Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [157]
“Tell me about Arthur’s knights, Morgaine. You have really seen Lancelet, have you not? I saw him, that day at the King’s crowning—has he killed any dragons? Tell me, Morgaine—”
“Don’t plague her, Gareth, she’s not well,” said Morgause. “Run out to the kitchens and see if they can find you some bannock.”
The child looked sulky, but he took his carved knight out of his tunic and went off, talking to it in an undertone. “So, sir Lancelet, we will go out and we will kill all the dragons in the Lake. . . .”
“That one, he talks only of war and fighting,” said Morgause impatiently, “and his precious Lancelet, as if it were not enough to have Gawaine away with Arthur at the wars! I hope that when Gareth is old enough, there will be peace in the land!”
“There will be peace,” Morgaine said absently, “but it will not matter, for he will die at the hands of his dearest friend—”
“What?” cried Morgause staring, but the younger woman’s eyes were vacant and unfocused; Morgause shook her gently and demanded, “Morgaine! Morgaine, are you ill?”
Morgaine blinked and shook her head. “I am sorry—what did you say to me?”
“What did I say to you? What, rather, did you say to me?” Morgause demanded, but at the look of distress in Morgaine’s eyes, her skin prickled. She stroked the younger woman’s hand, dismissing the grim words as delirium. “I think you must have been dreaming with your eyes wide open.” She found that she did not want to think that Morgaine might have had a moment of the Sight. “You must care for yourself better, Morgaine, you hardly eat, you don’t sleep—”
“Food sickens me,” Morgaine said, sighing. “Would it were summer, that I might have some fruit . . . last night I dreamed I ate of the apples of Avalon—” Her voice trembled, and she lowered her head so that Morgause would not see the tears hanging from her lashes; but she clenched her hands and did not weep.
“We are all weary of salt fish and smoked bacon,” said Morgause, “but if Lot has had good hunting, you must eat some of the fresh meat.” Morgaine, she thought, had been trained in Avalon to ignore hunger and thirst and fatigue; now, pregnant, when she should relax her austerities somewhat, she took pride in enduring everything without complaint.
“You are priestess-trained, Morgaine, hardened to fasting, but your child cannot endure hunger and thirst, and you are far too thin—”
“Don’t mock me!” Morgaine said angrily, gesturing at her enormously swollen belly.
“But your hands and face are like bare bone,” said Morgause. “You must not starve yourself like this, you have a child and you must consider him!”
“I will consider his welfare when he considers mine!” Morgaine said, rising abruptly, but Morgause took her hands and drew her down again. “Dear child, I know what you are going through, I have borne four children, remember? These last few days are worse than all the long months combined!”
“I should have had the sense to be rid of it while there was time!”
Morgause opened her mouth for a sharp answer, then sighed and said, “It’s too late to say you should have done so or so; ten days more will bring it to an end.” She took her own comb from her tunic folds and began to unravel Morgaine’s tangled braid.
“Let it be—” said Morgaine restlessly, pulling her head away from the comb. “I will do it myself tomorrow. I have been too weary to think of it. But if you are sick of looking at me all bedraggled like this—well, give me the comb!”
“Sit still, lennavan,” said Morgause. “Don’t you remember, when you were a little girl at Tintagel, you used to cry for me to comb your hair because your nurse—what was her name? . . . Now I remember: Gwennis, that was it—she used to pull your hair so, and you would say, ‘Let Aunt Morgause do it?’ ” She teased the comb through the tangles, smoothing out strand after strand, and stroked Morgaine’s head affectionately. “You have lovely hair.”
“Dark and coarse as a pony’s mane in winter!”
“No, fine as the wool of a black sheep, and shining like silk,” Morgause said, still stroking the dark strands. “Hold