Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [24]
“You are disturbing us all this morning, Uther,” said Lot venomously, “first the priest at holy mass and then the King at his breakfast.”
“Have I disturbed you? I beg your forgiveness, my lord,” Uther said, smiling, and the King stretched out his hand, smiling as at a favorite child.
“You are forgiven, Uther, but send the dogs away, I pray you. Well, come and sit here, my boy,” Ambrosius said, rising clumsily, and Uther embraced the King; Igraine saw that he did so carefully, deferentially. She thought, Why, Uther loves the King, it is not just ambition or a courtier’s currying of favor!
Gorlois would have given up his place next to Ambrosius, but the King motioned to him to sit still. Uther stretched his long leg across the bench and climbed across it, to slide into a seat beside Igraine. She drew her skirts aside, feeling awkward, as he stumbled—how clumsy he was! Like a big, friendly puppy! He had to put out a hand to save himself from falling directly on top of Igraine.
“Forgive my clumsiness, lady,” he said, smiling down at her. “I am all too big to sit in your lap!”
Against her will, she laughed up at him. “Even your dogs are too big for that, my lord Uther!”
He helped himself to bread and fish, offering her the honey as he spooned it out of the jar. She refused courteously.
“I do not like sweets,” she said.
“You have no need of them, my lady,” he said, and she noticed that he was staring at her bosom again. Had he never seen a moonstone before? Or was he staring at the curve of her breast beneath it? She was suddenly, acutely conscious that her breasts were no longer quite as high and firm as they had been before she had suckled Morgaine. Igraine felt the heat rising in her face and quickly took a sip of the fresh cold milk.
He was tall and fair, his skin firm and unwrinkled. She could smell his sweat, clean and fresh as a child’s. And yet he was not so very young, his light hair was already thinning over his sunburnt skull. She felt a curious unease, something she had never felt before; his thigh lay alongside hers on the bench and she was very conscious of it, as if it were a separate part of her own body. She cast her eyes down and took a nibble of buttered bread, listening to Gorlois and Lot talking about what would happen if the war were to come to the West country.
“The Saxons are fighters, yes,” Uther said, joining in, “but they fight in something like civilized warfare. The Northmen, the Scots, the wild folk from the lands beyond—they are madmen, they rush naked and screaming into battle, and the important thing is to train troops to hold firm against them and not break in fear of their charge.”
“That is where the legions had the advantage over our men,” Gorlois said, “for they were soldiers by choice, and disciplined, trained to fight, not farmers and countrymen called up to fight without knowledge of that business, and going back to their farms when the danger is past. What we need are legions for Britain. Perhaps if we appealed again to the emperor—”
“The emperor,” Ambrosius said, smiling a little, “has troubles enough of his own. We need horsemen, cavalry legions: but if we want legions for Britain, Uther, we will have to train them for ourselves.”
“It cannot be done,” Lot said positively, “for our men will fight in defense of their homes, and in loyalty to their own clan chiefs, but not for any High King or emperor. And what are they fighting for, if not to return to their homes and enjoy them in comfort afterward? The men who follow me, follow me—not some ideal of freedom. I have some trouble getting them to come this far south—they say with some justice that there are no Saxons where we are, so why should they fight away down here? They say, when the Saxons reach their homeland, time enough to fight then and defend it, but the lowlanders should look out for the defense of their own country.”
“Can’t they see, if they come to stop the Saxons here, the Saxons may never reach their country at all—” Uther began hotly, and Lot raised his