Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [433]
“God give you a good night, lady,” he said, bowing, and went away. She tiptoed through the hall where the men-at-arms slept, moving on noiseless feet; along the stairs, past the room where Avalloch slept with Maline and the younger children, the room where young Conn had slept with his tutor and his foster-brothers before the poor lad had succumbed to the lung fever. In the farther wing were Uriens’ own chamber, one she now kept for herself, another room usually allotted to guests of importance, and at the far end, the room where she had left Accolon. She stole toward his room, her mouth dry, hoping he had had the sense to keep his door ajar . . . the walls were old and thick and there would be no way he could hear her at his door.
She looked into her own room; went in, swiftly, and disarranged the bed clothing. Her own waiting-woman, Ruach, was old and deaf, and in the winter past Morgaine had cursed her for her deafness and stupidity, but now that would serve her . . . even so, she must not wake in the morning and find Morgaine’s bed untouched; even old Ruach knew that King Uriens was not well enough to share his bed with the queen.
How often have I told myself, I am not ashamed of what I do . . . yet she must not bring scandal on her name, or she could accomplish nothing here. But she hated the need for secrecy and furtiveness.
He had left the door ajar. She slipped inside, her heart pounding, and pushed the door shut; felt herself seized in a hungry embrace that waked her body into fierce life. His mouth closed on hers as if he had starved for this as much as she . . . it seemed as if the whole winter’s desolation and pain fell away and that she was like melting ice, that she would flood and overflow. . . . She pressed her body to Accolon’s and fought to keep from crying.
All her resolve that Accolon was no more to her than priest of the Goddess, that she would not allow any personal tie between them, had gone for nothing in the face of this wild hunger in her. She had felt so much scorn for Gwenhwyfar, bringing the court to scandal and her king into contempt, because he could not keep his wife in order. But now, in Accolon’s arms, all her resolve melted. She sank down in his embrace and let him carry her to his bed.
2
The night was far advanced when Morgaine slipped away from Accolon’s side. He lay heavily asleep; she ran her fingers over his hair, kissed him softly, and stole from the room. She had not slept—she had feared to sleep too long and be surprised there by day. It was more than an hour before sunrise. Morgaine rubbed her burning eyes. Somewhere outside a dog barked, a child wailed and was hushed, birds chirped in the garden. Morgaine thought, looking out through a narrow slit in the stone wall, In another moon it will be full daylight at this hour. She leaned for a moment against the wall, overcome by memories of the night past.
I never knew, she thought, I have never known what it was to be only a woman. I have borne a child and I have been married for fourteen years and I have had lovers . . . but I knew nothing, nothing. . . .
She felt a sudden rough hand on her arm. Avalloch’s hoarse voice said, “What are you doing sneaking around the house at this hour, girl?”
He had evidently mistaken her for one of the servant-women; some of them were small and dark with the blood of the Old Ones.
“Let me go, Avalloch,” she said, looking at the dimly seen face of her older stepson. He was heavy and soft, his jowls blurred with fat, his eyes small and set close. Accolon and Uwaine were handsome men, and one could see that once Uriens had been good-looking in his own way. But not Avalloch.
“Well, my lady mother!” he said, stepping back and giving her an exaggerated bow. “I repeat, what were you doing at this hour?”
His hand remained on her arm; she picked it off as if it were a crawling bug. “Must I