Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [399]
Morgause pressed Gwenhwyfar’s hand. “Thank you, cousin. I come so seldom to court, I am happy to sit for once among ladies and gossip about who is married and who has taken a paramour and all the new fashions in gowns and ribbons! I am kept so busy in Lothian with the ruling of the land that I have small time for women’s matters, and it is a luxury and a pleasure for me.” She patted Lamorak’s hand and, when she thought no one noticed, brushed his temple with a surreptitious kiss. “I leave you to the Companions, my dear.”
Her ample fragrance, the warm scent of her ribbons and the folds of her gown, almost dizzied Gwenhwyfar as the Queen of Lothian sat beside her on the bench. Gwenhwyfar said, “If you are kept so busy with affairs of state, cousin, why do you not find a wife for Agravaine, and let him rule in his father’s place, and give over the ruling of Lothian? Surely the folk there cannot be happy without a king—”
Morgause’s laugh was warm and merry. “Why, then I should have to live unwedded, since in that country the queen’s husband is king, and my dear, that would not suit me at all! And Lamorak is over-young to rule as king, though he has other duties, and I find him most satisfactory—”
Gwenhwyfar listened with fascinated distaste; how could a woman Morgause’s age make a fool of herself with so young a man? Yet his eyes followed Morgause as if she were the most beautiful and fascinating woman in the world. He hardly looked at Isotta of Cornwall, who was bending before the throne now at the side of her elderly husband, Duke Marcus of Cornwall. Isotta was so beautiful that a little murmur went all down the hall; tall and slender, with hair the color of a new-struck copper coin. But no doubt Marcus had thought more of the Irish gold she wore at her throat and at the clasp of her cloak, and the Irish pearls braided into her hair, than the treasure of her beauty. Isotta was, Gwenhwyfar thought, the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Next to Isotta Morgause looked raddled and overblown, but still Lamorak’s eyes followed her.
“Aye, Isotta is very beautiful,” Morgause said, “but it is told in the court of Duke Marcus that she has more of an eye for his heir, young Drustan, than for old Marcus himself, and who can blame her? But she is modest and discreet, and if she has sense enough to give the old man a child—though, heaven knows, she might fare better at such craft with the young Drustan, at that.” Morgause chuckled. “She looks not like a woman over-happy in her marriage bed. Still, I do not suppose Marcus wants much more of her than a son for Cornwall. Marcus wants only for that, I think, before he declares that Cornwall belongs to him who keeps it, not to Morgaine, who has it from Gorlois—where is my kinswoman Morgaine? I am eager to embrace her!”
“She is there with Uriens,” said Gwenhwyfar, looking to where the King of North Wales waited to approach the throne.
“Arthur would have done better to marry Morgaine into Cornwall,” Morgause said. “But I think he felt Marcus was too old for her. Though he might well have married her to yonder young Drustan—his mother was kindred to Ban of Less Britain, and he is a distant cousin to Lancelet, and handsome almost as Lancelet himself, is he not, Gwenhwyfar?” She smiled merrily and added, “Ah, but I had forgotten, you are so pious a lady, you look never on the beauty of any man save your own wedded husband. But then, it is easy for you to be virtuous, married to one so young and handsome and gallant as Arthur!”
Gwenhwyfar felt that Morgause’s chatter would drive her mad. Did the woman think of nothing else? Morgause said, “I suppose you must speak a word or two of courtesy to Isotta—she is newcome to Britain. I have heard she speaks little of our tongue, only that of her Irish homeland. But I have heard, too, that in her own country she was a notable mistress of herbs and magic, so that when Drustan