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Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [341]

By Root 1359 0
garments laid away—I think it was the old king’s room. There is even a mirror.” He led her down the hall. This room had been swept, and the bed straw on the big bed was fresh and clean, and there were sheets and blankets, and fur comforters—not too clean, but not disgusting, either. There was a carved chest she recognized, and inside it she found three gowns, one of which she had seen Alienor wear, and the others made for someone taller. Handling them, through a mist of tears, she thought, These must have been my own mother’s. I wonder that my father never gave them to Alienor. And then she thought, I never knew my father well. I have no idea what manner of man he was, he was only my father. And that seemed so sad to her that she wanted to weep again.

“I will put this on,” she said, and then she broke into a weak laugh. “If I can manage without a woman to dress me—”

Lancelet touched her face gently. “I will dress you, my lady.” He began to help her off with her gown. And then his face twisted, and he lifted her up in his arms, half-dressed as she was.

“When I think of that—that animal, touching you—” he said, with his face muffled against her breast, “and I who love you barely dare to lay a hand on you—”

And for all her faithfulness, she had only come to this; God had rewarded her for her virtue and self-restraint by betraying her into Meleagrant’s hands for rape and brutality! And Lancelet, who had offered her love and tenderness, who had scrupulously stepped aside that he might not betray his kinsman—he had to witness it! She turned in his arms, embracing him.

“Lancelet,” she whispered, “my love, my dearest—take away from me the memory of what was done to me—let us not go from here yet for a little while—”

His eyes overflowed with tears; he laid her down gently on the bed, caressing her with shaking hands.

God did not reward me for virtue. What makes me think he could punish me? And then a thought which frightened her, perhaps there is no God at all, nor any of the Gods people believe in. Perhaps it is all a great lie of the priests, so that they may tell mankind what to do, what not to do, what to believe, give orders even to the King. She raised herself, pulling Lancelet down to her, her bruised mouth searching for his, her hands wandering all over the beloved body, this time without fear and without shame. She no longer cared, nor felt restraint. Arthur? Arthur had not protected her from ravishment. She had suffered what she had had to suffer, and now, at least, she would have this much. It had been by Arthur’s doing that she had first lain with Lancelet, and now she would do what she would.

They rode out of Meleagrant’s castle two hours later, side by side, their hands reaching out between their horses to touch as they rode, and Gwenhwyfar no longer cared; she looked straight at Lancelet, her head held high with joy and gladness. This was her true love, and never again would she trouble herself to hide it from any man.

5


On the shores of Avalon the priestesses wound slowly along the reedy shore, torches in hand. . . . I should have been among them, but there was some reason I could not go. . . . Viviane would have been angry with me that I was not there, yet I seemed to stand on a far shore, unable to speak the word that would have brought me to them. . . .

Raven paced slowly, her pale face lined as I had never seen it, a long streak of white at the side of her temple . . . her hair was unbound; could it be that she was still maiden, untouched save by the God? Her white draperies moved in the same wind that made the torches flare. Where was Viviane, where was the Lady? The sacred boat stood at the shore of the eternal lands, but she would come no more to the place of the Goddess . . . and who was this in the veil and wreath of the Lady?

I had never seen her before, save in dreams. . . .

Thick, colorless hair, the color of ripe wheat, was braided in a low coronal over her brow; but hanging at her waist where the sickle knife of a priestess should have hung . . . ah, Goddess! Blasphemy! For at

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