Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [258]
“Gwenhwyfar! Cousin, look at me, speak to me! Ah, may the holy Virgin help us. . . . Send for the midwife! Look, the blood—”
“Kevin,” Gwenhwyfar screamed, “Kevin has cursed my child—” and she drew herself up frantically, pain lashing through her, beating with her fists against the stone wall. “Ah, God help me, send for the priest, the priest, perhaps he can take away this curse—” and, ignoring the gushing of water and blood that now she could feel drenching her thighs, she dragged herself to the banner she had woven, signing herself with the cross again and again in a frenzy, before it all vanished in darkness and nightmare.
It was days later that she understood she had been dangerously ill, that she had come near to bleeding to death when she miscarried the four-months child which was too small and weak to breathe.
Arthur. Now for certain he must hate me, I could not even bring his son to birth. . . . Kevin, it was Kevin who cursed me with his serpents. . . . She wandered in evil dreams of serpents and spears, and once when Arthur came to her side and tried to hold her head, she started away in terror from the serpents which seemed to writhe on his wrists.
Even when she was out of danger, she did not recover her strength, but lay in a dreary apathy, unmoving, tears sliding down her face. She had not even the strength to wipe them away. No, it was folly to think Kevin had cursed her, that must have been a madness of her delirium . . . this was not the first child she had miscarried, and if there was any fault it was her own, for staying here where she could not have fresh air and fresh food and exercise and the company of her ladies.
Her house priest came to her, and he too agreed that it was madness to think that Kevin had cursed her. . . . God would not use the hands of a pagan priest to chastise her. “You must not be so quick to assign blame to others,” he said severely. “If there is fault, it must be your own. Is there any unconfessed sin on your conscience, lady Gwenhwyfar?”
Unconfessed? No. For long ago she had confessed her love for Lancelet and been absolved, and she had striven to keep her thoughts only on her lawful lord. No, it could not be that . . . and yet she had failed.
“I could not persuade—I was not strong enough to persuade Arthur to lay aside his pagan serpents and the Pendragon banner,” she said weakly. “Would God punish my child for that?”
“Only you know what lies on your conscience, lady. And speak not of punishment for the child . . . he is in the bosom of Christ . . . but it is you and Arthur being punished, if there is punishment, which,” he added primly, “I must not presume to say.”
“What can I do to atone? What can I do that God may send Arthur a son for Britain?”
“Have you truly done all you may to assure that Britain shall have a Christian king? Or do you hold back the words you know you must speak, because you wish to please your husband?” the priest asked austerely. And when he had gone away, she lay looking at the banner. Every night now, she knew, the northern lights burned in the sky, in portent of the great battle that was to come; yet once, a Roman emperor had seen the sign of the cross in the sky, and the fate of all Britain had been changed. Could she but bring such a sign to Arthur . . .
“Come, help me get up,” she said to her woman. “I must finish the banner for Arthur to carry into battle.”
Arthur came that night to her chambers, just as she set the last stitches to it, and the women were lighting the