Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [563]
“Certainly, my lady.” She was very much aware of his arm enfolding her, holding her. She let herself lean a little on him. She had bragged to Gwenhwyfar of her young lover, but she had never yet actually taken him to her bed—she had kept him delaying, dangling. She turned her head against his shoulder. “You have been faithful to your queen, Cormac.”
“I am loyal to my royal house, as all my people have ever been,” the young man said in their own language, and she smiled.
“Here is my chamber—help me inside, will you? I can scarce walk—”
He supported her, eased her down on her bed. “Is it my lady’s will that I call her women?”
“No,” she whispered, catching at his hands, aware that her tears were seductive. “You have been loyal to me, Cormac, and now is that loyalty to be rewarded—come here—”
She held out her arms, half shutting her eyes, then opened them, in shock, as he pulled awkwardly away.
“I—I think you are distraught, madam,” he stammered. “What do you think I am? What do you take me for? Why, lady, I have as much respect for you as for my own grandmother! Should I take advantage of an old woman like you when you are beside yourself with grief? Let me call your waiting-woman, and she will make you a nice posset and I will forget what you said in the madness of grief, madam.”
Morgause could feel the blow in the very pit of her stomach, repeated blows on her heart—my own grandmother . . . old woman . . . the madness of grief. . . . The whole of the world had suddenly gone mad—Gwydion insane with ingratitude, this man who had looked on her so long with desire turning on her . . . she wanted to scream, to call for her servants and have him whipped till his back ran crimson with his blood and the walls rang with his shrieking for mercy. But even as she opened her mouth for that, the whole weight of her life seemed to descend on her in deadly weariness.
“Yes,” she said dully, “I do not know what I was saying—call my women, Cormac, and tell them to bring me some wine. We will ride at daybreak for Lothian.”
And when he had gone, she sat on the bed without the strength to lift her hands.
I am an old woman. And I have lost my son Gareth, and I have lost Gwydion, and I will never now be Queen in Camelot. I have lived too long.
17
Clinging to Lancelet’s back, her gown pulled up above her knees and her bare legs hanging down, Gwenhwyfar closed her eyes as they rode hard through the night. She had no idea where they were going. Lancelet was a stranger, a hard-faced warrior, a man she had never known. There was a time, she thought, when I would have been terrified, out like this under the open sky, at night . . . but she felt excited, exhilarated. At the back of her mind was pain too, mourning for the gentle Gareth who had been like a son to Arthur and deserved better of life than to be struck down so—she wondered if Lancelet even knew whom he had killed! And there was grief for the end of her years with Arthur, and all they had shared for so long. But from what had happened this night there could be no going back. She had to lean forward to hear Lancelet over the rushing of wind. “We must stop somewhere soon, the horse must rest—and if we ride in daylight, my face and yours are known all through this countryside.”
She nodded; she had not breath enough to speak. After a time they came within a little wood, and there he pulled to a stop and lifted her gently from the horse’s back. He led the horse to water, then spread his cloak on the ground for her to sit. He stared at the sword by his side. “I still have Gawaine’s sword. When I was a boy—I heard tales of the fighting madness, but I knew not that it was within our blood—” and sighed heavily. “There is blood on the sword. Whom did I kill, Gwen?”
She could not bear to see his sorrow and guilt. “There was more than one—”
“I know I struck Gwydion—Mordred, damn him. I know I wounded him, I could still act with my own will then. I don’t suppose"—his voice hardened—"that I had the luck to kill him?”
Silently she shook her