Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [528]
He smiled, and now she could see the traces of pain and grief—yes, even of madness—around his eyes. “Why, I hardly knew it was hither I came, cousin. My memory plays tricks on me, now. I was mad, Morgaine. I cast away my sword and lived like an animal in the forests, and then there was a time, I know not how long, that I was confined in a strange dungeon.”
“I saw it,” she whispered. “I knew not what it meant.”
“Nor did I, nor do I yet,” Lancelet said. “I remember very little of that time—it is God’s blessing, I think, that I cannot remember what I might have done. I think it was not the first time—there were times, during those years with Elaine, that I hardly knew what I did. . . .”
“But you are well now,” she said quickly. “Come and breakfast with me, cousin—it is too early for anything else, for whatever reason you came here.”
He followed her, and Morgaine took him into her dwelling; except for her attendant priestesses, he was the first person who had entered it in years. There was fish from the Lake, this morning, and she served him with her own hands.
“Ah, this is good,” he said, and ate hungrily—she wondered how long it had been since he had last remembered to eat. His hair was as fastidiously combed as ever, his curly hair—all grey now, and patches of white in his beard—neatly trimmed, and his cloak, though shabby and travel-worn, was neatly brushed and clean. He saw her glance at the cloak and laughed a little.
“In the old days I would not have used this cloak for a saddle blanket,” he said. “I lost cloak and sword and armor, I know not where—it may be that I was robbed of them in some evil adventure, or cast them away in madness. I know only that one day I heard someone speak my name, and it was one of the Companions—Lamorak, perhaps, though it is still very hazy in my mind. I was too weak to travel, but though he rode on the next day, I began slowly to remember who I was, and they gave me a gown and let me sit to table to eat with my knife instead of throwing me scraps in a wooden piggin—” His laugh was shaky, nervous. “Even when I knew not that I was Lancelet, I had still my accursed strength, and I think I had done some of them harm. I think I lost the best part of a year out of my life. . . . I remember only little things, and the main thought in my mind was never to let them know I was Lancelet, lest I bring shame on the Companions or Arthur . . .” He fell silent, and Morgaine guessed at his torment by what he did not say. “Well, slowly I grew strong enough to travel, and Lamorak had left money for a horse and goods for me. But most of that year is darkness—”
He picked up the remaining bread on his plate and resolutely mopped up the scraps of fish. Morgaine asked him, “What of the quest?”
“What indeed? I have heard a little,” he said, “here and there, here and there, as I rode in the land. Gawaine was the first to return to Camelot.”
Morgaine smiled, almost against her will. “He was always fickle—to everything and everyone.”
“Except to Arthur,” Lancelet said. “He is more loyal to Arthur than any of his dogs! And I met with Gareth as I rode hither.”
Morgaine said, “Dear Gareth, he is the best of Morgause’s sons! What said he to you?”
“He said he had had a vision,” Lancelet said slowly, “which bade him return to court and do his duty by his king and his lands, and not to delay, loitering about and seeking visions of holy things. And he talked a long time with me, begging me to lay aside the quest of the Grail and return to Camelot with him.”
“I am surprised you did not,” Morgaine said.
He smiled. “I am surprised too, kinswoman. And I have promised to return as soon as I can.” Suddenly, his face grew grave. “Gareth told me,” he said, “that Mordred