Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [408]
Under cover of the music Arthur said softly to Morgaine, “How is it with you, sister? It is long since you came to Camelot—we have missed you.”
“Oh, indeed?” said Morgaine. “I thought that was why you married me away into North Wales—that my lady"—an ironic bow to Gwenhwyfar—"might not be affronted with the sight of anything distasteful to her, neither Kevin nor me.”
“Why, how can you say that?” demanded Arthur. “I love you well, you know that, and Uriens is a good man, and he seems to dote on you—certainly he hangs on your every word! I sought to find you a kind husband, Morgaine, one who had sons and would not reproach you should you not give him children. And it was my pleasure this day to make your fine young stepson one of my Companions. What could you ask more than this, my sister?”
“What, indeed?” said Morgaine. “What more could a woman desire than a good husband old enough to be her grandsire, and a kingdom to rule at the far end of the world—I should bow down and thank you on my knees, my brother!”
Arthur sought to take her hand. “Indeed I did what I thought would please you, sister. Uriens is too old for you, but he will not live forever. Truly, I thought it would make you happy.”
No doubt, thought Morgaine, he was telling the exact truth as he saw it. How could he be so good and wise a king, and have so little imagination? Or was this the secret of his kingship, that he held to simple truths and sought for no more? Was this why the Christian faith had lured him, that it was so simple, with a few simple laws?
“I like that everybody be happy,” Arthur said, and she knew that this was really the key to his nature; he did indeed seek to see everyone happy, down to the least of his subjects. He had allowed what went on between Gwenhwyfar and Lancelet because he knew it would make his queen unhappy if he parted them, nor would he hurt Gwenhwyfar by taking another wife or a mistress to give him the son she could not.
He is not ruthless enough to be High King, she thought, while she tried to listen to Drustan’s sorrowful songs. Arthur turned to speaking of the lead and tin mines of Cornwall—she should ride to see to them, Duke Marcus should know that he was not ruler over all that country, and, no doubt, she and Isotta would be friends, they both cared for music—see how intently she listened to Drustan.
It is not love of music which makes it impossible to take her eyes from him, Morgaine thought, but she did not say so. She considered the four queens who sat at this table, and sighed; Isotta could not take her eyes from Drustan, and who could blame her? Duke Marcus was old and stern, with quick, darting, ill-natured eyes that reminded her of Lot of Orkney. Morgause had beckoned to her young Lamorak and was whispering to him; well, who could blame her? She had been wedded to Lot—and he was no prize—when she was but fourteen, and all the while Lot lived she had been mindful of his pride and never flaunted her young lovers in his face. And I am no better than any of them, cosseting Uriens with one hand and slipping away to Accolon’s bed with the other, and justifying myself by calling Accolon my priest. . . .
She wondered if any woman ever did otherwise. Gwenhwyfar was High Queen, and she had first taken a lover . . . and it seemed to Morgaine that her heart hardened like stone. She and Morgause and Isotta were married to old men, and such was their life. But Gwenhwyfar had been married to a man who was handsome, and no more than her own age, and High King as well—what had she to be discontented with?
Drustan put the harp aside, bowing, and took up a horn of wine to cool his throat. “I can sing no more,” he said, “but if the lady Morgaine would like to take my harp, she is welcome. I have heard of the lady’s skill