Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [352]
Morgaine sighed. “So be it. Now—you know the scent Gwenhwyfar uses . . .”
“I know it, but I do not like it much, it is too strong for me.”
Morgaine nodded. “I make it for her—you know I am schooled in such things. When you go to bed in the pavilion, you must scent your body and your bedclothes with it. It will turn his mind to Gwenhwyfar and arouse him with that memory—”
The younger woman wrinkled her nose in distaste. “It seems unfair—”
“It is unfair,” said Morgaine. “Make up your mind to that. What we are doing is dishonest, Elaine, but there’s good to it too. Arthur’s kingdom cannot long stand if the King is known a cuckold. When you are wedded a while, since you and Gwenhwyfar are so much alike, no doubt it will be put round that it was you Lancelet loved all this time.” She gave Elaine the flask of scent. “Now, if you have a servant you can trust, have him put up the pavilion somewhere Lancelet will not see it till this night. . . .”
Elaine said, “Even the priest would approve, I doubt it not, since I am taking him away from adultery with a married woman. I am free to marry. . . .”
Morgaine felt her own smile thin and strained. “Well for you, if you can quiet your conscience so . . . some priests say so, that the end is all, and whatever means be used, they are for the best . . .”
She realized that Elaine was still standing, like a child at lessons, before her. “Well, go, Elaine,” she said, “go and send Lancelet away another day to hunt the dragon. I must prepare my charm.”
She watched them as they shared cup and plate at breakfast. Lancelet was fond of Elaine, she thought—fond as he might be of a friendly little dog. He would not be unkind to her when they were married.
Viviane had been just as ruthless as this, she had not scrupled to send a brother to the bed of his own sister. . . . Morgaine worried the memory painfully, like a sore tooth. This too is for the good of the kingdom, she thought, and as she went to hunt out her herbs and medicines, to steep them in wine for the potion she would give Lancelet, she tried to form a prayer to the Goddess who joined man and women in love, or in simple lust like the rutting of beasts.
Goddess, I know enough of lust . . . she thought, and steadied her hands, breaking the herbs and dropping them into the wine. I have felt his desire, though he would not give me what I would have had from him. . . .
She sat watching the slow simmering of the herbs in the wine; small bubbles rose, lazily broke, and spat bittersweet essences which fumed around her. The world seemed very small and far away, her brazier but a child’s toy, each bubble that rose in the wine large enough that she could have floated away inside it . . . her whole body aching with a desire she knew would never be slaked. She could sense that she was moving into the state where powerful magic could be made. . . .
It seemed she was both within and without the castle, that a part of her was out on the hills, following the Pendragon banner which Lancelet sometimes carried . . . twisting, a great red dragon . . . but there were no dragons, not this kind of dragon, and Pellinore’s dragon, it was surely only a jest, a dream, as unreal as the banner which flew somewhere, far to the southward, over the walls of Camelot, a dragon invented by some artist for the banner, like the designs Elaine drew for her tapestry. And Lancelet surely knew this. Following the dragon, he was but enjoying a pleasant ride over the summer hills, following a dream and a fantasy, leaving him leisure for daydreaming of Gwenhwyfar’s arms. . . . Morgaine looked down at the bubbling liquid in her little brazier, drop by drop added a little more wine to the mixture, that it would not boil away. He would dream of Gwenhwyfar, and that night there would be a woman in his arms, wearing Gwenhwyfar’s perfume. But first Morgaine would give him this potion which would put him at the mercy of the rut in him, so that he would not stop when he found he held not an experienced