She couldn't speak. She could only nod, dazed, numb, her whole body screaming for the interrupted fulfillment, as she saw him rush away. A minute or two later a young man came up to her deferentially and bowed, while soldiers began rushing back and forth and somewhere there was the terrible, almost human scream of a dying animal.
"Lady Morgaine? I am Griflet. The lord Lancelet sent me to escort you to the pavilions. He told me he had brought you down here to see the horse he is training for my lord the king, but that you had slipped and fallen in the hay, and that he was trying to see if you had hurt yourself when they began shrieking for him-when this fight broke out with King Pellinore's horse. And he begs you to excuse him and return to the castle-"
Well, she thought, at least it explained her kirtle crushed and stained with hay and her hair and headcloth filled with hayseed. She need not go before Gwenhwyfar and her mother looking like the woman in Scriptures, the one taken in adultery; young Griflet held out his arm and she leaned on it heavily, saying, "I think my ankle is twisted," and limped all the way up to the castle. It would explain the hay, if she had had a hurt and fallen hard. One part of her was glad of Lancelet's quick thinking; the other, desolate, cried out for him to acknowledge and shelter her.
Arthur had gone off with Cai to the stables, distressed at the accident to the horses. She let Gwenhwyfar fuss over her and Igraine send for cold water and linen strips to bandage her ankle, and she accepted a place at Igraine's side, in the shade, when horses and men rode out to display their exercises. Arthur made a little speech about the new legion of Caerleon which would revive the glories of the days of Rome, and save the countryside. His foster-father, Ectorius, was beaming. Then a dozen riders rode out, displaying the new skills with which the horses could stop in mid gallop, pull up, wheel, move together.
"After this," Arthur declared grandly, "no one will ever again say that horses are fit for nothing but to move wagons!" He smiled at Gwenhwyfar. "How do you like my knights, my lady? I have called them after the old Roman equites-noblemen who could own and fit out their own horse."
"Cai rides as well as a centaur," Igraine said to Ectorius, and the old man smiled with pleasure. "Arthur, you never did a kinder thing than when you gave Cai one of the best of the horses."
"Cai is too good a soldier, and too good a friend, to wither in the house," said Arthur decisively.
Gwenhwyfar said, "Is he not your foster-brother?"
"True. He was wounded in his first battle, and feared he would skulk at home with the women forever after that," said Arthur. "A frightful fate for a soldier. But on horseback he fights as well as any."
"Look," exclaimed Igraine, "the legion has smashed down that whole series of targets-I have never seen such riding!"
"I don't think anything could stand against that attack," said King Pellinore. "What a pity Uther Pendragon could not live to see this, my boy -excuse me-my lord and king-"
Arthur said warmly, "My father's friend may call me whatever he wishes, dear Pellinore! But the credit must go to my friend and captain, Lancelet."
Morgause's son Gaheris bobbed in a bow to Arthur. "My lord, may I go down to the stables and see them unsaddled?" He was a bright, merry-looking boy of fourteen or so.
"You may," said Arthur. "When will he come to join Gawaine and Agravaine at our side, Aunt?"
"This year, perhaps, if his brothers can teach him soldierly arts and keep him close," Morgause said, then raised her voice: "No! Not you, Gareth!" and made a snatch at the chubby six-year-old. "Gaheris! Bring him back here!"
Arthur spread his hands with a laugh. "Don't worry about it-boys run to stables like fleas to dogs. I have been told how I rode my father's stallion when I was scarce six years old! I don't remember; it was only a little before I went to be fostered with Ectorius," he said, and Morgaine shivered suddenly, remembering a fair-haired child lying like death and something like a shadow in a bowl of water-no, it was gone.
"Does your ankle pain you much, sister?" Gwenhwyfar asked solicitously. "Here, lean against me-"
"Gawaine will look after him," Arthur said offhandedly. "I think he's the best man we have at training the young knights and riders."
"Better than the lord Lancelet?" asked Gwenhwyfar. Morgaine thought, She only wants to speak his name. But it is me he wanted, not long ago, and tonight it will be too late ... better that than break Arthur's heart. I will tell Gwenhwyfar if I must.
Arthur said, "Lancelet? He's our best rider, though too much of a daredevil for my taste. The lads all adore him, of course-look, there's your little Gareth, Aunt, tagging after him like a puppy-they'll do anything for a kind word from him. But he's not as good at teaching the boys their business as Gawaine; he's too flamboyant and he likes to show off. Gawaine takes them slow and easy and makes them learn the art step by step, and they never get hurt through carelessness-Gawaine's my best arms master. Look, there's Lancelet on that horse he's training for me-" He burst into a laugh, and Igraine said, "That little devil!"
For Gareth had swung like a monkey from the saddle leather, and Lancelet, laughing, scooped up the boy in front of him on his saddle and broke into a fast gallop, racing directly up the hill toward the sheltered place where the royal party sat watching. They raced at breakneck speed straight toward them, so that even Arthur gasped and Igraine stepped back, her face white. Lancelet pulled up the horse so that it reared into the air and wheeled it round.
