Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [432]
Her cheeks stung; she bent over the kettle of steaming herbs, wrinkling her nose at the bitter scent. Uwaine thought her the best of women, and his trust was sweet to her, yet there was the bitterness of knowing it unmerited.
At least I have never made Uriens look a fool, nor yet flaunted any other lover in his face. . . .
“But you should go to Cornwall, when my father is well enough to travel,” Uwaine said seriously, flinching a little as the heat of the poultice touched a new spot on his festered cheek. “There should be a clear understanding, Mother, that Marcus cannot lay claim to what is yours. You have not shown your face in Tintagel for so long that the common people may forget they have a queen.”
“I’m sure it will not come to that,” said Uriens. “But if I am well again this summer, I will ask Arthur, when I ride to Pentecost, about this matter of Morgaine’s lands.”
“And if Uwaine marries into Cornwall,” said Morgaine, “he shall keep Tintagel for me—would you like to be my castellan, Uwaine?”
“I would like nothing better,” said Uwaine, “except, perhaps, to sleep tonight without forty separate toothaches in my jaw.”
“Drink this,” said Morgaine, pouring one of her medicines from a small flask into his wine, “and I can promise you sleep.”
“I would sleep without it, I think, madam, I am so glad to be in my own home and my own bed, under my mother’s care.” Uwaine bent and embraced his father, and kissed Morgaine’s hand. “But I will take your medicines willingly.” He swallowed the medicined wine and beckoned to one of Uriens’ men-at-arms to light him to his own room. Accolon came and embraced his father, and said, “I too am for my bed . . . lady, are there pillows there, or is the room empty and bare? I have not been home in so long, I expect to find pigeons roosting in that old room where I used to sleep and Father Eian tried to beat Latin into my head through the seat of my breeches.”
“I told Maline to be sure you had everything you needed,” said Morgaine, “but I will come and see. Will you need me again this night, my lord,” she asked, turning to Uriens, “or shall I too go to my rest?”
Only a soft snore answered her, and his man Huw, settling the old man on the pillows, answered, “Go, lady Morgaine. If he wakes in the night I’ll look after him.”
As they went out, Accolon asked, “What ails my father?”
“He had the lung fever this winter,” said Morgaine, “and he is not young.”
“And you have had all the weight of caring for him,” Accolon said. “Poor Morgaine—” and he touched her hand; she bit her lip at his tender voice. Something hard and cold inside her, frozen there since the winter, was melting and she thought she would dissolve into weeping. She bent her head and did not look at him.
“And you, Morgaine—not a word or a look for me—?” He reached out and touched her, and she said between clenched teeth, “Wait.”
She called a servant to fetch fresh bolsters, a blanket or two from the store. “Had I known you were coming, I would have had the best linens and blankets, and fresh bed straw.”
He said in a whisper, “It is not fresh straw I want in my bed,” but she refused to turn her face to him while the serving-women were making the bed up, bringing hot water and light, and hanging up his armor and outer garments.
When they were all away for a moment he whispered, “Later, may I come to your room, Morgaine?”
She shook her head and whispered back, “I will come to you—I can have some excuse for being out of my chamber in the middle of the night, but since your father has been ill, often they come to fetch me—you must not be found there—” and