Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [456]
“And I,” said Uwaine, bending to kiss his father’s hand. He turned to Morgaine. “I have no lady, Mother. Will you give me a token to bear into the lists?”
Morgaine smiled indulgently and gave him a ribbon from her sleeve, which he tied about his arm, saying, “I have arranged to challenge Gawaine to a trial of strength.”
Gwydion said with his charming smile, “Why, lady, you had better take back your favor—would you have your honor so easily disposed of as that?”
Morgaine laughed up at Accolon, and Morgause, watching her face come alight, thought, Uwaine is her son, far more than Gwydion; but Accolon, it is plain to see, is more than that. I wonder if the old king knows—or cares?
Lamorak was approaching them, and Morgause felt warmed and complimented—there were many pretty ladies on the field, he could have a favor from any of them, yet, before them all, before all Camelot, her dear young man would come and bow before her.
“My lady, may I wear a token into battle?”
“With pleasure, my dear.” Morgause gave him the rose from the nosegay she wore at her bosom. He kissed the flower; she gave him her hand, pleasantly conscious that her young knight was one of the handsomest men there.
“Lamorak seems enchanted by you,” said Morgaine, and although she had given her favor to him before the whole court, Morgause felt herself blush at Morgaine’s detached voice.
“Do you think I have need of charms or spells, kinswoman?”
Morgaine laughed. “I should have used another word. Young men seem mostly to want a fair face and little more.”
“Well, Morgaine, Accolon is younger than you, and you have certainly captivated him to the point where he has no desire for a younger woman—or a fairer one. I am not the one to reproach you, my dear. You were married against your will, and your husband could be your grandsire.”
Morgaine shrugged. “Sometimes I think Uriens knows—perhaps he is glad that I have a lover who will not tempt me to leave him.”
A little hesitantly—she had never asked Morgaine any personal question since Gwydion’s birth—Morgause said, “You and Uriens are at odds, then?”
Morgaine gave again that indifferent shrug. “I think Uriens cares not enough for me to be at odds one way or the other.”
“How like you Gwydion?” Morgause asked.
“He frightens me,” said Morgaine. “Yet it would be hard not to be charmed by him.”
“What do you expect? He has Lancelet’s beauty and your powers of mind—and he is ambitious as well.”
“How strange that you should know my son better than I do,” Morgaine said, and there was so much bitterness in the words that Morgause, whose first instinct was to rap out a sharp reply—Morgaine had deserted her son, why should it surprise her?—patted the younger woman’s hand and said, not unkindly, “Oh, my dear, once a son is grown out of your lap, I think anyone knows him better than his mother! I am sure that Arthur and his Companions, and even your Uwaine, all know Gawaine better than I do, and he is not even a hard man to understand—he’s a perfectly simple man. If you had reared him from a babe you still would not understand Gwydion—I freely confess that I do not!”
Morgaine’s only answer was an uneasy smile. She turned to look at the lists, where the first events were starting; Arthur’s fools and clowns were dancing about in ridiculous mock battles, flapping pig’s bladders for weapons and cloth banners, garishly painted, in the place of shields, until the watchers were guffawing at their capers. They bowed at last, and Gwenhwyfar, in an exaggerated parody of the gesture with which she would later bestow prizes to the real winners, flung them handfuls of sweets and cakes. They scrambled for them, to more laughter and applause, then capered away to the good dinner waiting for them in the kitchens.
One of the criers called out that the first match would be a trial combat between the Queen’s champion, sir Lancelet of the Lake, and the King’s, sir Gawaine of Lothian and the Isles. There was a tumult of applause as they