"Your horse, lord Arthur," he said with a flourish, holding the reins with one hand, "and your cousin. Aunt Morgause, take this little scapegrace and tan his breeches for him!" he added, letting Gareth slide down almost into Morgause's lap. "He could have been killed under the stallion's feet like that!"
Gareth heard not a word of Morgause's scolding, looking up at Lancelet, his blue eyes wide with adoration.
"When you get older," Arthur said, laughing, aiming a playful cuff at the child, "I will make you a knight and you shall ride out to conquer giants and evil raiders, and rescue fair ladies."
"Oh no, my lord Arthur," said the child, his eyes still fastened on the white horse which Lancelet was riding up and down. "The lord Lancelet shall make me a knight, and we will go on a quest together."
Ectorius chuckled and said, "Young Achilles has found his Patroclus, so it would seem."
"I am quite in the shade," Arthur said good-naturedly. "Even my new-made wife cannot take her eyes from Lancelet, and begs him to call her by her Christian name, and now little Gareth would rather be made knight by him! If Lance were not my closest friend, I should be mad with jealousy."
Pellinore was watching the rider cantering up and down. He said, "That damnable dragon is still hiding in a lake on my lands, and coming out to kill my tenants or their cows. Perhaps if I had a horse like that, who would stand to fight ... I think I will train a battle horse and go after it again. Last time I barely got away with my life."
"A dragon, sir?" asked little Gareth. "Did it breathe fire?"
"No, lad, but it had an almighty stench and a noise like sixty packs of hounds all baying together from his belly," said Pellinore, and Ectorius said, "Dragons do not breathe fire, my lad. That comes from the old way of calling a shooting star a dragon, for they have a long tail of fire-there may have been dragons once who breathed fire, but not in the memory of any living man."
Morgaine was not listening, though she wondered how much of Pellinore's tale was true, and how much exaggerated to impress the child. Her eyes were on Lancelet, putting the horse through its paces.
Arthur said to Gwenhwyfar, "I could never train a horse like that- Lancelet is training it to battle for me. Look, two months ago that one was wild as one of Pellinore's dragons, and now look at him!"
"He seems still wild to me," said Gwenhwyfar. "But then, I am afraid even of the gentlest horses."
"A horse to be ridden in battle must not be meek as a lady's palfrey," said Arthur. "He must have spirit-God in heaven!" he cried out, rising up suddenly. From somewhere there was a blur
of white; a bird of some kind, a goose perhaps, had suddenly flapped upward, right under the horse's hooves. Lancelet, riding at ease, his vigilance relaxed, started as the horse reared upright with a frantic whicker; fought for control, slid off almost under the hooves; half senseless, managed to roll away.
Gwenhwyfar screamed. Morgause and the other ladies echoed the scream, while Morgaine, quite forgetting she was supposed to have an injured ankle, leaped up and ran toward Lancelet, dragging him out from under the horse's hooves. Arthur too dashed for the horse's bridle, grabbing it, wrestling the horse by main force away from where Lancelet sprawled unconscious. Morgaine knelt beside him, quickly feeling his temple, where a bruise already darkened and a trickle of blood mingled with the dust. "Is he dead?" Gwenhwyfar cried. "Is he dead?"
"No," Morgaine said with asperity. "Bring some cold water, and there ought to be some of that bandage linen left. He's broken his wrist, I think; he broke his fall with it so as not to break his neck! And the clout on his head-" She bent down, laying her ear against his chest, feeling the warm rise and fall of it. She took the basin of cold water Pellinore's daughter handed her, sponging his brow with a bit of linen. "Someone catch that goose and wring its neck-and give the goose boy a good thrashing. The lord Lancelet could have broken his head, or damaged the High King's horse."
Gawaine came and led the horse back to the stables. The near tragedy had dampened the festivities, and one by one the guests began to drift away to their own pavilions and quarters. Morgaine bound up Lancelet's head and his broken wrist, mercifully completing the work of splinting the wrist before he stirred and moaned and clutched at it in agony; then, in conference with the housekeeper, sent Cai for some herbs which would make him sleep and had him carried to bed. She stayed with him, though he did not know her, only moaned and stared about with eyes that refused to stay in focus. Once he stared at her, and muttered "Mother-" and her heart sank. After a while he fell into a heavy, restless sleep, and when he woke, he knew her.
"Morgaine? Cousin? What happened?"
"You fell off a horse."
"A horse? What horse?" he asked, confused, and when she told him he said positively, "That's ridiculous. I don't fall off horses," and dropped off to sleep again.
Morgaine sat beside him, letting him clutch at her hand, and felt that her heart would break. The mark of his kisses was still on her mouth, on her aching breasts. Yet the moment had passed, and she knew it. Even if he should remember, he would not want her; he had never wanted her, except to dull the agony of thinking of Gwenhwyfar and of his love for his king and cousin.
