Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [426]
“No,” Morgause said, “Morgaine is younger than I by ten years.”
“Still, she looks worn and old, and you . . .” He smiled at her, and Morgause felt the flood of sudden happiness. She thought, None of my own sons have I loved as this one. Morgaine did well to leave him to my care.
“Oh,” she said, “I grow old too, my lad . . . I had a grown son when you were born!”
“Then you are twice the sorceress she is,” said Gwydion, “for one could swear you had dwelt long in the fairy country with time never touching you . . . you look to me as you did the day I rode away for Avalon, Mother mine.” He reached out his hand to hers and brought it to his lips and kissed it, and she came and put her arm round him, careful to avoid his wound. She stroked the dark hair. “So Morgaine is queen now in Wales.”
“True,” Gwydion said, “and high, I hear, in favor with the King . . . Arthur has made her stepson Uwaine a member of his own personal bodyguard, next to Gawaine, and he and Gawaine are close friends. Uwaine’s not a bad fellow—not unlike Gawaine, I’d say—tough and staunch, both of them, and devoted to Arthur as if the sun rose and set where he pissed . . .” and Morgause noted the wry smile. “But then it’s a fault many men have—and I came here to speak of this to you, Mother,” he said. “Know you anything of Avalon’s plan?”
“I know what Niniane said, and the Merlin, when they came to take you thither,” said Morgause. “I know you are to be Arthur’s heir, even though he believes he will leave the kingdom to that son of Lancelet’s. I know you are the young stag who will bring down the King Stag . . .” she said in the old language, and Gwydion raised his brow.
“Then you know it all,” he said. “But this, perhaps, you do not know . . . it cannot be done now. Since Arthur brought down this Roman who would be emperor, this Lucius, his star has never flamed higher than now. Anyone who raised a hand against Arthur would be torn in pieces by the mob, or by his Companions—never have I seen a man so loved. This, I think, is why I needed to look from afar on his face, to see what is it in a king which makes him so loved. . . .”
His voice fell away into silence and Morgause felt ill at ease. “And did you so?”
Gwydion nodded slowly. “He is a king indeed . . . even I who have no cause to love him felt that spell he creates around him. You cannot imagine how he is worshipped.”
“Strange,” said Morgause, “I for one never thought him so remarkable.”
“No, be fair,” said Gwydion. “There are not many—perhaps there is no other within this land who could have rallied all factions as he did! Romans, Welsh, Cornish, West-countrymen, East Anglians, men of Brittany, the Old People, the men of Lothian . . . all through this kingdom, Mother, all men swear by Arthur’s star. Even those Saxons who once fought Uther to the death, stand and swear that Arthur shall be their king. He is a great warrior . . . no, not in himself, he fights no better than any other warrior, not half so well as Lancelet or even Gareth, but he is a great general. And it is something . . . something in himself,” Gwydion said. “It is easy to love him. And while all worship him thus, I have no possible task.”
“Then,” said Morgause, “their love of him must somehow be made less. He must be discredited. He is no better than any other man, the Gods know that. He fathered you on his own sister, and it is well known here and abroad that he plays no very noble part with his queen. There is a name for a man who sits complacent while another man pays court to his queen, and not so pretty a name, after all.”
“Something, I am sure, can be made of that,” said Gwydion. “Though in these late years, it is said, Lancelet has stayed far from court and taken care never to be alone with the Queen, so that no shadow of scandal shall fall on her name. Yet they say she wept like a child, and so did Lancelet, when he took leave of her to go and fight at Arthur’s side against this Lucius, and never did I see man fight as did Lancelet.