Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [338]
“Oh, no—no—please, please, don’t hurt me—Arthur, Arthur will kill you—”
He answered her only with an obscenity, wrenched at her wrist, flung her down on the dirty straw of the bed, knelt beside her, hauling at his clothing. She writhed, shrieking; he hit her again and she lay still, crouched on a corner of the bed.
“Take off your gown!” he ordered.
“No!” she cried, huddling her clothes about her. He reached out, twisting her wrist, and held her while he ripped her gown deliberately down to the waist.
“Now will you take it off, or shall I tear off every rag of it?”
Shaking, sobbing, with trembling fingers, Gwenhwyfar pulled her gown over her head, knowing that she should fight, but too terrified of his fists and blows to resist. When she had done he pulled her down, held her down on the dirty straw, pushing her legs open with a rough hand. She struggled only a little, frightened of his hands, sickened by his foul breath, his huge hairy body, the big meaty phallus that thrust painfully into her, pushing and pushing till she felt she would break in two.
“Don’t pull away from me like that, damn you!” he shouted, thrusting violently; she cried out with pain and he hit her again. She lay still, sobbing, and let him do what he would. It seemed to go on forever, his big body straining and pumping on and on, till finally she felt him convulse, thrust agonizingly hard; then he was gone from her, rolled a little away, and she gasped for breath, struggling to pull her clothes around her. He stood up, wrenching at his belt, and gestured to her.
“Won’t you let me go?” she begged. “I promise you—I promise you—”
He grinned fiercely. “Why should I?” he asked. “No, here you are and here you’ll stay. Is there anything you need? A gown to put in the place of that one?”
She stood weeping, exhausted, shamed, sickened. At last she said shakily, “I—can I have some water, and—and something to eat? And"—She began to cry harder than ever, with shame—"and a chamber pot?”
“Whatever my lady desires,” said Meleagrant sarcastically, and went away, locking her in again.
Later in the day a crook-backed old crone brought her some greasy roast meat and a hunk of barley bread, and jugs of water and beer. She also brought some blankets and a chamber pot.
Gwenhwyfar said, “If you will bear a message to my lord Arthur, I will give you this—” and she took the gold comb from her hair. The old woman’s face brightened at the look of the gold, but then she looked away, scared, and sidled out of the room. Gwenhwyfar burst into tears again.
At last she regained some calm, ate and drank, and tried to wash herself a little. She felt sick and sore, but worse than that was the sense of being used, shamed, ineradicably dirtied.
Was it true what Meleagrant had said—that Arthur would not have her back now, that she had been spoilt beyond redemption? It might be so . . . if she were a man she would not want anything Meleagrant had used either. . . .
No, but it was not fair; this was not anything she had done wrong, she had been trapped and tricked, used against her will.
Oh, but it is no more than I deserve . . . I who am not a faithful wife, but love another. . . . She felt sick with guilt and shame. But after a time she began to recover her composure and to consider her predicament.
She was here in Meleagrant’s castle—her father’s old castle. She had been raped and was held captive, and Meleagrant had proclaimed his intention of holding this island kingdom by right of being her consort. It was not to be considered that Arthur would let him do so; no matter what he thought of her personally, for his own honor as High King he would have to make war on Meleagrant. It would not be easy, but it should not be impossible to recapture an island. She knew nothing of Meleagrant as a fighter—except, she thought