Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [485]
She came to awareness a day or two later, cool-headed, but with a vast and empty ache in her body. She laid her hands over the soreness, and thought, grimly, I might have saved myself some pain; I should have known that I was ready to miscarry anyway. Well, done is done, and now I must ready myself to hear that Arthur is dead, I must think what I will do when Accolon returns—Gwenhwyfar shall go into a nunnery, or if she wishes to go beyond the seas to Less Britain with Lancelet, I will not stop them. . . . She rose and dressed herself, made herself beautiful.
“You should keep your bed, Morgaine, you are still so pale,” said Uriens.
“No. There are strange tidings coming, my husband, and we must be ready for them,” she said, and went on braiding her hair with scarlet ribbons and gems. Uriens stood at the window and said, “Look, the Companions are practicing their military games—Uwaine, I think, is the best rider. Come, my dear, does he not ride as well as Gawaine? And that is Galahad at his side. Morgaine, don’t grieve for the child you lost. Uwaine will always think of you as his mother. I told you when we were wedded, I would never reproach you for barrenness. I would have welcomed another child, but since it was not to be, well, we have nothing to grieve for. And,” he said shyly, taking her hand, “perhaps it is better so—I did not realize how near I had come to losing you.”
She stood at the window, his arm about her waist, feeling at one and the same time a feeling of revulsion and a gratitude for his kindness. He need never know, she thought, that it had been Accolon’s son. Let him take pride that in his old age he could father a child.
“Look,” said Uriens, craning his neck to see further, “what is that, coming through the gate?”
A rider, together with a monk in dark habit on a mule, and a horse bearing a body—"Come,” she said, pulling at his hand, “we must go down now.” Pale and silent, she moved at his side into the courtyard, feeling herself tall and commanding as befitted a queen.
It seemed that time stopped; as if they were again in the fairy country. Why was not Arthur with them, if he had triumphed? But if this was Arthur’s dead body, where was the ceremony and pomp on the death of a king? Uriens reached to support her with his arm, but she thrust it away and stood clinging to the wood-framed door. The monk put back his hood and said, “Are you Queen Morgaine of Wales?”
“I am,” she said.
“I have then a message for you,” he said. “Your brother Arthur lies wounded in Glastonbury, nursed by the sisters there, but he will recover. He sends you this"—he waved his hand at the shrouded figure on the pack horse—"as a present, and he bid me say to you that he has his sword Excalibur, and the scabbard.” And as he spoke he twitched away the pall covering the body, and Morgaine, all the strength in her body running out of her like water, saw Accolon’s sightless eyes staring at the sky.
Uriens cried out, a great cry like death. Uwaine thrust his way through the crowd around the steps, and as his father fell, stricken, across the body of his son, Uwaine caught and supported him.
“Father, dear Father! Ah, dear God, Accolon,” he said with a gasp, and stepped toward the horse where Accolon’s body lay. “Gawaine, my friend, give my father your arm—I must see to my mother, she is fainting—”
“No,” said Morgaine. “No.” She heard her own voice like an echo, not even sure what she wanted to deny. She would have rushed to Accolon, flung herself on his body shrieking in despair and grief, but Uwaine held her tight.
Gwenhwyfar appeared on the stairway; someone explained the situation to her in a whisper, and Gwenhwyfar came down the steps, looking at Accolon. “He died in rebellion against the High King,” she said clearly. “Let there be no Christian rites for him! Let his body be flung to the ravens, and his head hung on the wall as a traitor!