Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [340]
There was a sound outside. The door flew open and Gwenhwyfar, turning apprehensively, saw Meleagrant, a naked sword in hand. He gestured with it. “Get within—into that inner chamber,” he ordered. “In with you, and not a sound from you, madam, or it will be the worse for you.”
Does this mean someone has come to rescue me? He looked desperate, and Gwenhwyfar knew that she could get no information from him. She backed away, slowly, into the little inner room. He followed her, his hand on the sword, and Gwenhwyfar flinched, her whole body cringing in anticipation of the stroke . . . would he kill her now, or hold her as hostage for his own escape?
She never knew his plan. Meleagrant’s head suddenly exploded in a spray of blood and brains; he crumpled with a weird slowness, and Gwenhwyfar sank down, too, half fainting, but before she reached the floor, she was in Lancelet’s arms.
“My lady, my queen—ah, my beloved—” He caught her against him, holding her, and then, half senseless, Gwenhwyfar knew he was covering her face with kisses. She made no protest; it was like a dream. Meleagrant lay in his blood on the floor, the sword lay where it had fallen. Lancelet had to lift her over the body before he could set her on her feet.
“How—how did you know?” she stammered.
“Morgaine,” he said tersely. “When I came to Camelot, Morgaine said she had tried to bid you delay till I was there. She felt it was a trap—I took horse and came after you, with half a dozen men. I found your escort imprisoned in the woods near here, tied and gagged—once I had freed them, it was not hard—no doubt he thought himself secure.” Now Lancelet let her go long enough to see the bruises on her face and body, her torn gown, the cut lip where it was swollen. He touched them with shaking fingers. “Now do I regret he died so quickly,” he said. “It would give me delight to make him suffer as you have suffered—ah, my poor love, my darling, you have been so cruelly used—”
“You don’t know,” she whispered, “you don’t know—” and she was sobbing again, clinging to him. “You came, you came, I thought no one would come, that no one would want me now, that no one would ever touch me again—now when I am so shamed. . . .”
He held her, kissing her again and again in a frenzy of tenderness. “Shamed? You? No, the shame is his, his, oh, and he has paid for it . . .” he muttered through his kisses. “I thought I had lost you forever, he might have killed you, but Morgaine said no, you lived—”
Even then, Gwenhwyfar spared a moment of fear and resentment—did Morgaine know how she had been humiliated, violated? Ah, God, if only Morgaine need not have known! She could not bear it, that Morgaine should know of this!
“Sir Ectorius? Sir Lucan—”
“Lucan is well enough; Ectorius is not young, and he has suffered grave shock, but there is no reason to think he will not live,” Lancelet said. “You must go down, my beloved, and show yourself to them; they must know that their queen lives.”
Gwenhwyfar looked at her torn gown, touched her bruised face with hesitant hands. She said, her voice catching in her throat, “Can I not have a little time to make myself proper? I do not want them to see—” and she could not go on.
Lancelet hesitated, then nodded. He said, “Yes; let them think he dared offer you no insult. It is better that way. I came alone, knowing I could match Meleagrant; the others are downstairs. Let me look in the other chambers—a man of his kind would not dwell here without some woman or other.” He left her for a moment, and she could barely endure to see him out of her sight. She edged away from the body of Meleagrant on the floor, looking down at the man as if he were a wolf’s carcass killed by some shepherd, without even distate for the blood.
After a moment Lancelet returned. “There is a room yonder which is clean, and chests there with some