Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [365]
Oh, yes. Gwenhwyfar would give him no peace until he had given himself into the hands of the priests. And what of his vow to Avalon?
And yet if it should be Gwydion’s fate that one day he should sit on his father’s throne, if that was what the Merlin planned . . . no man could escape fate. Morgaine thought mirthlessly, No woman either. Taliesin, who knew all manner of music and old tales, had once told her a story from the ancients who dwelt to the south in the Holy Land or somewhere near to there, of a man who was born under a curse that he should slay his father and wed with his mother. So the parents listened to the curse and cast him out to die, and he was reared by strangers, and one day, meeting with his father, unknowing, he quarrelled with him, killed him, and wedded with his widow; so that the very means they had taken to prevent the falling of the curse had brought it to pass—had he been reared in his father’s house, he would not have done what he did in ignorance. . . .
She and Arthur had done what they did in ignorance, too, yet the fairy woman had cursed her son: Cast forth your babe, or kill it as it comes from the womb; what of the King Stag when the young stag is grown? And it seemed to her that all round her the world grew grey and strange, as if she had wandered into the mists of Avalon, and there was a strange humming in her brain.
There seemed a terrible clanging and banging in the air all round her, deafening her . . . no, it was the church bells, ringing for the mass. She had heard, too, that the fairy folk could not abide the sound of the church bells, and it was for that reason they had taken to the far hills and hollows . . . it seemed to her that she could not go and sit quietly, as she usually did, listening with polite attention because the Queen’s waiting-women should set an example to all the others. She thought that the walls would stifle her and the mumbling of the priests and the smoke of the incense would drive her mad; better to stay out here in the clean rain. Now she thought to draw up the hood of the woolen cloak over her head; the ribbons in her hair were all wet, likely they were spoilt. She fumbled with them and the red came off on her fingers; poorly dyed they were, for materials so costly.
But the rain was slowing a little, and people were beginning to move about in the spaces between the tents.
“There will be no mock battle games today,” said a voice behind her, “or I would ask you for one of those ribbons you are casting about, and carry it into battle as a flag of honor, lady Morgaine.”
Morgaine blinked, trying to collect herself. A young man, slender and dark-haired, with dark eyes; something familiar about him, but she could not quite remember. . . .
“You do not remember me, lady?” he said reproachfully. “And I was told you had wagered a ribbon on my success in just such a mock battle a year or two ago—or was it three?”
Now she remembered him; he was the son of King Uriens of North Wales. Accolon, that was his name; and she had wagered with one of the Queen’s ladies who claimed that no man could stand in the field against Lancelet. . . . She had never known how her wager came off; that was the Pentecost when Viviane had been murdered.
“Indeed I remember you, sir Accolon, but that Pentecost feast, you may remember, ended in such brutal murder, and it was my foster-mother who was slain—”
He was at once contrite. “Then I must beg your pardon for calling such a sad occasion to your mind. And I