Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [316]
He managed to look directly at her. “You cursed me, and—and believe me, I am cursed.”
And suddenly the old anger and contempt melted. He was as he was. She clasped his hand between her own. “Cousin, don’t trouble yourself about that. It was many, many years ago, and I don’t think there is any God or Goddess who would listen to the words of an angry young girl who thought herself scorned. And I was no more than that.”
He drew a long breath and began to pace again. At last he said, “I could have killed Gawaine tonight. I am glad you stopped us, even with that blasphemous jesting. I—I have had to deal with that, all my life. When I was a boy at Ban’s court, I was prettier than Gareth is now, and in the court of Less Britain, and like enough in other places, such a boy must guard himself more carefully than any maiden. But no man sees or believes any such thing unless it touches him, and thinks it only a slightly vulgar joke made about other people. There was a time when I thought it so too, and then a time when I thought I could never be otherwise. . . .”
There was a long silence, while he stared grimly at the flagstones of the courtyard.
“And so I flung myself into experiment with women, any woman—God help me, even with you who were my own mother’s fosterling and pledged maiden to the Goddess—but there were few women who could rouse me even a little, till I saw—her.” Morgaine was glad he did not speak Gwenhwyfar’s name. “And since that moment there has been no other. With her, I know myself all man.”
Morgaine said, “But she is Arthur’s wife—”
“God! God!” Lancelet turned and struck his hand against the wall. “Do you think that does not torment me? He is my friend; if Gwenhwyfar were wedded to any other man who dwells this earth, I would have had her away with me and to my own place—” Morgaine saw the muscles of his throat move as he tried to swallow. “I do not know what will become of us. And Arthur must have an heir to his kingdom. The fate of all Britain is more important than our love. I love them both—and I am tormented, Morgaine, tormented!”
His eyes were wild; for a moment it seemed to Morgaine that she saw some hint of madness. Ever after, she wondered, Was there anything, anything I could have said or done that night?
“Tomorrow,” Lancelet said, “I shall beg Arthur to send me out on some difficult quest—to go and make an end forever of Pellinore’s dragon, to conquer the wild Northmen beyond the Roman wall—I care not what, Morgaine, anything, anything to take me away from here—” and for a moment, hearing in his voice a sadness beyond tears, Morgaine wanted to hold him in her arms and rock him at her breast like a babe.
“I think I came near to killing Gawaine tonight, had you not stopped us,” Lancelet said. “Yet he was only jesting, he would have died with horror if he knew—” Lancelet turned his eyes away and at last said in a whisper, “I know not if what he said is true. I should take Gwenhwyfar and be gone from here, before it becomes a scandal to all the courts of the world, that I love the wife of my king, and yet . . . yet it is Arthur I cannot leave . . . I know not but what I love her only because I come close, thus, to him.”
Morgaine put out her hand to stop him. There were things she could not bear to know. But Lancelet did not even see.
“No, no, I must tell someone or I shall die of it—Morgaine, know you how first I came to lie with the Queen? I had loved her long, since first I saw her on Avalon, but I thought I would live and die with that passion unspent—Arthur was my friend and I would not betray him,” he said. “And she, she—you must never think that she tempted me! But—but it was Arthur’s will,” he said. “It came about at Beltane—” and then he told her, while Morgaine stood frozen, thinking only, So this is how the charm worked . . . I would that the Goddess had stricken me with leprosy before