Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [401]
She would have risked it—Viviane, after all, had been nearly as old as she was now when Lancelet was born, and she had lived to see him grown. But the Goddess had not sent her even the hope of conception, and to be honest, she did not want it. Uwaine was son enough for her, and Accolon had not reproached her for childlessness—no doubt he felt that no one would seriously believe it was Uriens’ son, though Morgaine doubted not she could persuade her old husband to acknowledge the child his own; he doted on her in everything, and she shared his bed often enough—too often, for her taste.
She said to Uriens now, “Let me fill your plate. That roast pig is too rich for you, it will make you ill. Some of those wheaten cakes, perhaps, sopped in the gravy, and here is a fine fat saddle of rabbit.” She beckoned to a serving-man carrying a tray of early fruits and chose some gooseberries and cherries for her husband. “Here, I know you are fond of these.”
“You are good to me, Morgaine,” he said, and she patted his arm. It was worth it—all the time she spent in cosseting him, caring for his health, embroidering him fine cloaks and shirts, and even now and then, discreetly, finding a young woman for his bed and giving him a dose of one of her herb medicines which would allow him something like normal virility; Uriens was convinced that she adored him, and never questioned her devotion or denied her anything she asked.
The feasting was breaking up now—people moving about the hall, nibbling at cakes and sweets, calling for wine and ale, stopping to speak to kinsmen and friends whom they saw only once or twice a year. Uriens was still munching his gooseberries; Morgaine asked leave to go and speak to her kinswomen.
“As you like, my dearest,” he mumbled. “You should have cut my hair, my wife, all the Companions are wearing their hair shorn—”
She patted his scanty locks and said, “Oh, no, my dear, I think it is better suited to your years. You do not want to look like a schoolboy, or a monk.” And, she thought, there is so little of your hair that if you cut it short, your bald spot would shine through like a beacon! “Look, the noble Lancelet still wears his hair long and flowing, and Gawaine, and Gareth—no one could call them old men!”
“You are right, as always,” Uriens said smugly. “I suppose it is fitted to a mature man. It is all very well for a boy like Uwaine to clip his hair short.” And Uwaine, indeed, had shorn his hair close to the nape of his neck in the new fashion. “I mark there is gray in Lancelet’s hair as well—we are none of us young anymore, my dear.”
You were a grandsire when Lancelet was born, Morgaine thought crossly, but she only murmured that none of them was as young as they had been ten years ago—a truth with which no one could possibly argue—and moved away.
Lancelet was still, she thought, the finest-looking man she had ever seen; next to him even Accolon seemed too perfect, his features too precise. There was grey in his hair, yes, and in the smoothly trimmed beard; but his eyes twinkled with the old smile. “Good day to you, cousin.”
She was surprised at his cordial tone. Yet, she thought, it is true what Uriens said, we are none of us so young anymore, and there are not many of us who remember that time when we were all young together. He embraced her, and she felt his curly beard silky against her cheek.
She asked him, “Is Elaine not here?”
“No, she bore me another daughter but three days since. She had hoped the child would be already born, and she well enough to ride to Pentecost, but it was a fine big girl and she took her own time in coming. We had hoped to have her three weeks ago!”
“How many children have you now, Lance?”
“Three. Galahad is a big lad of seven, and Nimue is five years old. I do not see them very often, but their nurses say they are clever and quick for their age, and Elaine would name the new little one Gwenhwyfar, for the Queen.”
“I think I shall ride north and visit her,” Morgaine said.
“She will be glad to see you, I am sure. It is