Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [545]
Arthur said, laughing, “Let us have the crafty counsel of a Mordred.”
“The courtier would say, my lord, that the reign of Arthur will live forever and his memory be forever green in the world. And the Druid would say that all men perish, and one day they will be, with all of their wisdom and their glories, like unto Atlantis, sunken beneath the waves. The Gods alone endure.”
“And what would my nephew and my friend say, then?”
“Your nephew“—he put just enough emphasis on the word that Gwenhwyfar could hear that it should have been your son—"would say, my uncle and my lord, that we are living for this day, and not for what history may say of us a thousand years hence. And so your nephew would advise that your stables should once again reflect the noble days when Arthur’s horses and his fighting men were known and fearful to all. No man should be able to say, the King grows old and with all his knights on quest, cares nothing to keep his men and horses in fighting trim.”
Arthur gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder. “So let it be, dear boy. I trust your judgment. Send to Spain, or to Africa if you will, for horses such as best suit the reputation of Arthur’s legion, and see to their training.”
“I shall have to find Saxons for that,” said Gwydion, “and the Saxons know little of our secrets of fighting a-horse—you have always said they should not. Is it your will that since the Saxons are our allies now, they should be trained in our fighting skills?”
Arthur looked troubled. “I fear I must leave that, too, in your hands.”
“I shall try to do my best for you,” Gwydion said, “and now, my lord, we have sat overlong in this talk, and wearied the ladies—forgive me, madam,” he added, inclining his head to Gwenhwyfar with that winning smile. “Shall we have music? The lady Niniane, I am certain, would be happy to bring her harp and sing to you, my lord and my king.”
“I am always happy to hear my kinswoman’s music,” said Arthur gravely, “if it is pleasing to my lady.”
Gwenhwyfar nodded to Niniane, who fetched her harp and sat before them, singing, and Gwenhwyfar listened with pleasure to the music—Niniane played beautifully, and her voice was sweet, though not so pure or strong as Morgaine’s. But as she watched Gwydion, his eyes on Taliesin’s daughter, she thought, Why is it that we, a Christian court, must always have here one of those damsels of the Lady of the Lake? It worried her, although Gwydion seemed as good a Christian as anyone else at court, coming always to mass on Sunday, as did Niniane herself. For that matter she could not remember how Niniane had come to be one of her ladies, save that Gwydion had brought her to court and asked the Queen to extend her hospitality as a kinswoman of Arthur and as Taliesin’s daughter. Gwenhwyfar had only the kindest memories of Taliesin, and had been pleased to welcome his daughter, but somehow it seemed now that, without ever putting herself forward, Niniane had assumed the place of the first among her ladies. Arthur always treated her with favor and often called to her to sing, and there were times when Gwenhwyfar, watching them, wondered if he looked on her as more than kinswoman.
But no, surely not. If Niniane had a paramour here at court it was more than likely to be Gwydion himself. She had seen him look at her . . . and yet her heart grew sore within her; this woman was fair, fair as she herself had been, and she was but an aging woman with her hair fading, the color gone from her cheeks, her body sagging. . . . And so when Niniane had put up her harp and withdrawn, she frowned as Arthur came to escort her from the hall.
“You look weary, my wife, what ails you?”
“Gwydion said you were old—”
“My own dear wife, I have sat on that throne of Britain for one-and-thirty years, with you at my side. Do you think there is anyone in this kingdom who can still call us young? Most of our subjects were not yet born when we came to the throne. Though indeed, my dear, I know not how it is that you look ever so young.”
“Oh, my husband, I was not seeking