Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [457]
Yes, thought Morgause, watching her younger kinswoman’s face, she loves him still, despite the years. Perhaps she does not know it herself, but there it is.
The combat was like an elaborately choreographed dance, the two moving round one another, their swords and shields ringing loud. Morgause could not see that either of them had the slightest advantage, and when at last they lowered their swords, bowed to the King, and embraced each other, they were cheered impartially and applauded without the slightest favoritism.
Then came the horse games: demonstrations of fancy riding, a man riding an unbroken horse to master it—Morgause faintly remembered a time when Lancelet had done some such thing, perhaps at Arthur’s wedding—it seemed very long ago. After that, there were individual duels on horseback, with blunted spears which could nevertheless unhorse a rider and give him a nasty spill into the field. One young rider fell twisted on his leg and was carried away screaming, the leg sticking out at an improbable angle. This was the only serious injury, but there were bruises, smashed fingers, men flung senseless to the ground, and one who barely escaped being kicked by a badly trained horse. Gwenhwyfar gave prizes at the end of all this, and Morgaine too was called by Arthur and asked to distribute several prizes.
Accolon had won one of the prizes for riding, and as he came to kneel and accept the prize from Morgaine’s hands, Morgause was astonished to hear a low, but perceptible hiss of disapproval somewhere in the stands. Someone softly but audibly whispered, “Witch! Harlot!”
Morgaine colored, but her hands did not falter as she handed Accolon the cup. Arthur said in a low voice to one of his stewards, “Find out who that was!” and the man slipped away, but Morgause was sure that in such a crowd, the voice would never be recognized.
When Morgaine came back to her seat at the start of the second half of the entertainment, she looked pale and angry; her hands, Morgause noted, were shaking, and her breath coming fast in her throat.
“My dear, don’t worry about it,” said Morgause. “What do you think they call me, when it is a year of poor crops, or when someone has had justice done to him and would rather have gotten away with his villainy?”
“Do you think I care what that rabble think of me?” Morgaine said scornfully, but Morgause knew her indifference was pretended. “I am loved well enough in my own country.”
The second half of the games began with some Saxon churls demonstrating the art of wrestling. They were huge hairy men, hair not only on their faces but all over their near-naked bodies; they grunted and strained and heaved, with hoarse cries, grappling and wrenching with bone-cracking strength. Morgause leaned forward, shamelessly enjoying the sight of their male strength; but Morgaine turned her eyes away in squeamish distaste.
“Oh, come, Morgaine, you are growing as prudish as the Queen. What a face!” Morgause shaded her eyes with her hand and glanced down to the field. “I think the mock battle is about to begin—Look! Is that Gwydion? What can he be doing?”
Gwydion had leaped into the field, and waving away the crier who hurried to him, called out in a strong, clear voice which could be heard clearly from one end of the field to another, “King Arthur!”
Morgause saw that Morgaine had sunk back, white as death, and was clutching the rails with both hands. What was the lad about? Was he going to make a scene here before half of Arthur’s people, demanding the acknowledgment that was his?
Arthur rose, and Morgause thought that he too looked uneasy, but his voice was ringing clear.
“Yes, nephew?”
“I have heard that it is customary at these games to allow a challenge, if the King is willing. I ask now if sir Lancelet will meet me for a challenge fight!”
Lancelet had once said—Morgause remembered this—that such challenges were the bane of his existence; every