Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [431]
Morgaine reached out and gently touched her stepson’s slashed cheek. “You will always be handsome to me, my son. But perhaps I can still do something—there is festering there and swelling; before I sleep I will make you a poultice for it, so that it will heal better. It must pain you.”
“It does,” Uwaine admitted, “but I thought myself lucky not to get the lockjaw from it, which one of my men did. Ai, what a death!” He shuddered. “When the wound swelled, I thought I was for it, too, and my good friend Gawaine said, as long as I could drink wine I was in no danger—and he kept me well supplied, too. I swear I was drunk for a fortnight, Mother!” He guffawed. “I would have given all the plunder of that bandit’s castle for some of your soup—I couldn’t chew bread or dried meat, and I nearly starved to death. I did lose three teeth. . . .”
She rose and peered at the wound. “Open your mouth. Yes,” she said, and gestured to one of the servants. “Bring sir Uwaine some stew, and some stewed fruit, too,” she said. “You must not even try to chew hard food for a while. After supper, I’ll see to it.”
“I won’t say no to that, Mother. It still hurts like the devil, and besides, there’s a girl at Arthur’s court—I don’t want her to shrink away as if I were a devil face.” He chuckled. But for all the pain in his wound he ate hugely, telling tales of the court until they were all laughing. Morgaine dared not take her eyes from her stepson, but all through the meal she could feel Accolon’s eyes on her, warming her as if she were standing in sunlight after the winter’s chill.
It was a merry meal, but at last Uriens began to look weary and Morgaine summoned his body servants. “This is the first day you have left your bed, my husband—you must not weary yourself too much.”
Uwaine rose and said, “Let me carry you, Father.” He stooped and lifted the sick man as if he were a child. Morgaine, following, turned back before leaving the dining hall to say, “See to all things here, Maline—I will bandage Uwaine’s cheek before I go to rest.”
Soon Uriens was tucked into bed in his own chamber, Uwaine standing beside him while Morgaine went to the kitchens to brew a poultice for his cheek. She had to prod the cook awake and set him to heating more water over the kitchen fire . . . she should have a brazier and a cauldron in her own rooms if she was going to do this kind of work, why had she never thought of it before? She went up and sat Uwaine down so that she could poultice his cheek with the hot cloths wrung in steaming herb brew, and the young man sighed with relief as the poultice began to draw out the soreness from the festered wound.
“Oh, but that’s good, Mother—that girl at Arthur’s court wouldn’t know how to do this. When I marry her, Mother, will you teach her some of your craft? Her name is Shana, and she’s from Cornwall. She was one of Queen Isotta’s ladies—how is it that Marcus calls himself king in Cornwall, Mother? I thought Tintagel belonged to you.”
“So it does, my son, from Igraine and Duke Gorlois. I knew not that Marcus thought to reign there,” Morgaine said. “Does Marcus dare to claim Tintagel as his own?”
“No, for the last I heard he had no champion there,” Uwaine said. “Sir Drustan has gone into exile in Brittany—”
“Why? Was he one of the Emperor Lucius’ men?” asked Morgaine. This talk of the court was a breath of life in the deadness of this isolated place.
Uwaine shook his head. “No . . . there was talk that he and Queen Isotta had been overfond of each other,” he said. “One can hardly blame the poor lady . . . Cornwall is the end of the world, and Duke Marcus is old and peevish and his chamberlains say he is impotent too—hard life for the poor lady, while Drustan is handsome and a harper, and the lady fond of music.”
“Have you no gossip of court save of wickedness and other men’s wives?” demanded Uriens, scowling, and Uwaine laughed. “Well, I told the lady Shana that her father might send