Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [397]
“How old now is Elaine’s son? He is to be my heir, he should be fostered at this court,” Arthur said, and Gwenhwyfar replied, “I offered as much when he was born, but Elaine said that even if he was to be king one day, he must be brought up to a simple and modest manhood. You too were fostered as a plain man’s son, and it did you no harm.”
“Well, perhaps she is right,” said Arthur. “I would like, once, to see Morgaine’s son. He would be grown to manhood now—it has been seventeen years. I know he cannot succeed me, the priests would not have it, but he is all the son I have ever fathered, and I would like, once, to set eyes on the lad and tell him . . . I know not what I would like to tell him. But I would like to see him once.”
Gwenhwyfar struggled against the furious retort that sprang to her lips; nothing could be gained by arguing this again. She said only, “He is well where he is.” She spoke the truth, and after she said it she knew it was the truth; she was glad Morgaine’s son was being reared on that isle of sorceries, where no Christian king could go. Schooled there, it was more certain than ever that no sudden swing of fortune would set him on the throne after Arthur—more and more, the priests and people of this land distrusted the sorcery of Avalon. Reared at court, it might be that some unscrupulous person would begin to think of Morgaine’s son as a successor more legitimate than Lancelet’s.
Arthur sighed. “Yet it is hard for a man to know he has a son and never set eyes on him,” he said. “Perhaps, one day.” But his shoulders went up and then down in resignation. “No doubt you are right, my dear. What of the Pentecost feast? I know you will make it, as always, a memorable day.”
And so she had done, Gwenhwyfar thought on that morning, looking out over the expanse of tents and pavilions. The great war-gaming field had been cleared and lined with ropes and banners, and the flags and banners of half a hundred petty kings and more than a hundred knights were moving briskly in the summer wind on the heights. It was like an army encamped here.
She sought out the banner of Pellinore, the white dragon he had adopted after the killing of the dragon in the lake. Lancelet would be there . . . it had been more than a year since she had seen him, and then formally before all the court. It had been many years since she had been alone with him even for a moment; the day before he had married Elaine, he had come to seek her out alone and to say farewell.
He had been Morgaine’s victim too; he had not betrayed her, they had both been victim of the cruel trick Morgaine had played on them. When he told her about it, he had wept, and she cherished the memory of his tears as the highest compliment he had ever given her . . . who had seen Lancelet weep?
“I swear to you, Gwenhwyfar, she trapped me—Morgaine sent me the false message, and a kerchief with your scent. And I think she drugged me, too, or put some spell upon me.” He had looked into her eyes, weeping, and she had wept too. “And Morgaine told Elaine some lie too, saying I was sick with love of her . . . and we were there together. I thought it was you at first, it was as if I were under some enchantment. And then when I knew it was Elaine in my arms, still I could not stop myself. And then they were all there with torches . . . what could I do, Gwen? I had taken the virgin daughter of my host, Pellinore would have been within his rights to kill me then and there in her bed . . .” Lancelet cried out, and then, his voice breaking, he had ended, “Would to God that I had rushed on his sword instead. . . .”
She had asked him, You do not care at all for Elaine, then? She had known it was an inexcusable thing to say, but she could not live without that reassurance . . . but while Lancelet might uncover his own misery to her, he would not speak of Elaine; he had only said, stiffly, that none of this was Elaine’s fault, and that he was bound in honor to try to make her as happy as he could.