Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [458]
Morgause said, “Oh, damn the boy! I had no idea this was what he had in mind . . .” but Morgaine somehow felt she was not so displeased, after all.
A wind had come up, and dust from the field was blowing, blurring the summer glare of the dry white clay of the field. Gwydion walked through the dust to the end of the lists, where Lancelet was sitting on a bench. Morgause could not hear what either of them said, but Gwydion turned angrily and shouted, “My lords! I heard always that a champion’s duty is to meet with all comers! Sir, I demand that Lancelet now meet my challenge or yield up his high office to me! Does he hold his post because of his skill at arms, or for some other reason, my lord Arthur?”
“I wish,” said Morgause, “that your son were still young enough to have his breeches well dusted, Morgaine!”
“Why blame him?” asked Morgaine. “Why not blame Gwenhwyfar for making her husband so vulnerable? Everyone in this kingdom knows she favors Lancelet, yet no one cries out ‘witch’ or ‘harlot’ when she comes before the people.”
But Lancelet, below them, had risen and strode to Gwydion; he brought back his gloved hand and struck the younger man smartly across the mouth. “Now indeed you have given me cause to chastise your ungentle tongue, young Gwydion. We will see who refuses combat now!”
“I came here for that,” said Gwydion, unmoved by blow or words, though there was a small trickle of blood on his face. “I will even grant you first blood, sir Lancelet. It is fitting that a man of your years should have some advantage.”
Lancelet spoke to one of his marshals, who came to take his place as master of the lists. There was a considerable murmuring in the stands as Lancelet and Gwydion took swords and faced the King for the ritual bow which began the contest. Morgause thought, If there is a man in that crowd who does not believe that they are father and son, he must have poor eyesight.
The two men raised swords to each other, their faces now hidden by helmets. They were within an inch of the same height; the only difference between them was between Lancelet’s battered old breastplate and armor, and Gwydion’s newer, unstained gear. They circled one another slowly, then rushed in and for a moment Morgause lost track of the separate strokes, which were nearly too fast for the eye to follow. She could see that Lancelet was taking the younger man’s measure, and after a moment he pressed hard and struck a mighty blow. Gwydion caught it on the side of his shield, but the force behind it was so enormous that he reeled, lost his balance, and measured his length on the field. He began to scramble up. Lancelet put his sword aside and went to help the young man to his feet. Morgause could not hear what he said, but the gesture was good-natured, something like, “Had enough, youngster?”
Gwydion pointed to the trickle of blood down Lancelet’s wrist from a small cut he had managed to inflict. His voice was clearly audible.
“You drew first blood, sir, and I second. Shall we decide it with one more fall?”
There was a small storm of hissing and disapproval; first blood in these demonstration matches, since the contestants fought with sharp weapons, was supposed to end the fight.
King Arthur rose in his place. “This is a festival and a courtesy challenge, not a duel! I will have no settling of grudges here, unless you fight with fists or cudgels! Continue if you will, but I warn you, if there is a serious wounding, you will both be under my gravest displeasure!”
They bowed and moved apart, circling for their advantage; then they rushed together, and Morgause gasped, watching the fierceness of it. It seemed that at any moment one or the other might rush in under the shield and inflict a mortal wound! One of them had gone to his knees—a rain of blows on the shield, the swords locked together in a deadlock,