Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [358]
Well, she would fight to the last to save Arthur’s soul! She loved him well, he was the best husband a woman could ever have had, even had he been no High King but a simple knight. Surely the madness that had seized her was long gone. It was right and fitting she should think kindly of her husband’s cousin. Why, it was at Arthur’s own will that she had first lain in Lancelet’s arms. And now it was all past and over, and she had confessed it and been absolved; her priest had told her it was as if the sin had never been, and now she must strive to forget it.
Yet she could not help remembering, a little, on this morning when Lancelet would be coming to court with his wife and son . . . he was a married man, married to her own cousin. Now he was not only her husband’s kinsman but her own kinsman as well. She could greet him with a kiss, and it would be no sin.
Arthur turned over, as if her thoughts could disturb him, and smiled at her.
“It is Pentecost day, sweetheart,” he said, “and all of our kinfolk and friends will be here. Let me see you smile.”
She smiled at him and he drew her down against him, kissing her and letting his fingers circle her breasts.
“You are certain what we do this day will not offend you? I would not have anyone think you were less to me,” he said anxiously. “You are not old, God may yet bless us with children if it is his will. But the lesser kings have demanded it of me—life is never certain, so I must name an heir. When our first son is born, sweet, then it will be as if this day had never been, and I am sure young Galahad will not begrudge the throne to his cousin, but serve and honor him as Gawaine has done for me. . . .”
It might yet be true, Gwenhwyfar thought, surrendering herself to her husband’s gentle caresses. There were such things told of in the Bible: the mother of John the Baptizer, who had been cousin to the Virgin—God had opened her womb long after she was past the age of bearing, and she, Gwenhwyfar, was not yet thirty . . . why, Lancelet had said once that his mother was older than this when he was born. Perhaps this time, after all these years, she would arise from her husband’s bed bearing again the seed of his son in her body. And now that she had learned not only to submit to him as a good wife must, but to take pleasure in his touch, his manhood filling her, surely she was softened and all the more ready to conceive and bear. . . .
No doubt it was all for the best, when for a time three years ago she had thought she bore Lancelet’s child, but something had gone amiss . . . three months she had not had her moon-blood and she had told one or two of her ladies that she was with child; and then, after three more months, when she should have felt the first quickening, it had proved to be nothing after all . . . but now, surely, with this new warmth she had known since she had been all wakened, this time it would come about as she wished. And Elaine would not gloat and triumph over her again. . . . She might, for a little time, have been the mother of the King’s heir, but Gwenhwyfar would be the mother of the King’s son. . . .
She said something like that later, when they were dressing, and Arthur looked at her, troubled. “Is Lancelet’s wife unkind or scornful to you, Gwen? I had thought you and your cousin were good friends. . . .”
“Oh, we are,” said Gwenhwyfar, blinking back tears, “but it is always so with women . . . those women who have sons think ever they are the betters of any woman who is barren. The wife of the swineherd, in her childbed, no doubt thinks with scorn and pity of the Queen who cannot give her lord so much as a single son.”
Arthur came and kissed the back of her neck. “Don’t, sweeting, don’t cry. I would rather have you than another woman who could have given me a dozen sons already.