Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [28]
Dismissed like a little girl, Igraine went homeward in the noontime without protest. She had a good deal to think about. So men too, even Gorlois, could be bound in honor to endure what they did not want to do. She had never thought of that before.
And Uther’s eyes, fixed on her, haunted her thoughts. How he had stared at her—no; not at her, at the moonstone. Had the Merlin enchanted it somehow so that Uther should be smitten with the woman who bore it?
Must I do the Merlin’s will, and Viviane’s, must I be given to Uther resistless, as I was given to Gorlois? The thought repelled her. And yet . . . her mind perversely still felt Uther’s touch on her hand, the intensity of his grey eyes meeting her own.
I might as well believe that the Merlin enchanted the stone so that my mind would turn to Uther! They had reached her lodging, and she went inside and took off the moonstone, thrusting it into the pouch tied at her waist. How foolish, she thought, I do not believe in those old tales of love charms and love spells. She was a woman grown, nineteen years, not a passive child. She had a husband, she might even now be bearing in her womb the seed that would become the son he desired. And if her fancy should light on some man other than her husband, if she should wish to play the wanton, surely there were other men more appealing than that great boor, with his untidy hair like a Saxon’s and his Northman’s manners, upsetting mass, interrupting the High King’s breakfast. Why, she might as well take Gorlois’s man-at-arms, who was at least young and clear-skinned and handsome, to her bed. Not that she, as a virtuous wife, had any interest in taking any man whatsoever to her bed except her lawful husband.
And again, if she did, it would not be Uther. Why, he would be worse than Gorlois, a great clumsy oaf, even if his eyes were grey as the sea and his hands strong and unwrinkled. . . . Igraine swore under her breath, took her distaff from the pack of her belongings, and sat down to spin. What was she doing daydreaming of Uther, as if she were seriously considering what Viviane had asked of her? Would Uther really be the next High King?
She had seen the way he looked at her. But Gorlois said he was a lecher; might he look that way at any woman? If she must lose herself in daydreams, she might as well wonder something sensible, such as how Morgaine was faring without her mother, and if the housekeeper was keeping a watchful eye on Morgause so that she did not cast sheep’s eyes at the soldiers guarding the castle. Morgause, now, she might run about and lose her maidenhood to some handsome man without thought of honor and propriety; she hoped Father Columba would give the girl a good lecture.
My own mother chose what lovers she would, to father her children, and she was a great priestess of the Holy Isle. Viviane has done the same. Igraine let her spindle drop into her lap, frowning a little, thinking of Viviane’s prophecy that her child by Uther could be the great king that would heal the land and bring the warring peoples together in peace. What she had heard this morning at the King’s table convinced her that such a king was far to seek.
She took up her spindle, in exasperation. They needed such a king now, not when some child not yet even conceived should grow to manhood. The Merlin was obsessed with old legends about kings—what was it one of the kings, was it Ectorius, had said, about Magnus the Great, the great war leader who had deserted Britain in quest of an emperor’s crown? Nonsense, to think a son of Uther could be this Magnus returned.
Late that day a bell began to toll, and shortly after, Gorlois came into the house, looking sad and discouraged.
“Ambrosius died a few minutes ago,” he said. “The bell tolls for his passing.”
She saw the grief in his face and spoke to it.
“He was old,” she said, “and he was much loved. I met him only this day, but I can see he was the kind of man whom all those around him would love and follow.”
Gorlois sighed