Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [360]
“No, but that is a lie!” Gwenhwyfar said angrily. “Morgaine bade me not speak of it, but long ago I went to her, I begged her for a charm to help my barrenness. I was in despair, I said I would give myself to another man, since it was likely you could not father a son. And at that time Morgaine swore to me that you could father a child, that she had seen a son of yours, fostered at the court of Lot of Lothian, but she made me promise not to speak of it—”
“Fostered at the court of Lothian . . .” said Arthur, and then he caught at his chest, as if in dreadful pain there. “Ah, merciful God!” he said in a whisper, “and I never knew. . . .”
Gwenhwyfar felt sudden terror striking through her. “No, no, Arthur, Morgaine is a liar! No doubt it was but her malice, it was she who contrived Lancelet’s marriage to Elaine, because she was jealous . . . no doubt she was lying to plague me. . . .”
Arthur said in a distant voice, “Morgaine is a priestess of Avalon. She does not lie. I think, Gwenhwyfar, that we must ask of this. Send for Morgaine—”
“No, no,” Gwenhwyfar begged. “I am sorry I spoke—I was beside myself and raving as you said—oh, my dear lord and husband, my king and my lord, I am sorry for every word I said! I beg you to forgive me—I beg you.”
He put his arms around her. “There is need for you to forgive me too, my dear lady. I see now I have done you great wrong. But when you have unloosed the winds, then must you abide by their blowing, whatever they may tear down. . . .” He kissed her very gently on the forehead. “Send for Morgaine.”
“Oh, my lord, oh, Arthur, I beg you—I promised to her that I would never speak of it to you—”
“Well, then, you have broken your promise,” Arthur said. “I besought you not to speak, but you would have it so, and now what has been said cannot be unsaid.” He stepped to the door of the chamber and called to his chamberlain, “Go to the lady Morgaine and command that she attend me and my queen as quickly as she may.”
When the man had gone, Arthur called Gwenhwyfar’s servant, and Gwenhwyfar stood like a stone as the woman put on her holiday robe and braided her hair. She sipped at a cup of hot water and wine, but her throat was tight. She had spoken the unforgivable.
But if it is true that this morning he has given me his child to bear . . . and a strange pain struck inward through her body even into her womb. Could anything take root and grow in such bitterness?
After a time Morgaine came into the room in a dark-red gown, her hair braided with crimson silk ribbons; she had dressed well for the festival and looked alive and glowing.
And I am but a barren tree, Gwenhwyfar thought; Elaine has Lancelet’s son; even Morgaine, who has no husband and no wish for one, has played the harlot and borne a son to somebody or other, and Arthur has fathered a son on some unknown woman, but I—I have none.
Morgaine came and kissed her; Gwenhwyfar stood rigid within her arms. Then Morgaine turned to Arthur and said, “You commanded me to come, my brother?”
Arthur said, “I am sorry to disturb you so early, sister. But, Gwenhwyfar,” he said, “now must you repeat in my presence and Morgaine’s what you have said. I will have no secret slanders repeated within my court.”
Morgaine looked at Gwenhwyfar and saw the marks of tears around her reddened eyes. “Dear brother,” she said, “your queen is ill. Is she