Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [199]
“We wanted you among the witnesses when the bride was put to bed, as you witnessed the marriage contract,” said Arthur. “But I suppose he should not be left alone, and I wouldn’t want him left to a chamberlain, not even to Cai. He’s fortunate he has you with him. You are his foster-sister, are you not?”
“No,” said Morgaine, with unexpected anger.
Arthur came to the bedside and picked up Lancelet’s limp hand. The injured man moaned, stirred, and looked up, blinking. “Arthur?”
“I’m here, my friend,” said Arthur, and Morgaine thought she had never heard a man’s voice so tender.
“Is your horse—all right?”
“The horse is fine. Damn the horse,” Arthur said. “If you’d been killed, what good would a horse be to me?” He was almost weeping.
“How did it—happen?”
“A damned goose flew up. The goose boy’s in hiding. I think he knows he’ll be beaten within an inch of his life!”
“Don’t do that,” Lancelet said. “He’s only a poor stupid creature without all his wits. He’s not to blame that the geese are cleverer than he is, and one wandered loose. Promise me, Gwydion.” She was astonished that he used the old name. Arthur pressed his hand, and bent down to kiss Lancelet on the cheek, carefully avoiding the bruised side.
“I promise, Galahad. Sleep, now.”
Lancelet gripped his hand hard. “I came close to wrecking your wedding night, didn’t I?” he said, with something Morgaine recognized as her own hard irony.
“Believe you did—my bride has wept so hard over you, I wonder what she would do if I had broken my head?” Arthur demanded, laughing.
Morgaine said fiercely, “Arthur, even if you are the King, he must be kept quiet!”
“Right.” Arthur straightened. “I will send the Merlin to look in at him tomorrow; he should not be left alone tonight, though—”
“I’ll stay with him,” she said angrily.
“Well, if you are sure—”
“Go you back to Gwenhwyfar! Your bride is waiting for you!”
Arthur sighed, subdued. After a moment he said, “I don’t know what to say to her. Or what to do.”
This is ridiculous—does he expect me to instruct him, or to instruct his bride? At the look in his eyes she lowered her own. She said, very gently, “Arthur, it is simple. Do as the Goddess prompts you.”
He looked like a stricken child. At last he said, hoarsely, fighting the words, “She—she isn’t the Goddess. She’s just a girl, and she’s—she’s frightened.” After a moment he blurted out, “Morgaine, don’t you know that I still—”
She could not bear what he might be going to say. “No!” she said violently, holding up her hand, commanding silence. “Arthur, remember one thing at least. To her you will always be the God. Come to her as the Horned One. . . .”
Arthur crossed himself and shivered. He whispered at last, “God forgive me; this is the punishment . . .” and fell silent. They stood, looking at each other, unable to speak. Finally he said, “Morgaine, I have no right—will you kiss me once?”
“My brother—” She sighed, stood on tiptoe and kissed his forehead. Then she signed his head with the sign of the Goddess. “Bless you,” she whispered. “Arthur, go to her, go to your bride. I promise you, I promise in the name of the Goddess, it will be well, I swear it to you.”
He swallowed—she saw the muscles in his throat move. Then he broke away from her eyes and muttered, “God bless you, sister.” The door closed behind him.
Morgaine dropped down on a chair, and sat, unmoving, staring at Lancelet’s sleep, tormented by pictures in her mind. Lancelet’s face, smiling at her in sunlight on the Tor. Gwenhwyfar, water-draggled, her skirts soaked, clinging to Lancelet’s hand. The Horned God, his face smeared with deer’s blood, drawing aside the curtain at the mouth of the cave. Lancelet’s mouth frantic on her breasts—had it been only a few hours ago?
“At least,” she muttered aloud fiercely, “he will not spend Arthur’s bridal night dreaming of Gwenhwyfar.” She laid herself down along the edge of the bed, pressing her body carefully against the hurt man’s body; she lay there silent, not even weeping, sunk in a despairing