Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [296]
“Still, I’ll have at it,” said Lancelet, laughing, and bent beside Arthur.
“Come, cousin—Gwydion! There’s none to carry you to bed—I’ll give you my arm. Here, come up, there’s my brave fellow,” he said, as if he spoke to a child, and Arthur opened his eyes and staggered to his feet. Lancelet’s steps were none too steady, either, thought Gwenhwyfar as she followed the men, nor for that matter were her own . . . a fine sight they must look, if any servants were sober enough to notice, High King and High Queen and the King’s captain of horse all staggering to bed on Beltane-eve too drunk for their feet to carry them. . . .
But Arthur sobered a little when Lancelet hauled him over the threshold of their room; he went to a ewer of water in the corner, splashed some on his face, and drank more.
“Thank you, cousin,” he said, his voice still slow and drunken. “My lady and I have much for which to thank you, that is certain, and I know you love us both well—”
“God is my witness to that,” said Lancelet, but he looked at Gwenhwyfar with something like despair. “Shall I go and find one of your servants, cousin?”
“No, stay a moment,” Arthur said. “There is something I would say to you, and if I find not the courage for it now in drink, I shall never say it sober. Gwen, can you manage without your women? I have no mind that this should be carried beyond this chamber by idle tongues. Lancelet, come here and sit by me,” and sitting on the edge of the bed, he stretched out his hand to his friend. “You too, sweeting—now listen to me, both. Gwenhwyfar has no child—and do you think I have not seen how you two look at each other? I spoke of this once to Gwen, but she is so modest and pious, she would not hear me. Yet now at Beltane, when all life on this earth seems to cry out with breeding and fertility . . . how can I say this? There is an old saying among the Saxons, a friend is one to whom you will lend your favorite wife and your favorite sword. . . .”
Gwenhwyfar’s face was burning; she could not look at either of the men. Arthur went on, slowly, “A son of yours, Lance, would be heir to my kingdom, and better that than it should go to Lot’s sons. . . . Oh, yes, Bishop Patricius would call it grievous sin, no doubt, as if his God were some elderly chaperone who went about at night looking to see who slept in whose bed . . . I think it greater sin to make no provision for a son to inherit my kingdom. Then should we fall into such chaos as threatened before Uther came to the throne—my friend, my cousin—what do you say?”
Gwenhwyfar saw Lancelet moisten his lips with his tongue, and she felt the dryness of her own mouth. At last he said, “I know not what to say, my king—my friend—my cousin. God knows—there is no other woman on this earth—” and his voice broke; he looked at Gwenhwyfar and it seemed she could not endure the naked longing in his eyes. For a moment she thought she would swoon away, and put out a hand to steady herself on the bed frame.
I am still drunk, she thought, I am dreaming this, I cannot have heard him say what I thought I heard. . . . and she felt an agonizing burst of shame. It seemed she could not live and let them speak of her like this.
Lancelet’s eyes had not moved from hers.
“It is for my—for my lady to say.”
Arthur held out his arms to her. He had drawn off his boots and the rich robe he had worn at the feast; in his undertunic he looked very like the boy she had wedded years ago. He said, “Come here, Gwen,” and drew her down on his knee. “You know I love you well—you and Lance, I think, are the two I love best in the world, save for—” He swallowed and stopped, and Gwenhwyfar thought suddenly, I have thought only of my own love, I have had no thought for Arthur. He took me unseen, unwanted, and he has shown me love and honored me as his queen. But I never thought that as I love Lancelet, there may well be one whom Arthur loves and cannot have . . . not without sin and betrayal. I wonder if that is why Morgaine