Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [451]
“No, cousin,” Gwydion said, “what you are thinking is not true.” Gwenhwyfar thought, her breath catching in her throat, that he even had Lancelet’s sudden breathtaking smile that transformed a rather dark and somber face into an overwhelming brilliance, as if a ray of sun had come out and transformed it.
Galahad said defensively, “I was not—I did not—”
“No,” said Gwydion, kindly, “you did not say anything, but it is all too obvious what you are thinking, and what everyone in this room must be thinking.” He raised his voice, just a little, that voice so like Lancelet’s, although overlaid with the soft North-country accent: “In Avalon, cousin, we take our lineage from the line of the mother. I am of the old royal line of Avalon, and that is quite enough for me. It would be arrogance for any man to claim to be father to the child of a High Priestess of Avalon. But of course, like most men, I would like to know who fathered me, and what you thought has been said before—that I am the son of Lancelet. That likeness has been remarked upon before this—especially among the Saxons where I spent three years learning to be a warrior,” he added. “Your reputation among them, lord Lancelet, is still much remembered there! I could not count how many men said to me that it was no disgrace to be the bastard son of a man like you, sir!” His low chuckle was like an eerie echo of the man he faced, and Lancelet looked uneasy too. “But in the end I always had to tell them that what they thought was not true. Of all the men in this kingdom who could have fathered me, one I know is not my father. And so, I must inform them that it is only a family likeness, no more. I am your cousin, Galahad, not your brother.” He leaned lazily back in his chair. “Will it embarrass you too much—that everyone who sees us will think so? After all, we cannot go around telling everyone the truth!”
Galahad looked confused. “I would not have minded if you were truly my brother, Gwydion.”
“But then I should have been your father’s son and perhaps the King’s heir, too,” Gwydion said, and smiled—and it struck Gwenhwyfar suddenly that he actually took pleasure in the discomfort of the people around the table; that he was Morgaine’s son, if only in that touch of malice.
Morgaine said, in that low voice which carried so clearly without being loud, “It would not have been displeasing to me, either, if Lancelet had fathered you, Gwydion.”
“No, I suppose not, lady,” Gwydion said. “Forgive me, lady Morgaine. Always I have called Queen Morgause my mother—”
Morgaine laughed. “If I seem an unlikely mother to you, Gwydion, you seem just as unlikely a son to me. I am grateful for this family party, Gwenhwyfar,” she said. “I might have been confronted with my son tomorrow at the great feast, without warning.”
Uriens said, “I think any woman would be proud of such a son, and as to your father, whoever he may have been, young Gwydion, it is his own loss that he did not claim you for his own.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Gwydion said, and Gwenhwyfar thought, watching the small flicker of his eyes toward Arthur, He may say for some reason that he does not know who is his father, but he is lying. Somehow that made her uncomfortable. Yet how much more uncomfortable it would be if he were to face Arthur and demand to know why he, the son, was not also the heir.
Avalon, that accursed place! She wished it would sink into the sea like the lost land of Ys in the old tale, and never be heard of again!
“But this is Galahad’s special night,” Gwydion said, “and I am taking attention away from him. Are you to watch by your arms this night, cousin?”
Galahad nodded. “It is the custom for Arthur’s Companions.”
“I was the first,” Gareth said, “and it is a good custom. I suppose it is the nearest a layman can come to being a priest, to take vows that he will always serve his king and his land and his God with his arms.” He laughed and said, “What a fool of a boy I was—my lord Arthur, have you