Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [286]
“Do you think there is happiness for me, either in staying or going?” Lancelet demanded, and for a moment she thought that he would weep. Then he mastered himself and said, “Love, what do you want me to do? God forbid I should give you more unhappiness. If I am gone from here, then is your duty plain, to be a good wife to Arthur, no more and no less. If I stay here—” He broke off.
“If you feel it is your duty to go,” she said, “then you must go.” And tears flooded down her face, blurring her sight.
He said, and his voice was strained as if he had had a mortal wound, “Gwenhwyfar—” He so seldom spoke her formal name, it was always my lady or my queen, or when he spoke to her in play it was always Gwen. When he spoke it now, it seemed to her she had never heard a sweeter sound. “Gwenhwyfar. Why do you weep?”
Now she must lie, and lie well, because she could not in honor tell him the truth. She said, “Because—” and stopped, and then, in a choking voice, she said, “because I do not know how I shall live if you go away.”
He swallowed hard and took her hands between his own and said, “Why, then—why, love—I am not a king, but my father has given me a small estate in Brittany. Would you come with me away from this court? I—I know not, perhaps it would be the more honorable way, than stay here at Arthur’s court and make love to his wife—”
He loves me, then, Gwenhwyfar thought, he wants me, this is the honorable way . . . but panic flooded through her. To go forth alone, so far, even with Lancelet . . . and then the thought of what everyone would say of her, should she be so dishonored. . . .
He lay clasping her hand in his. He said, “We could never return, you know—never. And it’s likely we should be excommunicated, both of us—that would mean little to me, I am not so much a Christian as all that. But you, my Gwenhwyfar—”
She put up her veil over her face and wept, knowing what a coward she was.
“Gwenhwyfar,” he said, “I would not lead you into sin—”
She said bitterly, “We have sinned already, you and I—”
“And if the priests are right we will be damned for it,” Lancelet said bitterly, “and yet have I never had more of you than these kisses—we have had all the evil and the guilt, and none of the pleasure which is said to come from sin. And I am not so sure I believe the priests—what sort of God goes about every night like a night watchman, peeping here and prying there like an old village gossip to see if any man beds with his neighbor’s wife—”
“The Merlin said something like that,” Gwenhwyfar said, low. “And sometimes it seems to me sensible, and then again I wonder if it is the Devil’s work to lead me into evil. . . .”
“Oh, talk not to me of the Devil,” he said, and pulled her down beside him again. “Sweetheart, my own, I will go away if you want me to, or I will stay, but I cannot bear to see you so unhappy. . . .”
“I do not know what I want,” she wept, and let him hold her, sobbing. At last he murmured, “We have paid for the sin already . . .” and his mouth covered hers. Trembling, Gwenhwyfar let herself surrender to the kiss, his eager hands searching at her breast. She almost hoped that this time he would not be content with that, but there was a sound in the hallway and Gwenhwyfar drew herself upright, in sudden panic. She sat on the edge of the bed as Lancelet’s esquire came into the room. He coughed and said, “My lord? The lady Morgaine told me you were ready to go to your rest. By your leave, my lady—?”
Morgaine again, damn her! Lancelet laughed and let go of Gwenhwyfar’s hand. “Yes, and I doubt it not, my lady is weary. Will you promise to come and see me tomorrow, my queen?”
She was both grateful and angry that his voice sounded so calm. She turned away from the light the serving-man carried; she knew her veil was crushed and her dress rumpled, her face smeared with crying and her