Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [486]
“No! Ah, no,” cried out Uriens, wailing. “I beg of you, I beg—Queen Gwenhwyfar, you know me one of your most loyal subjects, and my poor boy has paid for his crimes—I beg you, lady, Jesus too died a common criminal between thieves, and even for the thief on the cross at his side there was mercy. . . . Show the mercy he would have shown. . . .”
Gwenhwyfar seemed not to hear. “How does my lord Arthur?”
“He is recovering, lady, but he has lost much blood,” said the strange monk. “Yet he bade you have no fear. He will recover.”
Gwenhwyfar sighed. “King Uriens,” she said, “for the sake of our good knight Uwaine, I will do as you wish. Let the body of Accolon be borne to the chapel and there laid in state—”
Morgaine found her voice to protest. “No, Gwenhwyfar! Lay him in earth decently, if you can find it in your heart to do so much, but he was no Christian—do not give him Christian burial. Uriens is so filled with grief he knows not what he says.”
“Be still, Mother,” said Uwaine, gripping her shoulder hard. “For my sake and my father’s, bring no scandal here. If Accolon served not the Christ, then has he all the more need of God’s mercy against the traitor’s death he should have had!”
Morgaine wanted to protest, but her voice would not obey her. She let Uwaine guide her indoors, but once within the door she threw off his arm and walked alone. She felt frozen and lifeless. Only a few hours gone, it seemed to her, she had lain in Accolon’s arms in the fairy country, had belted the sword Excalibur at his waist . . . now she stood knee-deep in a relentless tide, watching it all swept away from her again, and the world was filled with the accusing eyes of Uwaine and his father.
“Aye, I know it was you who plotted this treachery,” said Uwaine, “but I have no pity for Accolon, who let himself be led astray by a woman! Have decency enough, Mother, not to drag my father any further into your wicked schemes against our king!” He glared at her, then turned to his father, who stood as if dazed, clutching at some piece of furniture. Uwaine put the old man into a chair, knelt and kissed his hand. “Father dear, I am still at your side. . . .”
“Oh, my son, my son—” Uriens cried out, despairing.
“Rest here, Father, you must be strong,” he said. “But now let me care for my mother. She is ill, too—”
“Your mother, you call her!” Uriens cried out, starting upright and staring at Morgaine with implacable wrath. “Never again let me hear you call that abominable woman Mother! Do you think I know not that by her sorcery she led my good son into rebellion against his king? And now I think by her evil witchcraft she must also have contrived the death of Avalloch—aye, and of that other son she should have borne to me—three sons of mine has she sent down into death! Look out that she does not seduce you and betray you with her witchcraft, into death and destruction—no, she is not your mother!”
“Father! My lord!” Uwaine protested, and held out a hand to Morgaine. “Forgive him, Mother, he does not know what he is saying, you are beside yourselves with grief, both of you—I beg you in God’s name to be calm, we have had enough grief this day—”
But Morgaine hardly heard him. This man, this husband she had never wanted, he was all that was left of the wreck of her plans! She should have left him to die in the fairy country, but now he was doddering around in the fullness of his useless old life and Accolon was dead, Accolon who sought to bring back all that his father had pledged and forsworn, all that Arthur had vowed to Avalon and forsaken . . . and nothing was left but this ancient dotard. . . .
She snatched the sickle knife of Avalon from her girdle and thrust away Uwaine’s restraining arms. Rushing forward, she raised the dagger high; she hardly knew what it was she meant to do as it flashed down.
An iron grip caught her wrist, wrenching at the dagger. Uwaine’s hand came near to breaking her wrist as she struggled. “No, let it go . . . Mother!” he pleaded. “Mother, is the Devil in you? Mother, look, it is only Father . . . ah, God, can you