Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [483]
. . . It seemed to her that, as in the kingdom of Fairy, she had looked through a great opening and seen Arthur asleep at the side of a maiden with her own face, so now a great space opened out, as if it were before her; and as the reel sank to the floor and the thread twisted, it seemed to spin out Arthur’s face as he wandered, sword in hand . . . and now he whirled, to see Accolon, bearing Excalibur . . . ah, they were fighting, she could not see their faces now, nor hear the words they flung at one another. . . .
How fiercely they fought, and it seemed strange to Morgaine, watching dizzied as the spindle sank, twirled, rose, that she could not hear the clashing of the great swords . . . Arthur brought down a great blow that would surely have killed Accolon had it struck him fair, but Accolon caught the blow on his shield and only took a wound in the leg—and the wound sliced without blood, while Arthur, taking a glancing blow on the shoulder, began suddenly to bleed, crimson streaks flowing down his arm, and he looked startled, afraid, one hand going in a swift gesture of reassurance to his side where the scabbard hung . . . but it was the sham scabbard, wavering even now in Morgaine’s sight. Now the two were mortally locked together, struggling, their swords locked at the hilt as they grappled with their free hands for the advantage . . . Accolon twisted fiercely, and the sword in Arthur’s hand, the false Excalibur made by fairy enchantments in a single night, broke off close below the hilt—she saw Arthur twist round in desperate avoidance of the killing blow and kick out violently. Accolon crumpled up in agony, and Arthur snatched the real Excalibur from his hand and flung it as far away as he could, then leaped on the fallen man and wrenched at the scabbard. As soon as he had it in his hand, the flow of blood from the great wound in his arm ceased to bleed, and in turn blood gushed forth from the wound in Accolon’s thigh. . . .
Excruciating pain stabbed through Morgaine’s whole body; she doubled up with the weight of it. . . .
“Morgaine!” said Morgause sharply, with a catch of breath; then called out, “Queen Morgaine is ill—come tend to her!”
“Morgaine!” Gwenhwyfar cried out. “What is it?”
The vision was gone. However she tried, she could not see the two men, nor which had prevailed, whether one of them lay dead—it was as if a great dark curtain had closed over them, with the ringing of church bells—in the last instant of the vision she had seen two litters carrying the wounded men into the abbey at Glastonbury, where she could not follow. . . . She clung to the edges of her chair as Gwenhwyfar came, with one of her ladies, who knelt to raise Morgaine’s head.
“Ah, look, your gown is soaked with blood—this is not any ordinary bleeding.”
Morgaine, her mouth dry with the sickness, whispered, “No—I was with child and I am miscarrying—Uriens will be angry with me—”
One of the women, a plump jolly one about her own age, said, “Tsk! Tsk! For shame! So His Lordship of Wales will be angry, will he? Well, well, well, and who chose him for God? You should have kept the old billy goat out of your bed, lady, it is dangerous for a woman to miscarry at your age! Shame on the old lecher to put you so at risk! So he will be angry, will he?”
Gwenhwyfar, her hostility forgotten, walked beside Morgaine as they carried her, rubbing her hands, all sympathy.
“Oh, poor Morgaine, what a sad thing, when you had hoped all over again. I know all too well how terrible it must be for you, my poor sister . . .” she repeated, holding Morgaine’s cold hands, cradling her shaking head when she vomited in the ghastly sickness that overcame