Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [405]
She shook her head. She said, “You should not call Isotta Queen of Cornwall—there is no queen in Cornwall but I. Marcus reigns there only as my castellan, and if he does not know it, it is time he found it out.”
“I do not think Isotta cares what Marcus may call himself,” said Gawaine, turning to look at the long table where the ladies sat. Morgause had joined Gwenhwyfar and the Irish queen, and Lancelet had come to speak with them; Gwenhwyfar was smiling at Lancelet, and Morgause making some jest which made them laugh, but Isotta of Cornwall was staring at nothing, her exquisite face pale and drawn. “I never saw any lady who looked so unhappy as yonder Irish queen.”
Morgaine said, “If I were married to old Duke Marcus, I doubt I should be happy,” and Gawaine gave her a rough hug.
“Arthur did not well when he married you to that grandsire old Uriens, either, Morgaine—are you unhappy too?”
Morgaine felt her throat tighten, as if Gawaine’s kindness would make her weep. “Perhaps there is not much happiness for women in marriage after all. . . .”
“I would not say that,” Gareth said. “Lionors seems happy enough.”
“Ah, but Lionors is married to you,” Morgaine said, laughing. “And I could not have that good fortune, I am only your old cousin.”
“Still,” said Gawaine, “I criticize not my mother. She was good to Lot all his life long, and while he lived she never flaunted her lovers in his face. I begrudge her nothing, and Lamorak is a good man and a good knight. As for Gwenhwyfar—” He grimaced. “It’s God’s pity that Lancelet did not take her away from this kingdom while there was still time for Arthur to find himself another wife—still, I suppose young Galahad will be a good king in his day. Lancelet is of the old royal line of Avalon, and royal, too, in his blood from Ban of Less Britain.”
“Still,” said Gareth, “I think your son closer to the throne than his, Morgaine,” and she remembered that he had been old enough to remember Gwydion’s birth. “And the Tribes would give allegiance to Arthur’s sister—in the old days, the sister’s son was the natural heir, in the days when rule passed through the blood of the woman.” He frowned and thought for a moment, then asked, “Morgaine, is he Lancelet’s son?”
She supposed the question was natural enough—they had been friends from childhood. But she shook her head, trying to make a jest instead of showing the irritation she felt. “No, Gareth, if it had been so I would have told you. It would have pleased you so, anything to do with Lancelet. Forgive me, cousins, I should go and speak with your mother—she was always good to me.” She turned away, making her way slowly toward the dais where the ladies sat; the room was growing more and more crowded as everyone greeted old friends and little knots of people collected.
She had always disliked crowded places, and she had lately spent so much time on the green Welsh hills that she was no longer used to the smell of bodies crowded together and the smoke from the hearth fire. Moving to one side, she collided with a man who staggered under her light weight and caught at the wall to steady himself, and she found herself face to face with the Merlin.
She had not spoken with Kevin since the day of Viviane’s death. She looked him coldly in the face and turned away.
“Morgaine—”
She ignored him. Kevin said, in a voice as cold as her glance, “Will a daughter of Avalon turn her face away when the Merlin speaks?”
Morgaine drew a long breath and said, “If you bid me hear you in the name of Avalon, I am here to listen. But that suits you not, you who gave Viviane’s body to Christian rule. That I call a traitor’s deed.”
“And who are you to speak of traitor’s deeds, lady, who sits as queen in Wales when