Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [355]
So, am I fallen so low that I would have him drugged, not knowing? Elaine will have him that way . . . why is it better for her? But she wants him for husband, for better or worse. Not I. I am a priestess, and I know this thing that burns in me is not of the Goddess, but unholy . . . am I so weak that I would have Gwenhwyfar’s castoff garments and her castoff paramour also? And while her scorn cried no, the weakness through her whole body cried yes, so that she was sick with self-contempt as she went along the hall to the chamber of King Pellinore.
“How does your father, Elaine?” She wondered that her voice was so steady.
“He is quiet now, and I think he will sleep.”
Morgaine nodded. “Now you must go to the pavilion, and sometime this night Lancelet will come to you. Forget not the scent Gwenhwyfar wears. . . .”
Elaine was very pale, her blue eyes burning. Morgaine reached out and caught her by the arm; she held out a flask with some of the drugged wine in it. She said, and her own voice was shaking, “Drink this first, child.”
Elaine raised it to her lips and drank. “It is sweet with herbs . . . is it a love potion?”
Morgaine’s smile only stretched her mouth. “You may think it so, if you will.”
“Strange, it burns my mouth, and burns me within. . . . Morgaine, it is not poison? You do not—you do not hate me, Morgaine, because I will be Lancelet’s wife?”
Morgaine drew the girl close and embraced and kissed her; the warm body in her arms somehow roused her, whether to desire or tenderness she could not tell. “Hate you? No, no, cousin, I swear it to you, I would not have sir Lancelet for husband if he begged me on his knees . . . here, finish the wine, sweeting . . . scent your body here, and here . . . remember what he wants of you. It is you who can make him forget the Queen. Now go, child, wait for him in the pavilion there. . . .” And again she drew Elaine close to her and kissed her. “The Goddess blesses you.”
So like to Gwenhwyfar. Lancelet is already half in love with her, I think, and I but complete the work. . . .
She drew a long, shaking breath, composing herself to return to the hall and to Lancelet. He had not hesitated to pour himself more of the drugged wine, and raised fuddled eyes as she came in.
“Ah, Morgaine—kinswoman—” He drew her down beside him. “Drink with me . . .”
“No, not now. Listen to me, Lancelet, I bear a message for you. . . .”
“A message, Morgaine?”
“Yes,” she said. “Queen Gwenhwyfar has come hither to visit her kinswoman, and she sleeps in the pavilion beyond the lawns.” She took his wrist and drew him along to the door. “And she has sent you a message: she does not wish to disturb her women, so you must go to her very quietly where she is in bed. Will you do that?”
She could see the haze of drunkenness and passion in his dark eyes. “I saw no messenger—Morgaine, I did not know you wished me well. . . .”
“You do not know how well I wish you, cousin.”
I wish that you may marry well and cease this hopeless, wretched love for a woman who can only bring you to dishonor and despair. . . .
“Go,” she said gently, “your queen awaits you. If you doubt me, this token was sent you.” She held out a kerchief; it was Elaine’s, but one kerchief is like to another, and it had been all but drenched in the scent associated with Gwenhwyfar.
He pressed it to his lips. “Gwenhwyfar,” he whispered. “Where, Morgaine, where?”
“In the pavilion. Finish the wine—”
“Will you drink to me?”
“Later,” she said with a smile. His steps faltered a little; he caught at her for support, and his arms went round her. His touch roused her, light as it was. Lust, she told herself fiercely, animal rut, this is nothing blessed by the Goddess. . . . She struggled for calm. He was drugged like an animal, he would not care, he would take her now mindlessly, as he would have taken Gwenhwyfar, Elaine. . . . “Go, Lancelet, you must not keep your queen waiting.”
She saw him disappear in the shadows near the pavilion. He would go in quietly. Elaine would be