Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [174]
Igraine laughed. “That hardly seems reason to marry, my son. Horses can be bought, and men hired.”
“But,” Arthur said, “Leodegranz is of no mind to sell. I think he has it in his mind that in return for this dowry—and it is a kingly dowry, doubt not—he would like it well to be bound by kinship’s ties to the High King. Not that he is the only one, but he has offered more than any other will offer.
“What I wished to ask you, Mother—I am unwilling to send any ordinary messenger to tell the king that I’ll take his daughter and he should bundle her up like a package and send her to my court. Would you go and give my answer to the king, and escort her to my court?”
Igraine started to nod her agreement, then remembered that she had taken vows in this place. “Can you not send one of your trusty men, Gawaine or Lancelet?”
“Gawaine is a wencher. I am not so sure I want him within reach of my bride,” Arthur said, laughing. “Let it be Lancelet.”
The Merlin said somberly, “Igraine, I feel you should go.”
“Why, Grandfather,” Arthur said, “has Lancelet such charms that you fear my bride will love him instead?”
Taliesin sighed. Igraine said quickly, “I will go, if the abbess of this place gives me leave.” The Mother Superior, she thought, could not refuse her leave to attend her son’s wedding. And she realized that after years of being a queen, it was not easy to sit quietly behind walls and await tidings of the great events moving in the land. That was, perhaps, every woman’s lot, but she would avoid it as long as she could.
4
Gwenhwyfar felt the familiar nausea gripping the pit of her stomach; she began to wonder if before they set forth she would have to run at once to the privy. What would she do if the need came on her after she had mounted and ridden out? She looked at Igraine, who stood tall and composed, rather like the Mother Superior of her old convent. Igraine had seemed kind and motherly on that first visit, a year ago, when the marriage had been arranged. Now, come to escort Gwenhwyfar to her bridal, she seemed stern and demanding, with no trace of the terror that gripped at Gwenhwyfar. How could she be so calm? Gwenhwyfar ventured, in a small voice, peering at the waiting horses and litter, “Aren’t you afraid? It’s so far—”
“Afraid? Why, no,” said Igraine, “I have been to Caerleon many times, and it’s not likely the Saxons are on the road to war this time. Travelling in winter is troublesome, with mud and rain, but better than fall into the hands of the barbarians.”
Gwenhwyfar felt the shock and shame gripping her, and clenched her fists, looking down at her sturdy, ugly travelling shoes.
Igraine reached out and took her hand, smoothing the small fingers. “I had forgotten, you have never been from home before, except to and from your convent. You were in Glastonbury, were you not?”
Gwenhwyfar nodded. “I wish I were going back there—”
She felt Igraine’s sharp eyes on her for a moment, and quailed; perhaps the lady would know she was unhappy at marrying her son, and come to dislike her . . . but Igraine only said, holding her hand firmly, “I was not happy when I went first to be wedded to the Duke of Cornwall, I was not happy until I held my daughter in my arms. But I had scarce completed my fifteenth year; you are almost eighteen, are you not?”
Clinging to Igraine’s hand, Gwenhwyfar felt a little less panic; but even so, as she stepped outside the gate, it seemed that the sky overhead was a vast menace, threatening, low, filled with rainclouds. The path before the house was a sea of mud where the horses had been trampling. Now they were being drawn up into riding order with more men, it seemed to Gwenhwyfar, than she had ever seen together in her life, shouting