Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [283]
She went a little toward the south, straining her eyes—from here, if you looked hard, you could see the very tip of the church of Saint Michael which rose on the Tor—the church which had been built because Michael was lord of the underworld, fighting to keep down the gods of the heathen in Hell. Only there were times when it blurred before her eyes, so that she saw the Tor crowned with ring stones. The nuns on Glastonbury had told her that it had been so, in the bad old heathen days, and the priests had labored to take down the ring stones and haul them away. She supposed it was because she was a sinful woman that she had this glance into heathendom. Once she had dreamed that she and Lancelet were lying together beneath the ring stones, and he had had of her what she had never given him. . . .
Lancelet. He was so good, never did he press her for more than a Christian woman and a wedded wife could give him without dishonor . . . yet it was written that the Christ had said himself, whoever looks upon a woman with lust has committed adultery already with her in his heart . . . so she had sinned with Lancelet, and there was no mitigation, they were both damned. She shivered and turned her eyes away from the Tor, for it seemed that Arthur could read her thoughts. He had spoken Lancelet’s name—
“Don’t you think so, Gwen? It’s more than time Lancelet should marry.”
She forced her voice to stay calm. “On the day when he asks you for a wife, my lord and my king, you should give him one.”
“But he will not ask,” Arthur said. “He has no will to leave me. Pellinore’s daughter would make him a good wife, and she is your own cousin—don’t you think it would suit? Lancelet is not rich, Ban had too many bastards to give much to any of them. It would be a good match for both.”
“Aye, no doubt you are right,” Gwenhwyfar said. “Elaine follows him about with her eyes as the lads in the play yard do, eager for a kind word or even a look.” Though it hurt her heart, perhaps it would be best if Lancelet should marry, he was too good to be tied to a woman who could give him so little; and then she could amend her sin with a firm promise to sin no more, as she could not do when Lancelet was near.
“Well, I will speak of it again with Lancelet. He says he has no mind to marry, but I will make him understand it means not exile from my court. Would it not be good for me and mine, if our children, some day, might have Lancelet’s sons to follow them?”
“God grant that day may come,” said Gwenhwyfar, and crossed herself. They stood together at the height, looking out over the Summer Country, which lay spread before them.
“There is a rider on the road,” said Arthur, looking down the road which led toward the castle; then, as the rider drew nearer, “It is Kevin the Harper, come here from Avalon. And at least this time he has had sense enough to travel with a serving-man.”
“That is no serving-man,” said Gwenhwyfar, her sharp eyes resting on the slender form riding behind Kevin on his horse. “That is a woman. I am shocked—I had thought the Druids were like to priests, and stayed far from women.”
“Why, some of them do, sweetheart, but I have heard from Taliesin that all those who are not in the highest rank may marry, and frequently they do,” he said. “Perhaps Kevin has taken him a wife, or perhaps he has only travelled with someone coming this way. Send one of your women to tell Taliesin that he is here, and another to the kitchens—if we shall have music this night, it is only fitting we have something like a feast to celebrate it! Let us walk this way and welcome him—a harper of Kevin’s skill is worthy of welcome from the King himself.”
By the time they reached the great gates, they had been opened, and Cai himself had stepped forward to welcome the great harper to Camelot. Kevin bowed to the King, but Gwenhwyfar’s eyes were on the slender, ill-clad form behind.
Morgaine bowed and said, “So I have returned to your court, my brother.”
Arthur went and embraced her. “Welcome back, my sister—it has been so long,” he said, his cheek lingering against