Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [371]
“Morgaine is older than you,” she said, “and since he has grown sons and grandsons, he will not mind too much if Morgaine does not give him children.”
“That is true,” said Arthur with a frown, “and this seems a good match.” He raised his head to Uriens and said, “I cannot order lady Morgause to marry again, but my sister, the Duchess of Cornwall, is not married.”
Uriens bowed. “I could not presume to ask so high, my king, but if your sister would be queen in my country—”
“I will compel no woman to marry unwilling,” said Arthur, “but I will ask her.” He beckoned one of the pages. “Ask the lady Morgaine if she will come to me when she has finished singing.”
Uriens’ eyes were on Morgaine where she sat, her dark gown lending fairness to her skin. “She is very beautiful, your sister. Any man would think himself fortunate to have such a wife.”
As Uriens went to his seat, Arthur said thoughtfully, watching Morgaine come toward them, “She is long unmarried—she must wish for a home of her own where she will be mistress, rather than serving another woman always. And she is too learned for many young men. But Uriens will be glad that she is gracious and will rule his home well. I wish, though, that he were not quite so old. . . .”
“I think she will be happier with an older man,” Gwenhwyfar said. “She is not a giddy young thing.”
Morgaine came and curtseyed to them. Always, in public, she was smiling and impassive, and Gwenhwyfar was for once glad of it.
“Sister,” said Arthur, “I have had an offer of marriage for you. And after this morning"—he lowered his voice—"I think it well you should not live at court for a time.”
“Indeed I would be glad to be gone from here, brother.”
“Why, then—” Arthur said, “how would you like to live in North Wales? I hear it is desolate there, but no more than Tintagel, surely—”
To Gwenhwyfar’s surprise, Morgaine blushed like a girl of fifteen. “I will not try to pretend I am as surprised as all that, brother.”
Arthur chuckled. “Why, he did not tell me he had spoken to you, the sly fellow.”
Morgaine colored and played with the end of her braid. She did not, Gwenhwyfar thought, look anywhere near her age. “You may tell him I should be happy to live in North Wales.”
Arthur said gently, “Does the difference in age not bother you?”
Her face was rosy. “If it does not bother him, it does not bother me.”
“So be it,” said Arthur, and beckoned to Uriens, who came, beaming. “My sister has told me that she would like it well to be Queen of North Wales, my friend. I see no reason we cannot have the wedding with all speed, perhaps on Sunday.” He raised his cup and called out to the assembled company, “Drink to a wedding, my friends—a wedding between the lady Morgaine of Cornwall, my dear sister, and my good friend King Uriens of North Wales!”
For the first time that day it sounded like a proper Pentecost feasting, as the applause, cries of congratulation, acclaim, all stormed up. Morgaine stood still as a stone.
But she agreed to this, she said he had spoken to her . . . Gwenhwyfar thought, and then she remembered the young man who had been flirting with Morgaine. Was that not Uriens’ son—Accolon, Accolon, that was it. But surely she could not have expected him to offer for her; Morgaine was older than he was! It must have been Accolon—will she make a scene? Gwenhwyfar wondered.
And then, with another surge of hatred, Now let Morgaine see what it is like to be given in marriage to a man she does not love!
“So you will be a queen, too, my sister,” she said, taking Morgaine’s hand. “I shall be your bride-woman.”
But for all her sweet words, Morgaine looked her straight in the eye, and Gwenhwyfar knew that she had not been deceived.
So be it. We will at least be rid of one another. And no more pretense of friendship between us.
Morgaine speaks . . .
For a marriage destined to end as mine did, it began well enough, I suppose. Gwenhwyfar gave me a fine wedding, considering how she hated me; I had six bride-women and four of them were queens. Arthur