Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [450]
Cries forth the lonely sorrow of the exile,
And now my heart goes wandering,
In search of what I shall never see more;
All faces are alike to me if I cannot see the face of my king,
And all countries are alike to me
When I cannot see the fair fields and meadows of my home.
So I shall arise and follow my heart in its wandering
For what is the fair meadow of home to me
When I cannot see the face of my king
And the weight on my arm is but a band of gold
When the heart is empty of the weight of love.
And so I shall go roaming
Over the fishes’ road
And the road of the great whale
And beyond the country of the wave
With none to bear me company
But the memory of those I loved
And the songs I sang out of a full heart,
And the cuckoo’s cry in memory.
Gwenhwyfar bent her head to hide tears. Arthur’s head was lowered, his eyes covered by his hand. Morgaine was staring straight ahead and Gwenhwyfar could see the stripes of tears making wet streaks down her face. Arthur rose and came around the table; he put his arms round Lancelet and said in a voice that was not steady, “But you are again with your king and your friend, Galahad.”
The old bitterness stabbed at Gwenhwyfar’s heart. He sang of his king, not of his queen and his love. His love for me was never more than a part of his love for Arthur. She closed her eyes, unwilling to see them embrace.
“That was beautiful,” said Morgause softly. “Who would ever think that a Saxon brute could write music like that—it must have been Lancelet, after all—”
Lancelet shook his head. “The music is theirs. And the words only a poor echo of their own. . . .”
A voice that was like an echo of Lancelet’s said gently, “But there are poets and musicians among the Saxons, as well as warriors, my lady,” and Gwenhwyfar turned toward the voice. A young man in dark clothing, slender, dark-haired, a blur beyond her sight; but the voice, accented softly with the tones of the North country, still sounded like Lancelet’s, the very pitch and timbre of his.
Arthur beckoned him forward. “There sits one at my table I do not know—and at a family party, that is not right. Queen Morgause—?”
She stood up in her place. “I had meant to present him to you before we went to table, but you were busy talking with old friends, my king. This is Morgaine’s son, who was fostered at my court—Gwydion.”
The youth came forward and bowed. “King Arthur,” he said, in the warm voice that was like an echo of Lancelet’s. For a moment a dizzied joy struck through Gwenhwyfar; this was Lancelet’s son, surely, not Arthur’s—and then she recalled that Morgaine’s aunt, Viviane, was Lancelet’s mother too.
Arthur embraced the youth. He said, in a voice too shaken to be audible three yards distant, “The son of my dearly beloved sister shall be received as a son at my own court, Gwydion. Come and sit beside me, lad.”
Gwenhwyfar looked at Morgaine. She had spots of crimson on her cheek, as bright as if they were painted, and she was worrying her lower lip between her small, sharp teeth. Had Morgause not prepared her, then, to see her son presented to his father—no, to the King, Gwenhwyfar reminded herself sharply; there was no reason to think the boy had any idea who his father was. Though if he had ever looked in a mirror, no doubt he would come to believe, whatever anyone might say, that he was Lancelet’s son.
Not a boy, after all. He must be near enough to five-and-twenty; he was a man.
“Your cousin, Galahad,” Arthur said, and Galahad impulsively put out his hand.
“You are closer kin to the King than I, cousin—you have a better right than I to be where I am now,” he said, with boyish spontaneity. “I wonder you don’t hate me!”
Gwydion smiled and said, “How do you know I do not, cousin?” and for a moment Gwenhwyfar was jolted, until she saw the smile. Yes, he was Morgaine’s son, he had the cat-smile she could show sometimes! Galahad blinked, then decided the words were meant as a jest. Gwenhwyfar could follow Galahad’s transparent thoughts—Is this my father’s son, is Gwydion my bastard brother by