouth hard. Would the abbess, if she came to Avalon, keep her cross out of sight for fear of offending me, or the Lady? “I do not wish to offend you, Mother, but it would not be suitable for me to lodge within the walls of a nunnery; the abbess would not like it, nor would the Lady, and I am under the Lady’s orders and live under her laws.” The thought of dwelling within those walls even for the three nights of the crowning, called to come and go, night and day, by the hellish jangling of those bells, made her blood run cold.
Igraine looked troubled. “Well, it shall be as you wish. Perhaps you could be lodged with my sister, the Queen