Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [459]
Gwenhwyfar rose and cried out, “I will have this go no further!”
Arthur cast his baton into the lists; by custom, a fight was instantly stopped when that happened, but neither man saw, and the marshals had to pull them apart. Gwydion stood fresh and erect, smiling as he pulled off his helmet. Lancelet’s squire had to help the older man to his feet; he was breathing hard, sweat and blood pouring down his face. There was a perfect storm of hissing, even from the other knights on the field; Gwydion had added nothing to his popularity by shaming the hero of the people.
But he bowed to the older knight. “I am honored, sir Lancelet. I came to this court a stranger, not even one of Arthur’s Companions, and I am grateful to you for a lesson in swordplay.” His smile was the very reflection of Lancelet’s own. “Thank you, sir.”
Lancelet managed to summon from somewhere his old smile. It exaggerated the resemblance between them almost to the point of caricature. “You bore yourself most bravely, Gwydion.”
“Then,” said Gwydion, kneeling before him in the dust of the field, “I beg of you, sir, grant to me the order of knighthood.”
Morgause caught her breath. Morgaine sat as if she had been turned to stone. But from where the Saxons sat there was a burst of cheering. “Crafty counsel indeed! Clever, clever—how can they refuse you now, lad, when you have stood up well to combat with their own champion!”
Lancelet glanced at Arthur. The King sat paralyzed, seeming frozen, but after a moment, he nodded. Lancelet gestured to his squire, who brought a sword. Lancelet took it and belted it around Gwydion’s waist. “Bear this always in the service of your king, and of the righteous cause,” said the old knight. He was deadly serious now. All the mockery and defiance had gone from Gwydion’s face; he looked grave and sweet, his eyes raised to Lancelet, and Morgause saw that his lips were trembling.
Sudden sympathy for him rose in Morgause—bastard, not even an acknowledged one, he was even more of an outsider than Lancelet had been. Who could blame Gwydion for the ruse by which he had forced his kinsmen to notice him? She thought, We should have taken him long since to Arthur’s court, had him privately acknowledged even if Arthur could not do so publicly. A king’s son should not have to do this.
Lancelet laid his hands on Gwydion’s brow. “I confer on you the honor of a Companion of the Round Table, by permission of our king. Serve him always, and since you have won this honor by craft rather than brute strength—though indeed you have shown that too, well enough—I name you among this company, not Gwydion, but Mordred. Rise, sir Mordred, and take your place among the Companions of Arthur.”
Gwydion—no, Mordred, Morgause remembered; for the naming of a Companion was a rite not much less serious than baptism—rose and heartily returned Lancelet’s embrace. He seemed deeply moved, almost unhearing the cheers and applause. His voice broke as he said, “Now I have won the prize of the day, whoever is judged winner in these games, my lord Lancelet.”
“No,” Morgaine said quietly at Morgause’s side, “I do not understand him. That is the last thing I would have expected.”
There was a long pause before the Companions ranged themselves for the final mock battle. Some went to drink water or swallow a hasty bite of bread; some gathered in little knots, arguing about which side they should take in the final games; others went to see to their horses. Morgause went down to the field where a few of the young men lingered, Gareth among them—he towered over the others by half a head, making him easy to pick out. She thought he was talking to Lancelet, but when she came closer she discovered her sight had deceived her; he was facing Gwydion, and his voice sounded angry. She caught only the last few words.
“—what harm has he ever done you? To make a fool of him before the whole field—”
Gwydion laughed and said, “If our cousin needs protection before a whole field of his friends, God help Lancelet when he