Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [198]
Morgaine was not listening, though she wondered how much of Pellinore’s tale was true, and how much exaggerated to impress the child. Her eyes were on Lancelet, putting the horse through its paces.
Arthur said to Gwenhwyfar, “I could never train a horse like that—Lancelet is training it to battle for me. Look, two months ago that one was wild as one of Pellinore’s dragons, and now look at him!”
“He seems still wild to me,” said Gwenhwyfar. “But then, I am afraid even of the gentlest horses.”
“A horse to be ridden in battle must not be meek as a lady’s palfrey,” said Arthur. “He must have spirit—God in heaven!” he cried out, rising up suddenly. From somewhere there was a blur of white; a bird of some kind, a goose perhaps, had suddenly flapped upward, right under the horse’s hooves. Lancelet, riding at ease, his vigilance relaxed, started as the horse reared upright with a frantic whicker; fought for control, slid off almost under the hooves; half senseless, managed to roll away.
Gwenhwyfar screamed. Morgause and the other ladies echoed the scream, while Morgaine, quite forgetting she was supposed to have an injured ankle, leaped up and ran toward Lancelet, dragging him out from under the horse’s hooves. Arthur too dashed for the horse’s bridle, grabbing it, wrestling the horse by main force away from where Lancelet sprawled unconscious. Morgaine knelt beside him, quickly feeling his temple, where a bruise already darkened and a trickle of blood mingled with the dust.
“Is he dead?” Gwenhwyfar cried. “Is he dead?”
“No,” Morgaine said with asperity. “Bring some cold water, and there ought to be some of that bandage linen left. He’s broken his wrist, I think; he broke his fall with it so as not to break his neck! And the clout on his head—” She bent down, laying her ear against his chest, feeling the warm rise and fall of it. She took the basin of cold water Pellinore’s daughter handed her, sponging his brow with a bit of linen. “Someone catch that goose and wring its neck—and give the goose boy a good thrashing. The lord Lancelet could have broken his head, or damaged the High King’s horse.”
Gawaine came and led the horse back to the stables. The near tragedy had dampened the festivities, and one by one the guests began to drift away to their own pavilions and quarters. Morgaine bound up Lancelet’s head and his broken wrist, mercifully completing the work of splinting the wrist before he stirred and moaned and clutched at it in agony; then, in conference with the housekeeper, sent Cai for some herbs which would make him sleep and had him carried to bed. She stayed with him, though he did not know her, only moaned and stared about with eyes that refused to stay in focus.
Once he stared at her, and muttered “Mother—” and her heart sank. After a while he fell into a heavy, restless sleep, and when he woke, he knew her.
“Morgaine? Cousin? What happened?”
“You fell off a horse.”
“A horse? What horse?” he asked, confused, and when she told him he said positively, “That’s ridiculous. I don’t fall off horses,” and dropped off to sleep again.
Morgaine sat beside him, letting him clutch at her hand, and felt that her heart would break. The mark of his kisses was still on her mouth, on her aching breasts. Yet the moment had passed, and she knew it. Even if he should remember, he would not want her; he had never wanted her, except to dull the agony of thinking of Gwenhwyfar and of his love for his king and cousin.
It was growing dark; far away in the castle she heard sounds of music again—Kevin was harping. There was laughter, singing, festivity. Suddenly the door opened, and Arthur himself, carrying a torch in his hand, came in.
“Sister, how does Lancelet?”
“He’ll