Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [449]
She asked Arthur across Galahad, who was eating with the hearty appetite of a healthy boy still growing, “Did you bid Kevin dine with us?”
“Aye, but he sent a message that he could not come. Since he could not be in Avalon, perhaps he keeps the holy day in his own fashion. I bid Bishop Patricius as well, but he keeps the vigil of Pentecost in the church—he will see you there at midnight, Galahad.”
“I think that being made a king must be a little like being made a priest,” said Galahad clearly; there was a lull in the conversation that made his young voice audible from one end of the table to another. “They are both sworn to serve man and God and to do what is right—”
Gareth said, “I felt something like that, lad. God grant you see it always so.”
“I have always wanted my Companions to be men dedicated to the right,” said Arthur. “I do not demand that they be godly men, Galahad, but I have hoped they would be good men.”
Lancelet said to Arthur, “Perhaps these youngsters may live in a world where it is easier to be good,” and it seemed to Gwenhwyfar that he sounded sad.
“But you are good, Father,” said Galahad. “All up and down this land it is told that you are King Arthur’s greatest knight.”
Lancelet chuckled, embarrassed. “Aye—like that Saxon hero who tore the arm from the Lake monster. My works and deeds have been made into song because the true tale is not exciting enough to tell by the fireside in winter.”
“But you did slay a dragon, did you not?” Galahad said.
“Oh, yes—and it was a fearful beast enough, I suppose. But your grandsire did as much as I in killing it,” said Lancelet. “Gwenhwyfar, my lady, we dine never so well as at your table—”
“Too well,” said Arthur cheerfully, patting his middle. “If feasts like this came often, I would be as fat as one of those beer-guzzling Saxon kings. And tomorrow is Pentecost, and another feast for even more folk—I do not know how my lady does it!”
Gwenhwyfar felt a small glow of pride. “This feast is mine, that of tomorrow is sir Cai’s pride—for that one the beeves are already roasting in their pit. My lord Uriens, you are eating no meat . . .”
Uriens shook his head. “A wing of one of those birds, perhaps. Since my son was slain, I have vowed never again to eat the flesh of swine.”
“And your queen shares your vow?” said Arthur. “As always, Morgaine is all but fasting—no wonder you are so small and spare, my sister!”
“It is no hardship for me not to eat swine’s flesh.”
“Is your voice sweet as ever, my sister? Since Kevin could not join us, perhaps you would sing or play—”
“If you had told me you wished it, I would not have eaten so well. I cannot sing now. Later, perhaps.”
“Then you, Lancelet,” Arthur said.
Lancelet shrugged and gestured to a servant to bring the harp. “Kevin will sing this tomorrow—I am no match for him. I made the words from a Saxon poet. I said once I could live with the Saxons, but not with what they called music. Then, when I dwelt among them last year, I heard this song and wept when I heard it, and tried in my poor way to put it into our tongue.” He left his seat to take the small harp. “It is for you, my king,” he said, “for it speaks of what sorrow I knew when I dwelt far from court and from my lord—but the music is Saxon. I had thought, before this, that all their songs were of war and battle and fighting.”
He began to play a soft, sorrowful melody; his fingers were not as skillful as those of Kevin, but the sad song had a power of its own, which gradually quieted them. He sang, in the husky voice of an untrained singer:
“What sorrow is like to the sorrow of one who is alone?
Once I dwelt in the company of the king I loved well,
And my arm was heavy with the weight of the rings he gave,
And my heart weighed down with the gold of his love.
The face of the king is like the sun to those who surround him,
But now my heart is empty
And I wander alone throughout the world.
The groves take on their blossoms,
The trees and meadows grow fair,
But the cuckoo,