Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [319]
Morgaine thought: They shared that bed, all three of them, Lancelet, Gwenhwyfar, Arthur—no, such a thing was not wholly unknown; she remembered something in the fairy country that would not come clear in her mind. Lancelet was tormented, and she could have no idea how Arthur regarded all this. As her small quick hands moved on Gwenhwyfar’s hair, she wondered what her sister-in-law felt. Suddenly her own mind was flooded with erotic images, memory of that day on Dragon Island when Arthur, waking, had drawn her into his arms, of the night she had lain in Lancelet’s arms in the field. She lowered her eyes and went on twisting the fine hair.
“You are pulling it too tight,” Gwenhwyfar complained, and Morgaine said stiffly, “I am sorry,” and forced her hands to relax. Arthur had been only a boy then, and she a maiden. Lancelet—did he give to Gwenhwyfar what he had withheld from her, or was the Queen content with those childish caresses? Try as Morgaine would, she could not turn her mind from the hateful pictures that haunted it, but she went on calmly braiding, her face a mask.
“There, that will hold—hand me the silver pin,” she said, fastening up the braids. Gwenhwyfar surveyed herself, delighted, in the copper mirror which was one of her treasures. “It is beautiful, dear sister—thank you so much,” she said, turning and impulsively embracing Morgaine, who stiffened in her arms.
“You owe me no thanks—it is easier to do on another’s head than my own,” Morgaine said. “Wait, that pin is slipping—” and she refastened it. Gwenhwyfar was glowing, beautiful—and Morgaine put her arms around her, laying her cheek for a moment against Gwenhwyfar’s. It seemed enough, for a moment, to touch that beauty, as if something of it could penetrate her and give her some of that glow and loveliness. Then she remembered again what Lancelet had told her, and thought, I am no better than he. I too nurse all manner of strange and perverse desires, and who am I to mock at any?
She envied the Queen, laughing happily as she directed Elaine to go to her chests and seek out cups for prizes for the winners of the games. Gwenhwyfar was simple and open, she was never tortured by these dark thoughts; Gwenhwyfar’s griefs were simple, the griefs and troubles of any woman, fear for her husband’s safety, grief over her childlessness—for all the charm’s working, there had been no sign of pregnancy. If one man could not get her with child, it is likely that two could not, Morgaine thought wickedly.
Gwenhwyfar was smiling. “Shall we go down? I have not greeted the guests—King Uriens is here from North Wales, with his grown son. How would you like to be Queen of Wales, Morgaine? I have heard that Uriens will ask the King for a wife among his wards—”
Morgaine laughed. “You think I would make him a good queen because I am not likely to give him a son to challenge Avalloch’s claim to the throne?”
“It is true you would be old to bear a first child,” Gwenhwyfar said, “yet I still have hope that I may give my lord and king an heir.” Gwenhwyfar did not know that Morgaine had a child, and she should never know.
Yet it nagged at her.
Arthur should know that he has a son. He blames himself that he can give Gwenhwyfar no child—for his own peace of mind he should know. And if it should come to pass that Gwenhwyfar never bears a child, then at least the King has a son. None need know that it is his own sister’s. And Gwydion bears the royal line of Avalon. And now he is old enough to be sent to Avalon and be made a Druid. Truly I should have gone to look upon his face, long before this day. . . .
“Listen,” said Elaine, “the trumpets are blowing in the courtyard—someone important is here, and we must make haste—they will serve mass in the church this morning.”
“And Gareth is to be knighted,” said Gwenhwyfar. “It is a pity Lot did not live to see his youngest son made knight—”
Morgaine shrugged. “He took no great joy in Arthur’s company, nor Arthur in his.” So, she thought, Lancelet’s protégé would be made one of the Companions; and then she remembered what Lancelet