Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [447]
“No magic,” said Morgaine in her rich low voice. “It is only that there is so little to occupy my mind, in that country at the end of the world, that it seems to me that time does not pass there, and so, perhaps, that is why I grow no older.”
Now she looked closer, Gwenhwyfar could indeed see the small traces of time in Morgaine’s face; her skin was still smooth and unmarred, but there were tiny creases around her eyes and the eyelids drooped a little. The hand she gave Gwenhwyfar was thin and bony, so that her rings hung loose. Gwenhwyfar thought, Morgaine is at least five years older than I. And suddenly it seemed to her that they were not women in middle life, but those two young girls who had met in Avalon.
Lancelet had come first to greet Morgaine. Gwenhwyfar would not have believed that she could still be torn with this raging passion of jealousy . . . now Elaine is gone . . . and Morgaine’s husband is so old he surely cannot look to see another Christmas. She heard Lancelet speak some laughing compliment, heard Morgaine’s low sweet laughter.
But she does not look at Lancelet like a lover . . . her eyes turn to Prince Accolon—he is a goodly man too . . . well, her husband is more than twice her age . . . and Gwenhwyfar felt a stab of self-righteous disapproval.
“We should go to table,” she said, beckoning to Cai. “Galahad must go at midnight to watch by his arms; and perhaps, like many young men, he would like to rest a little beforehand so he will not be sleepy—”
“I shall not be sleepy, lady,” the young man said, and Gwenhwyfar felt again the pain. She would so gladly have had this fair young man as her son. He was tall now, broad-shouldered and big as Lancelet had never been. His face seemed to shine with scrubbing and with a calm happiness. “This is all so new to me—Camelot is such a beautiful city, I can hardly believe it is real! And I rode here with my father—all my life my mother spoke of him as if he were a king or a saint, quite beyond mortal men.”
Morgaine said, “Oh, Lancelet is mortal enough, Galahad, and if you come to know him well enough, you will know it too.”
Galahad bowed politely to Morgaine. He said, “I remember you. You came and took Nimue from us, and my mother wept—is my sister well, lady?”
“I have not seen her for some years,” Morgaine said, “but if it was not well with her, I would have heard.”
“I remember only that I was angry with you for telling me I was wrong about everything—you seemed very certain, and my mother—”
“No doubt your mother told you I am an evil sorceress.” She smiled—smug as a cat, Gwenhwyfar thought—at the transparent blush that covered Galahad’s face. “Well, Galahad, you are not the first to think me so.” She smiled to Accolon too, who returned the smile so openly that Gwenhwyfar was shocked.
Galahad said bluntly, “And are you a sorceress, then, lady?”
“Well,” said Morgaine, with that cat-claw smile again, “no doubt your mother had reason to think me so. Since now she is gone, I may tell you all—Lancelet, did Elaine never tell you how she begged and besought me for a charm that would turn your eyes on her?”
Lancelet turned to Morgaine, and it seemed to Gwenhwyfar that his face was stricken, tight with pain. “Why make jests about days that are long gone, kinswoman?”
“Oh, but I jest not,” said Morgaine, and for a moment she raised her eyes to meet Gwenhwyfar’s. “I thought it time you stopped breaking hearts all through the kingdoms of Britain and Gaul. So I made that marriage, and I do not regret it, for now you have a fine son who is heir to my brother’s kingdom. If I had not meddled, you would have remained unwed, and still be breaking all our hearts—would he not, Gwen?” she added audaciously.
I knew it. But I did not know Morgaine would