Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [241]
Again it seemed as if the knight—he was Griflet, husband of her own waiting-woman, Meleas—bit off his words, setting his jaw with a snap. He said at last, concealing his impatience, “Then, madam, it were as well we should escort you to Tintagel, or to some other great house in this area, or back again to the convent, so that we may ride at speed and reach Caerleon before the dawn of tomorrow’s day. If you are with child you certainly cannot ride through the night! Will you let one of us escort you and your woman back to Tintagel or to the convent again?”
I would like it well to be within walls again, if there are Saxons in this country . . . but I must not be such a coward. Arthur must have the news of his son. She said stubbornly, “Cannot one of you ride on toward Caerleon, and the rest of you travel at my pace? Or cannot a messenger be hired to bear the word quickly?”
Griflet looked as if he wanted to swear. “I could not trust to any hired messenger in this country now, madam, and there are few of us even for a peaceful country, barely enough to protect you. Well, it must be as it will, no doubt Arthur’s men have received the word already.” He turned away, his jaw white and set, and looked so angry that Gwenhwyfar wanted to call him back and agree to all he said; but she told herself firmly not to be so cowardly. Now when she was to bear the royal son, she must behave herself like a queen and ride on with courage.
And if I was at Tintagel and the countryside was filled with Saxons, there would I remain until the war had ended and all the country at peace again, and it might be long . . . and if Arthur did not even know I was with child, he might be content to let me dwell there forevermore. Why should he want to bring back a barren queen to his new palace at Camelot? Like enough he would listen to the counsel of that old Druid who hates me, Taliesin, who is his grandsire, and put me away for some woman who could bear him a bouncing brat every ten moons or so. . . .
But all will be well, once Arthur knows. . . .
It seemed as if the icy wind was sweeping across the high moors and into her very bones; after a time she begged them to stop again and get out the litter so that she might ride within it . . . the horse’s motion jolted her so. Griflet looked angry, and for a moment she thought he would forget his courtesy and swear at her, but he gave the orders, and she huddled gratefully inside the litter, glad of the slow pace and the closed flaps which closed out the frightening sky.
Before dusk the rain stopped for a while, and the sun came out, low and slanting over the dismal moor. “We will set up the tents here,” Griflet said. “Here on the moor at least we can see a long way. Tomorrow we should strike the old Roman road, and then we can travel faster—” and then he dropped his voice and said something to the other knights which Gwenhwyfar could not hear, but she cringed, knowing he was angry at the slow pace at which they must travel. Yet everyone knew a breeding woman was more like to miscarry if she rode a fast horse, and already twice she had miscarried a child—did they want her to lose Arthur’s son this time too?
She slept poorly within the tent, the ground hard beneath her thin body, her cloak and blankets all damp, her body aching from the unaccustomed riding.
But after a time she slept, despite the pouring rain that leaked through the tent, and was wakened by the sound of riders and a call: Griflet’s voice, harsh and rough.
“Who rides there! Stand!”
“Is it you, Griflet? I know your voice,” came a cry out of the dark. “It is Gawaine, and I seek for your party—is the Queen with you?”
Gwenhwyfar threw her cloak over her nightdress and came out from the tent. “Is it you, cousin? What do you here?”
“I hoped to find you still at the convent,” said Gawaine, sliding from his horse. Behind him