Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [484]
It seemed that Gwenhwyfar’s sympathy would choke her. Racked by repeated, agonizing pains, she felt as if a sword had thrust through her vitals, but even so, even so, it was not so bad as Gwydion’s birth had been, and she had lived through that . . . shaking, retching, she tried to cling to consciousness, to be aware of what was going on around her. Maybe she had been ready to miscarry anyhow—it was surely too quick for the drug to have worked. Broca came, examined her, smelled at the vomited stuff, and raised her eyebrows knowingly. She said in an undertone to Morgaine, “Lady, you should have taken more care—those drugs can poison you. I have a brew which would have done what you wanted more quickly and with less sickness. Don’t worry, I won’t speak to Uriens—if he has no more sense than to let a woman of your years try to bear him a child, then what he does not know will do him no harm.”
Morgaine let the sickness take her. She knew, after a time, that she was more gravely ill than they had thought . . . Gwenhwyfar was asking if at last she wanted to see a priest; she shook her head and closed her eyes, lying silent and rebellious, not caring now whether she lived or died. Since Accolon or Arthur must die, she too would go into that shadow . . . why could she not see them, where they lay within Glastonbury, which of them would come forth? Surely the priests would tend Arthur, their own Christian king, but would they leave Accolon to die?
If Accolon must go into the shades, let him go with the spirit of his son to attend him, she thought, and lay with tears sliding down her face, hearing in some distant place the voice of the old midwife Broca. “Yes, it’s over. I am sorry, Your Majesty, but you know as well as I that she is too old to bear children. Yes, my lord, come and see—” The voice was harsh with asperity. “Men never think of what they do, and all the bloody mess women have for men’s pleasure! No, it was all too soon to tell whether it would have been a boy or not, but she had had one fine son, I doubt not she would have borne you another, had she been strong enough and young enough to carry it!”
“Morgaine—dearest, look at me,” Uriens pleaded. “I am so sorry, so sorry you are ill, but don’t grieve, my darling, I still have two sons, I don’t blame you—”
“Oh, you don’t, do you?” said the old midwife, still truculent. “You had better not speak one word of blame to her, Your Majesty, she is still very weak and sick. We will have another bed put in here so that she may sleep in peace till she is quite well again. Here—” and Morgaine felt a comforting woman’s arm under her head; something warm and comforting held to her lips. “Come, dear, drink this now, it has honey in it, and medicines to keep you from bleeding anymore—I know you are sick, but try to drink it anyhow, there’s a good girl—”
Morgaine swallowed the bittersweet drink, tears blurring her vision. For a moment it seemed that she was a child, that Igraine held her and comforted her in some childish sickness. “Mother—” she said, and even as she spoke knew it was delirium, that Igraine had been dead for half a lifetime, that she was no child or maiden, but old, old, too old to lie here in this ugly way and so near death. . . .
“No, Your Majesty, she doesn’t know what she’s saying—there, there, dear, you just lie still and try to sleep, we’ve got hot bricks on your feet and you’ll be warm in a minute—”
Soothed, Morgaine floated away into dream. Now it seemed to her that she was a child again in Avalon, in the House of Maidens, and that Viviane was speaking to her, telling her something she could not quite remember, something of how the Goddess spun the lives of men, and she handed Morgaine a spindle and bade her spin, but the thread would not come smooth, but tangled and knotted and at last Viviane, angry with her, said, “Here, give it to me . . .” and she handed over the broken threads and the spindle; only it was not Viviane, either, but