Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [466]
Uriens blinked and looked surprised, but said nothing. Accolon shook his head. “No, stepbrother. Lancelet is the most generous of men, that is all. When Gareth came first to court, unknown to his own kinsmen, Lancelet gave him clothes and weapons, so that Gareth should be dressed according to his station. And if you should ask if Lancelet likes it overmuch, seeing his gifts on the bodies of handsome young men, well, that has been said too before now, though I know of no man at this court, young or old, who has ever had a word from Lancelet beyond knightly courtesy.”
“Is it so?” Gwydion asked, and Morgaine could see him taking this piece of information and putting it away like gold in a miser’s chest. “Now I recall,” he said slowly, “a tale that went about of some feast at Lot’s court when Lancelet was no more than a youth—something of a ballad made when they thrust a harp into his hand and bade him play, and he sang some lay of Rome or the days of Alexander, I know not what, of the love of knightly companions, and they jeered at him for it. Since then, his songs are all of the beauty of our queen, or knightly tales of adventure and dragons.”
Morgaine felt she could not bear the scorn in his voice. She said, “If you came to claim a gift for your knighting, I will speak with you when I have seen Arthur, but not now.”
Gwydion looked down at his shoes. It was the first time she had ever seen him less than self-assured and confident. “Mother, the King has sent for me too—may I go in your company?”
She liked him a little better, that he should confess his own vulnerability this way. “Arthur means you no harm, my son, but if it will please you to go with us before him, he can do no worse than send you away and say he would rather speak to you separately.”
“Come, then, stepbrother,” said Accolon, taking Gwydion’s arm in such a way that the younger man could see the serpents tattooed on Accolon’s wrists. “The King shall go first with his lady, and you and I will follow. . . .”
Morgaine, at Uriens’ side, thought that she liked it well that Accolon should befriend her son and acknowledge him brother. At the same time she felt herself shiver, and Uriens took her hand. “Are you cold, Morgaine? Take your cloak . . .”
In the King’s apartments a fire burned, and Morgaine heard the sound of a harp. Arthur sat in a wooden chair heaped with cushions. Gwenhwyfar was setting stitches in a narrow band which twinkled with gilt thread. The servant announced ceremoniously, “The King and Queen of North Wales, and their son Accolon, and sir Lancelet—”
Gwenhwyfar looked up at Lancelet’s name, then laughed and said, “No, though he is very like. Sir Mordred, is it not, that we saw knighted this day?”
Gwydion bowed to the Queen but did not speak. But in this family gathering Arthur was not one to stand upon ceremony.
“Sit down, all of you—let me send for wine—”
Uriens said, “I have had enough wine this day, Arthur, to float a ship down to the shore! None for me, thank you—perhaps the young men have better heads for it.”
Gwenhwyfar moved toward Morgaine, and Morgaine knew that if she did not speak now, Arthur would begin his parley with the men and she would be expected to sit in a corner with the Queen and keep silence, or talk in whispers of women’s things—embroidery, servants, who at the court was breeding . . .
She gestured to the servant with the wine. “I will have a cup,” she said, remembering, like a pain within her, when as priestess of Avalon she had been proud to drink only of the Holy Well. She sipped and said, “I am deeply distressed at the welcome of the Saxon envoys, Arthur. No—” She silenced him as he would have spoken. “I do not speak as a woman meddling in affairs of state. I