Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [285]
Her voice is so sweet; she is not beautiful, but she is so wise and learned—beautiful women are so many, Elaine is beautiful, and Meleas, and the daughter of King Royns, and even Morgause is beautiful, but why should Lancelet care for that? And she marked the gentleness of Morgaine’s hands as she lifted him and gave him her herb medicines and cooling drinks. She, Gwenhwyfar, was not good at all with the sick, she had no skills, she sat dumb while Morgaine talked and laughed and amused him.
It was growing dark, and at last Morgaine said, “I can no longer see the harp strings, and I am hoarse as a crow—I can sing no more. You must drink your medicine, Lancelet, and then I will send your man to you, to get you settled for the night—”
With a wry smile Lancelet took the cup she put in his hand. “Your drinks are cooling, kinswoman, but ugh! The taste of them—”
“Drink it,” Morgaine said, laughing. “Arthur has put you under my command when you are sick—”
“Aye, and I do not doubt, if I refused you should beat me and put me supperless to bed, while if I drink my medicine like a good lad I shall have a kiss and a honey cake,” Lancelet said.
Morgaine chuckled. “You cannot have a honey cake yet, you can have your nice gruel. But if you drink up your potion, you shall have a goodnight kiss and I will bake you a honey cake when you are well enough to eat it.”
“Yes, Mother,” Lancelet said, wrinkling up his nose. Gwenhwyfar could see that Morgaine did not like the jest, but when he had emptied the cup she bent over him and kissed him lightly on the brow, and drew up the covers under his chin as a mother smooths a child’s cradle. “There, now, good child, go to sleep,” she said, laughing, but the laughter sounded bitter to Gwenhwyfar, and Morgaine went away.
Gwenhwyfar stood by Lancelet’s bed, and said, “She is right, my dear, you should sleep.”
“I am weary of Morgaine being always right,” said Lancelet. “Sit you here by me for a little, dear love—”
It was seldom he dared speak so to her, but she sat herself on his bed and let him hold her hand. After a little he pulled her down beside him and kissed her; she lay along the edge of his bed and let him kiss her again and again, but after a long time he sighed, weary, and did not protest when she rose from his side. “My dearest love, this cannot go on like this. You must give me leave to depart from the court.”
“What? To chase Pellinore’s favorite dragon? Why, what will Pellinore do in holidaytime, then? It is his favorite hunting,” Gwenhwyfar said, jesting, but it was like a pain in her heart.
He seized both her arms, pulling her down. “No, make this not a jest, Gwen—you know it and I know it, and God help us both, I think even Arthur knows it, that I have loved none but you, or ever will, since first I set eyes on you in your father’s house. And if I am to remain a true man to my king and my friend, then I must depart from this court and never set eyes on you again—”
Gwenhwyfar said, “I would not hold you, if you feel that you must go—”
“As I have gone before,” he said violently. “Every time I rode forth to war, half of me longed that I should fall at Saxon hands and return no more to hopeless love—God forgive me, there were times when I hated my king, whom I have sworn to love and serve, and then I thought, no woman should part the friendship that was between us two, and I have sworn I would think of you no more, save as the wife of my king. But now there are no more wars, and I must sit here day by day and look upon you at his side in his high seat, and think of you in his bed, his happy and contented wife—”
“Why do you think I am any more happy or contented than you?” she demanded, her voice shaking. “At least you can choose whether to stay or to go, but I was given into Arthur’s hands without even so much as ‘will you or no?’ Nor can I rise and ride forth from court when things