Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [22]
Through all the long service he did not raise his head; even when the congregation began to approach the altar for the consecrated bread and wine, he did not go. Gorlois touched Igraine’s shoulder, and she went at his side—the Christians held that a wife should follow her husband’s faith, so that God of theirs could just blame Gorlois if she went to the communion ill prepared. Father Columba had argued with her a long time about proper prayer and preparation, and Igraine had decided that she was never properly prepared for it. But Gorlois would be angry with her, and after all she could not interrupt the silence of the service to argue with him, even in a whisper.
Returning to her place, her teeth on edge from the coarse bread and the sourness of wine on an empty stomach, she saw the tall man raise his head. Gorlois gave him a curt nod and passed on. The man looked at Igraine, and it seemed for a moment that he was laughing at her, and at Gorlois too; she felt herself smile. Then at Gorlois’s repressive frown she followed him and knelt meekly at his side. But she could see the fair-haired man watching her. From his Northman’s plaid she supposed that this could be Lot of Orkney, the one Gorlois had called young and ambitious. Some of the Northmen too were fair as Saxons.
The final psalm had begun; she listened to the words without paying much attention to them.
He has sent redemption among his people in accordance with his eternal covenant . . .
His name is holy and terrible; the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.
Gorlois bowed his head for the benediction. She was learning so much about her husband in these few days. She had known he was a Christian when she married him; indeed most folk were Christian, in these days, or if they were not, they kept it most scrupulously to themselves, except near the Holy Isle where the Old Faith reigned, or among the Northern barbarians, or the Saxons. But she had not known that he was genuinely pious.
The benediction was over; the priest and his deacons departed bearing their long cross and the Holy Book. Igraine looked to where the King stood. He looked yellow and tired, and as he turned to leave the church, he leaned heavily on the arm of the dark young man who had stood next to him and supported him all through the service.
“Lot of Orkney loses no time, does he, my lord of Cornwall,” said the tall, fair-haired man in the Northman’s plaid. “He is ever at Ambrosius’ elbow these days, and not wanting in service!”
So, Igraine thought, this is not the Duke of Orkney as I thought.
Gorlois grunted assent.
“Your lady wife, Gorlois?”
Reluctantly, churlishly, Gorlois said, “Igraine, my dear, this is our war duke: Uther, whom the Tribes call Pendragon, from his banner.”
She dropped him a curtsey, blinking with astonishment. Uther Pendragon, this ungainly man, fair as a Saxon? Was this the courtier intended to succeed Ambrosius—this bumbling man who blundered in to disturb holy mass? Uther was staring—not, Igraine realized, at her face, but at something lower down, and Igraine, wondering if she had spilled communion wine on her gown, saw that he was staring at the moonstone on the breast of her mantle. She wondered sharply if he had never seen one before.
Gorlois, too, had noted the direction of his gaze. He said, “I would like to present my lady to the King; a good day to you, my lord Duke,” and left without waiting for Uther’s farewell. When they were out of earshot he said, “I like not the way he looks at you, Igraine. He is no man for a decent woman to know. Avoid him.”
Igraine said, “He was not looking at me, my husband, but at the jewel I wore. Is he greedy for riches?”
“He is greedy for all things,” Gorlois said shortly. Walking so swiftly that Igraine’s thin shoes stumbled on the stone street, they had overtaken the royal party.
Ambrosius, surrounded by his priests and councillors, looked like any other elderly sick man who