Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [462]
“Who is his father, then?” asked the woman, and Morgause saw Morgaine’s hands clench at her sides. But she said with a pleasant smile, “He is a Beltane child, and the God claims all children gotten in the groves. No doubt you remember that as a young girl I was one of the damsels of the Lady of the Lake.”
Trying to be polite, the woman murmured, “I had forgotten—they still kept the old rites there, then?”
“As they do now,” said Morgaine quietly. “And the Goddess grant they shall do so till the world end.”
As she had intended, that silenced the woman, and Morgaine turned away, saying to Morgause, “Are you ready, kinswoman? Let us go down to the hall.” As they left the room she drew a long breath of mingled exasperation and relief.
“Chattering fools—listen to them! Have they nothing better to do than gossip?”
“Probably not,” said Morgause. “Their most Christian husbands and fathers make sure they shall have nothing else to occupy their minds.”
The doors to the great chamber of the Round Table where the Pentecost feast would be held were shut, so that they might all enter at once.
“Arthur every year gives us more pageantry,” said Morgause. “Now a grand procession and entrance, I suppose?”
“What do you expect?” Morgaine asked. “Now there are no wars, he must touch the imagination of his people somehow, and he is clever enough to do it by making great display for them—I have heard it was the Merlin who counselled him so. The common folk—yes, and the nobles too—like a fine show, and the Druids have known that since they lit the first Beltane fires. Gwenhwyfar has spent many years making this the greatest holiday anywhere in any Christian land.” She gave the first real smile Morgause had seen on her face this day. “Even Arthur knows he cannot hold his people with a mass and a feast alone—if there is no great marvel to see, I doubt not Arthur and the Merlin will somehow arrange one! What a pity they could not arrange to hold the eclipse today!”
“Did you watch the eclipse in Wales? My folk were frightened,” Morgause said, “and no doubt, those fools of Gwenhwyfar’s ladies shrieked and shouted as if the world were coming to an end!”
“Gwenhwyfar has a passion for fools among her ladies,” Morgaine said. “Yet she herself is not really a fool, though she likes to seem so. I wonder how she can tolerate it?”
“You should show more patience with them,” Morgause warned, and Morgaine shrugged.
“I care not what fools think of me.”
“I cannot imagine how you have dwelt in Uriens’ kingdom as his queen so long, and not learned more of queencraft,” said Morgause. “Whatever she is thought by men, a woman must depend on the goodwill of other women—what else did you learn at Avalon?”
Morgaine said, her voice hard, “The women in Avalon are not such fools.” But Morgause knew her well enough to know that her angry tone concealed loneliness and suffering.
“Morgaine, why do you not return to Avalon?”
Morgaine bent her head, knowing that if Morgause spoke kindly again to her she would break and weep. “My time has not yet come. I have been ordered to stay with Uriens—”
“And Accolon?”
“Oh, aye, with Accolon,” said Morgaine. “I might have known you would reproach me with that—”
“I am the last to speak,” said Morgause. “But Uriens will not live long—”
Morgaine said, her face as frozen as her voice, “So I believed on that day years ago when we were wedded. He is like to live as long as Taliesin himself, and Taliesin was past ninety when he died.”
Arthur and Gwenhwyfar had arrived and were slowly making their way to the head of the line—Arthur resplendently clad in white robes, Gwenhwyfar beside him, exquisite in white silk and jewels. The great doors were flung open, and they passed within, then Morgaine as the King’s sister with her husband and his sons, Accolon and Uwaine; then Morgause with her household, as the King’s aunt; then Lancelet and his household, and then the other knights