Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [79]
Since she had been last at Uther’s court the fortified wall had risen higher, and there were sentries on the wall, who called out to challenge her party. She had instructed her men to use none of her titles, but to say only that the Queen’s sister had come. It was not the time to demand that they give respect to her as the Lady of Avalon; her present mission was too urgent for that.
They were led through the grass-grown enclosure, past all the clutter of an enclosed fort. She could hear somewhere the sound of an armorer or blacksmith beating on his anvil. Some herdswomen clad roughly in skin tunics were driving sheep inside for the night. Viviane, recognizing all these preparations for a siege, raised her eyelids slightly.
A scant few years before, Igraine had run to meet her in the courtyard at Tintagel. Now a solemn chamberlain, richly clad, and having but one arm—no doubt, a veteran of Uther’s service—welcomed her with a solemn bow and conducted her to an upper chamber. “I am sorry, Lady,” he said, “we are short of living space here. You must share this room with two of the Queen’s ladies.”
“I shall be honored,” she said gravely.
“I will send you a serving-woman. You have only to ask her for anything you require.”
“All I require,” said Viviane, “is a little water for washing, and to know when I can see my sister.”
“Lady, I am certain the Queen will receive you at the proper time. . . .”
“Does Uther keep state like the Caesars, then? Listen to me, fellow, I am the Lady of Avalon, and I am not accustomed to be kept waiting. But if Igraine has grown to such high state as all this, then I beg you to send the lady Morgaine to me as quickly as is possible!”
The one-armed veteran shrank back, but when he spoke his voice was less formal and more human. “Lady, I am sure the Queen would receive you willingly, at once, but you have come at a time of trouble and danger. The young prince Gwydion fell this morning from a horse no one should have let him ride, and the Queen won’t leave his side, not for an instant.”
“By the Goddess! I came too late, then!” Viviane whispered to herself. Aloud, she said, “Take me to them, at once. I am skilled in all the healing arts, and I am sure Igraine would have sent for me if she knew I were here.”
He bowed and said, “Come this way, Lady.”
Following him, Viviane realized that she had not even had time to remove her cloak or the men’s breeches she wore for riding; and she had meant to present herself in all the dignity of Avalon. Well, this was more important.
Outside the door, the chamberlain paused. “It would be as much as my head’s worth to disturb the Queen. She won’t even let her ladies bring her food or drink—”
Viviane pushed the heavy door and went into the room. Dead silence; it was uncannily like a death chamber. Igraine, pale and wan, her headcloth rumpled, knelt like a stone figure beside the bed. A black-robed priest stood motionless, muttering prayers under his breath. Softly as she moved, Igraine heard her.
“How dare you—” she began in a furious whisper, and broke off. “Viviane! God must have sent you to me!”
“I had a warning that you might need me,” said Viviane. This was no time to speak of magical visions. “No, Igraine, you can do no good by weeping,” she added. “Let me look at him and see how serious this is.”
“The King’s physician—”
“Is probably an old fool who knows nothing but potions of goat’s dung,” said Viviane calmly. “I was healing wounds of this kind before you were out of swaddlings,