Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [339]
And then she must face him and tell him what had happened to her. It might be simpler to kill herself. Come what might, she could not imagine herself facing Arthur, telling him how Meleagrant had treated her . . . I should have fought against him harder; Arthur, in battle, has faced very death, once he took a great wound which kept him abed half a year, and I—I stopped fighting after a few slaps and blows. . . . She wished she had some of Morgaine’s sorcery; she would turn him into a pig! But Morgaine would never have fallen into his hands, she would have guessed it was a trap; and she would have used that little dagger of hers, too—she might not have killed him, but he would have lost his desire, and perhaps his ability, to ravish any woman!
She had eaten and drunk what she could, washed herself, and brushed her filthy dress clean.
Again the day had begun to wane. It could not be hoped for—that she would be missed, that anyone would come for her until Meleagrant began to boast of what he had done, proclaim himself the consort of King Leodegranz’s daughter. She had gone of her own free will, and properly attended by two of Arthur’s Companions. Not until Arthur returned from the Southern Shores, and perhaps not for a week or ten days after that, when she did not return at the appointed time, would he begin to suspect that all was not well.
Morgaine, why did I not listen to you? You warned me he was a villain. . . . For a moment it seemed that she could see her sister-in-law’s pale, passionless face—calm, slightly mocking—so clearly that she rubbed her eyes; Morgaine, laughing at her? No, it was a trick of the light, it was gone.
Would that she could see me through her magic . . . perhaps she could send someone . . . no, she would not, she hates me, she would laugh at my ill fortune . . . and then she remembered: Morgaine laughed and mocked, but when it was a real trouble, no one could be kinder. Morgaine had tended her when she miscarried; she had, against her own protest, been willing to try and help her with a charm. Perhaps Morgaine did not hate her after all. Perhaps all Morgaine’s mockery was a defense against Gwenhwyfar’s own pride, her scorn of the sorceresses of Avalon.
Twilight was beginning to blur the furniture in the room. She should have thought to ask for some sort of light. Now it seemed she would spend a second night as prisoner here, and it might be that Meleagrant would return . . . and at the thought she felt sick again with terror; she was still sore from his brutal treatment, her mouth swollen, bruises darkening on her shoulders and, she supposed, on her face. And although, when she was alone here, she could think quite calmly about ways to fight him and perhaps drive him away, she knew, with a sick sinking of terror in her body, that when he touched her, she would shrink away in dread and let him do whatever he would, to avoid more blows . . . she was so afraid, so afraid that he would hurt her again. . . .
And how could Arthur forgive her for this, that she had not been beaten entirely into submission, but had given way like a coward, after the threat of a few blows and slaps . . . how could he take her back as his queen and continue to love and honor her, when she had allowed another man to have her . . . ?
He had not minded when she and Lancelet . . . he had been a part of that . . . if there was sin it was not all hers, she had done as her husband wished. . . .
Oh, yes, but Lancelet was his kinsman and dearest friend. . . .
There was a commotion in the courtyard; Gwenhwyfar went to the window, peering out, but she could see only that same corner of the barnyard, and that same bellowing cow. Somewhere there was noise, shouting and yelling and the clash of weapons, but she could not see and the sound was muffled by the walls and stairs; it might be no more