Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [256]
“You are not so angry—?”
“Angry? When you are ill and overwrought?” He kissed her brow. “But we will not speak of this again, Gwenhwyfar. And now I must go, I am expecting a messenger who may come at any instant. I will send Kevin to play for you. His music will cheer you.” He kissed her again and went away, and Gwenhwyfar went back to the banner and began to work at it in a frenzy.
Kevin came late the next day, dragging his misshapen body on a stick; his harp was hitched over one shoulder, giving him more than ever the look of some monstrous hunchback in silhouette against the door. It seemed to Gwenhwyfar that his nose wrinkled in distaste, and suddenly she could see the room through his eyes, cluttered with the daily things of four women, the air not overfresh. He raised his hand in the Druid blessing and Gwenhwyfar flinched—she could accept this from the venerable Taliesin, but from Kevin it filled her with dread, as if he would bewitch her and her babe with pagan sorcery; secretly she signed herself with the cross, and wondered if he saw.
Elaine went to him and said courteously, “Let me help you with the harp, Master Harper.”
He shrugged as if to ward her away, though his smooth singer’s voice was perfectly civil. “I thank you, but no one may touch My Lady. If I carry her with my own hands when I can hardly drag myself along on a stick, do you not think there is a reason, madam?”
Elaine bent her head like a scolded child and said, “I meant no harm, sir.”
“Of course not, how could you know?” he said, and twisted painfully, or so it seemed to Gwenhwyfar, to unsling his harp and set it on the floor.
“Are you comfortable, Master Harper? Will you have a cup of wine to soothe your throat before you sing?” Gwenhwyfar asked, and he accepted politely enough. Then, noting the banner of the cross on the loom, he said to Elaine, “You are King Pellinore’s daughter, are you not, madam? Are you weaving a banner for your father to carry into battle?”
Gwenhwyfar said quickly, “Elaine’s hands worked as skillfully as mine, but the banner is for Arthur.”
His rich voice was as detached as if he were admiring a child’s first attempts to spin. “It is beautiful, and will make a fair wall-hanging for Camelot when you go there, madam, but I am sure Arthur will carry the Pendragon banner as did his father before him. But ladies love not to speak of battles. Shall I play for you?” He set his hands to the strings and began to play; Gwenhwyfar listened, spellbound, and her serving-woman crept to the door to listen too, aware of sharing a royal gift. He played for a long time in the gathering dusk, and as she listened, Gwenhwyfar was borne away into a world where pagan or Christian made no difference, war or peace, but only the human spirit, flaming against the great darkness like an ever-burning torch. When the harp notes finally stilled, Gwenhwyfar could not speak, and she saw that Elaine was weeping softly in the silence.
After a time she said, “Words cannot say what you have given us, Master Harper. I can say only that I will remember it always.”
Kevin’s crooked smile seemed for a moment to mock her emotion and his own as he said, “Madam, in music he who gives receives as much as he who hears.” He turned to Elaine and added, “I see you have the lady Morgaine’s harp. You, then, know the truth of what I say.”
She nodded, but said, “I am only the worst of beginners at music. I love to play, but no one could find pleasure in hearing me—I am grateful to my companions for their forbearance while I struggle with the notes.”
“That is not true, you know we enjoy hearing you,” said Gwenhwyfar, and Kevin smiled and said, “Perhaps the harp is the one instrument which cannot sound evil no matter how badly played—I wonder if that is why it is dedicated to the Gods?”
Gwenhwyfar’s lips tightened—must he spoil the delight of this hour by speaking of his