Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [560]
“Lie still,” he said. “There is a knife at your throat, my lady.” And as she shrank away, clutching the bed clothing, “Oh, don’t flatter yourself, madam, I came not here for rape. Your charms are too stale for me, my lady, and too well tasted.”
“That’s enough,” said a husky voice in the dark behind Gwydion. “Don’t mock her, man! This is a dirty business, snooping at bedchamber doors, and I wish I’d never heard of it! Quiet, all of you, and hide yourselves around the chamber!”
She recognized Gawaine’s face as her eyes adapted to the dim light, and beyond them a familiar form. “Gareth! What do you here?” she asked, sorrowfully. “I thought you Lancelet’s dearest friend.”
“And so I am,” he said grimly. “I came to see no worse done to him than justice. That one"—he flicked a contemptuous gesture at Gwydion—"would cut his throat—and leave you to be accused of murder!”
“Be still,” said Gwydion, and the light went out. Gwenhwyfar felt the pricking of the knife at her throat. “If you speak a syllable to warn him, madam, I will cut your throat and take my chances explaining why to my lord Arthur.” The point dug in till Gwenhwyfar, flinching with pain, wondered if it had actually drawn blood. She could hear small noises—the rustle of garments, the clink of weapons hurriedly muffled; how many men had he brought to this ambush? She lay silent, twisting her hands in despair. If only she could warn Lancelet . . . but she lay like a small animal in a snare, helpless.
Minutes crawled by for the trapped woman silent between her pillows and the knife. After a long time, she heard a tiny sound, a soft whistle like a bird call. Gwydion felt the tensing of her muscles and asked in a rasping whisper, “Lancelet’s signal?” He dug the knife again into the yielding skin at her throat, and she whispered, sweating in terror, “Yes.”
She felt the straw beneath her rustle as he shifted his weight and moved away. “There are a dozen men in this room. Try to give him warning, and you will not live three seconds.”
She heard sounds in the antechamber; Lancelet’s cloak, his sword—ah, God, would they take him naked and weaponless? She tensed again, feeling in advance the knife driving into her body, but somehow she must warn him, must cry out—she opened her lips, but Gwydion—was it the Sight, how did he know?—thrust his hand cruelly over her face, smothering the cry. She writhed under his suffocating hand, then felt Lancelet’s weight on the bed.
“Gwen?” he whispered. “What is the matter? Did I hear you crying, my beloved?”
She managed to writhe away from the concealing hand.
“Run!” she screamed. “It’s a trick, a trap—”
“Hell’s doors!” She could feel him, like a cat, springing back.
Gwydion’s lamp flared; somehow the light went from hand to hand, until the room was filled with light, and Gawaine, Cai, and Gareth, with a dozen shadowy forms behind them, stepped forward. Gwenhwyfar huddled under the bedcover, and Lancelet stood still, quite naked, weaponless.
“Mordred,” he said, in contempt. “Such a trick is worthy of you!”
Gawaine said formally, “In the King’s name, Lancelet, I accuse you of high treason. Get me your sword.”
“Never mind that,” said Gwydion, “go and take it.”
“Gareth! In God’s name, why did you lend yourself to this?”
Gareth’s eyes were glistening as if with tears in the lamplight. “I never believed it of you, Lancelet. I would to God I had fallen in battle before ever I saw this day.”
Lancelet bent his head and Gwenhwyfar saw his eyes, panicky, move around the room. He muttered, “Oh, God, Pellinore looked at me so when they came with the torches to take me in Elaine’s bed—must I betray everyone, everyone?” She wanted to reach out to him, to cry out with pity and pain, to shelter him in her arms. But he would not look at her.
“Your sword,” said Gawaine quietly. “And dress yourself, Lancelet. I will not take you naked and disgraced into Arthur’s presence. Enough men have witnessed your shame.”
“Don’t let him get at his sword—” some faceless voice in the darkness protested,