Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [303]
“I am your elder brother and ruler in this house,” said Agravaine, “and you will show me some respect or I will knock it into you!”
“Perhaps if you knocked your head open, you could shove some sense inside it,” Gwydion said pertly, “for sure, it will never grow there on its own—”
“You wretched little—”
“Aye, say it,” Gwydion shouted, “mock me with my birth, you—I do not know my father’s name, but I know who fathered you, and between the two I would rather be in my situation!”
Agravaine took a heavy step toward him, but Morgause quickly rose and thrust Gwydion behind her. “Don’t tease the boy, Agravaine.”
“If he always runs to hide behind your skirts, Mother, is it any wonder I cannot teach him to obey?” demanded Agravaine.
“It would take a better man than you to teach me that,” Gwydion said, and Morgause drew back at the bitterness in his voice.
“Hush, hush, child—don’t speak so to your brother,” she admonished, and Gwydion said, “I am sorry, Agravaine—I should not have been rude to you.”
He smiled up, his eyes big and lovely under dark lashes, the picture of a contrite child. Agravaine grumbled, “I am only thinking of your welfare, you young rascal—do you think I want you to break every bone in your body? And why would you take it into your head to climb the fells alone?”
“Well,” said Gwydion, “otherwise you would not have known of the hole in the fences, and you might have pastured sheep there or even goats, and lost all of them. And I never tear my clothes—do I, Mother?”
Morgause chuckled, for it was true—Gwydion was easy on his clothes. There were some boys like that. Gareth had only to put on a tunic and it was crumpled, stained, and dirty before he had worn it an hour, while Gwydion had climbed the high fells in his saffron holiday tunic and it looked as if he had that moment taken it from the washing-woman. Gwydion looked at Agravaine in his working smock and said, “But you are not fit to sit at table with Mother in her fine clothes. Go and put on your fine tunic, brother. Would you sit down to dinner in your old smock like a farmer?”
“I won’t be ruled by a young knave like you,” Agravaine growled, but he did go off toward his chamber, and Gwydion smiled with secret satisfaction. He said, “Agravaine should have a wife, Mother. He is bad-tempered as a bull in spring, and besides, you should not have to weave his clothes and mend them.”
Morgause was amused. “No doubt you are right. But I want no other queen beneath this roof. No house is big enough for the rule of two women.”
“Then you should find him a wife who is not too well-born and very stupid,” said Gwydion, “so that she will be glad you can tell her what to do, because she will be afraid of making a mistake among gentlefolk. The daughter of Niall would be about right—she is very pretty, and Niall’s folk are rich but not too rich, because so many of their cattle and sheep died in the bad winter six years ago. She would have a good dowry, because Niall is afraid she will not marry. The girl had the measles when she was six years old, and her eyesight is not good, and she is not too broad in the wit, either. She can spin and weave well enough, but she has neither the eyesight nor the cleverness for much more, so she will not mind much if Agravaine keeps her always breeding.”
“Well, well, well, what a statesman you are already,” said Morgause caustically. “Agravaine should appoint you one of his councillors, you are so wise.” But she thought, aye, he is right, I will speak to Niall tomorrow.
“He could do worse,” said Gwydion seriously, “but I shall not be here for that, Mother. I meant to tell you, when I went up on the fells, I saw—no, but here is Donil the hunter, he can tell you.” And indeed, the big hunter was already coming into the hall, bending low before Morgause.
“My lady,” he said, “there are riders on the road, nearing the great house—a sedan chair draped like the Avalon barge, and with them a hunchbacked man with a harp, and servants in the garb of Avalon. They