Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [248]
Leodegranz asked, “I thought the Duchess of Cornwall was among your ladies—?”
“She was,” Gwenhwyfar said, “but she left us some years ago to dwell with her kinswoman and has not returned.” And it occurred to her once again: where was Morgaine? Not in Avalon, not in Lothian with Morgause, not in Tintagel with Igraine—she might be in Less Britain, or on a pilgrimage to Rome, or in the fairy country, or in Hell itself for all Gwenhwyfar knew to the contrary. This could not go on—Arthur had a right to know where dwelt his nearest kinswoman, now that his mother was dead! But surely Morgaine would have come to her mother’s deathbed if she could?
She went back to her place beside Arthur. Lancelet and the King were drawing with the tips of their daggers on the wooden boards before them, while they ate absentmindedly out of the same dish. Biting her lip—indeed she might as well have stayed in Tintagel for all the difference it made to Arthur that she was there or not—she would have withdrawn to a bench with her ladies, but Arthur looked up at her and smiled, holding out his arm to her.
“Nay, my dear one, I meant not to drive you away—I must indeed talk with my captain of horse, but there is room for you here, too.” He beckoned to one of the servers. “Bring another plate of meat for my lady. Lancelet and I have made a wreck of this dish—there is fresh-baked bread too, somewhere, if any of it is left, though with Cai not here the kitchens are in chaos.”
“I think I have eaten enough,” Gwenhwyfar said, leaning a little against his shoulder, and he patted her absently. She could feel Lancelet, warm and solid, on the other side, and she felt secure and safe between them. Arthur leaned forward, one hand still stroking her hair, the other holding the dagger where he was sketching.
“Look, can we bring the horses up this way? We can travel fast, and leave the wagons with provisions and baggage to come around on the flat country, but men with horses can cut across country and march light and fast—Cai has had men baking hard journey-bread for the armies and stockpiling it these three years since Celidon Wood. It is likely they will land here—” He pointed to a spot on the rough map he had made. “Leodegranz, Uriens, come here and look at this—”
Her father came, and with him another man, slight and dark and dapper, though his hair was greying and his face lined.
“King Uriens,” Arthur said, “I greet you as my father’s friend and mine. Have you met my lady Gwenhwyfar?”
Uriens bowed. His voice was pleasant and melodious. “My pleasure to speak with you, madam. When the country is more settled, I will bring my wife, if I may, to present to you at Camelot.”
“I shall be pleased,” Gwenhwyfar said, feeling that her voice was insincere—never had she learned how to speak these polite platitudes so that they carried any conviction.
“It will not be this summer, we have other work to do,” said Uriens. He bent over Arthur’s rough map. “In Ambrosius’ time we led an army up country this way—we had not so many horses, save with the baggage wagons, but one could bring them up and cut across ground here. You must keep out of swamps as you go to the south of the Summer Country—”
“I had hoped not to climb the fells,” said Lancelet.
Uriens shook his head. “With that great body of horse, it is better.”
“On those hills, horses slip on stone and break their legs,” Lancelet argued.
“Better even that, sir Lancelet, than have men and horses and wagons all bemired—better fells than swamps,” said Uriens. “Look, here lies the old Roman wall . . .”
“I cannot see where so many have scribbled,” said Lancelet impatiently. He went to the fireplace and plucked out a long stick, shook out the fire on the end, and began drawing on