Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [368]
“I hope it is another son, I do not want a daughter,” Elaine said, “but it shall be as God wills. Where is Morgaine? Did she not come to church? Is she ill?”
Gwenhwyfar smiled scornfully. “I think you know how good a Christian Morgaine is.”
“But she is my friend,” Elaine said, “and no matter how bad a Christian she may be, I love her and I will pray for her.”
Well you might, thought Gwenhwyfar bitterly. She had you married to spite me. It seemed that Elaine’s sweet blue eyes were cloying, her voice false. It seemed to her that if she stood there a moment more listening to Elaine she would turn on her and strangle her. She made an excuse, and after a moment Arthur followed her.
He said, “I had hoped we would have Lancelet with us for some weeks, but he would be off to the North again. But he said Elaine might stay, if you would like to have her. She is near enough to her confinement that he would rather she did not return alone. Perhaps Morgaine is lonely for her friend, too. Well, you women must arrange that among yourselves—” He turned, and his face was bleak as he looked down at her. “I must go to the Archbishop. He said he would speak with me immediately after mass.”
She wanted to clutch at him, keep him back, hold him with her by both hands, but it had gone too far for that.
“Morgaine was not in church,” he said. “Tell me, Gwenhwyfar, did you say anything to her—”
“I spoke not one word to her, good or bad,” she said shrilly. “As for where she is, I care not—I wish she were in hell!”
He opened his mouth and for a moment she thought he would chide her, and in a perverse way she longed for his wrath. But he only sighed and lowered his head. She could not bear to see him so beaten, like a whipped dog. “Gwen, I beg you, do not quarrel further with Morgaine. She has been hurt enough already—” And then, as if he was ashamed of his pleading, he turned abruptly and went away from her, toward where the Archbishop was standing and greeting his flock. As Arthur came toward him he bowed, spoke a few words of excuse to the others, and the King and the Archbishop moved away together through the crowds.
Inside the castle there was much to do—welcoming guests to the hall, speaking to men who had been Arthur’s Companions in years gone by, explaining to them that Arthur had business with one of his councillors—that was no lie, Patricius was indeed one of Arthur’s advisers—and would be late. For a time everyone was so busy greeting old friends, exchanging stories of what had befallen in their homes and villages, of what marriages had been made and daughters betrothed and sons grown to manhood, of what babies had been born and robbers slain and roads built, that the time went on and the absence of King Arthur was hardly noticed. But at last even reminiscences palled, and the people in the hall began to murmur. The food would be cold, Gwenhwyfar knew; but you could not start the King’s feast unless the King was there. She gave orders for wine and beer and cider to be served, knowing that by the time the food was served now, many of the guests would be too drunk to care. She saw Morgaine far down the table, laughing and talking with a man she did not recognize, save that he had the serpents of Avalon around his wrist; would she practice her priestess-harlotries to seduce him too, as she had seduced Lancelet before him, and the Merlin? Morgaine’s whorish ways were so great, she could not let any man slip beyond her grasp.
When Arthur finally came, walking slowly and heavily, she was overwhelmed with distress; she had never seen him look like that except when he was wounded and near to death. She felt suddenly that he had taken a deeper wound than she could know, in his very soul, and for a moment wondered, had Morgaine been right to spare him this knowledge? No. As his devoted wife, what she had done was to secure the health of his soul and his eventual salvation; what was