It was growing dark; far away in the castle she heard sounds of music again-Kevin was harping. There was laughter, singing, festivity. Suddenly the door opened, and Arthur himself, carrying a torch in his hand, came in.
"Sister, how does Lancelet?"
"He'll live; his head's too hard to break," she said with a hard flippancy.
"We wanted you among the witnesses when the bride was put to bed, as you witnessed the marriage contract," said Arthur. "But I suppose he should not be left alone, and I wouldn't want him left to a chamberlain, not even to Cai. He's fortunate he has you with him. You are his foster-sister, are you not?"
"No," said Morgaine, with unexpected anger.
Arthur came to the bedside and picked up Lancelet's limp hand. The injured man moaned, stirred, and looked up, blinking. "Arthur?"
"I'm here, my friend," said Arthur, and Morgaine thought she had never heard a man's voice so tender.
"Is your horse-all right?"
"The horse is fine. Damn the horse," Arthur said. "If you'd been killed, what good would a horse be to me?" He was almost weeping.
"How did it-happen?"
"A damned goose flew up. The goose boy's in hiding. I think he knows he'll be beaten within an inch of his life!"
"Don't do that," Lancelet said. "He's only a poor stupid creature without all his wits. He's not to blame that the geese are cleverer than he is, and one wandered loose. Promise me, Gwydion." She was astonished that he used the old name. Arthur pressed his hand, and bent down to kiss Lancelet on the cheek, carefully avoiding the bruised side.
"I promise, Galahad. Sleep, now."
Lancelet gripped his hand hard. "I came close to wrecking your wedding night, didn't I?" he said, with something Morgaine recognized as her own hard irony.
"Believe you did-my bride has wept so hard over you, I wonder what she would do if 7 had broken my head?" Arthur demanded, laughing.
Morgaine said fiercely, "Arthur, even if you are the King, he must be kept quiet!"
"Right." Arthur straightened. "I will send the Merlin to look in at him tomorrow; he should not be left alone tonight, though-"
"I'll stay with him," she said angrily.
"Well, if you are sure-"
"Go you back to Gwenhwyfar! Your bride is waiting for you!"
Arthur sighed, subdued. After a moment he said, "I don't know what to say to her. Or what to do."
This is ridiculous-does he expect me to instruct him, or to instruct his bride? At the look in his eyes she lowered her own. She said, very gently, "Arthur, it is simple. Do as the Goddess prompts you."
He looked like a stricken child. At last he said, hoarsely, fighting the words, "She-she isn't the Goddess. She's just a girl, and she's-she's frightened." After a moment he blurted out, "Morgaine, don't you know that I still-"
She could not bear what he might be going to say. "No!" she said violently, holding up her hand, commanding silence. "Arthur, remember one thing at least. To her you will always be the God. Come to her as the Horned One ... ."
Arthur crossed himself and shivered. He whispered at last, "God forgive me; this is the punishment ... " and fell silent. They stood, looking at each other, unable to speak. Finally he said, "Morgaine, I have no right -will you kiss me once?"
"My brother-" She sighed, stood on tiptoe and kissed his forehead. Then she signed his head with the sign of the Goddess. "Bless you," she whispered. "Arthur, go to her, go to your bride. I promise you, I promise in the name of the Goddess, it will be well, I swear it to you."
He swallowed-she saw the muscles in his throat move. Then he broke away from her eyes and muttered, "God bless you, sister." The door closed behind him.
Morgaine dropped down on a chair, and sat, unmoving, staring at Lancelet's sleep, tormented by pictures in her mind. Lancelet's face, smiling at her in sunlight on the Tor. Gwenhwyfar, water-draggled, her skirts soaked, clinging to Lancelet's hand. The Horned God, his face smeared with deer's blood, drawing aside the curtain at the mouth of the cave. Lancelet's mouth frantic on her breasts-had it been only a few hours ago?
"At least," she muttered aloud fiercely, "he will not spend Arthur's bridal night dreaming of Gwenhwyfar." She laid herself down along the edge of the bed, pressing her body carefully against the hurt man's body; she lay there silent, not even weeping, sunk in a despairing misery too deep for tears. But she did not close her eyes that night, fighting the Sight, fighting dreams, struggling for the silence and the numb absence of thought she had been taught in Avalon.
And far away, in the furthest wing of the castle, Gwenhwyfar lay awake, looking in guilty tenderness at Arthur's hair shining in the moonlight, his chest that rose and fell with his quiet breathing. Tears trickled slowly down her cheeks.
I want so much to love him, she thought, and then she prayed. "Oh, God, holy Mary Virgin, help me to love him as I ought to do, he is my king and my lord and he is so good, he deserves someone who will love him more than I can love." All around her, it seemed, the night breathed sadness and despair.
But why, she wondered. Arthur is happy. He has nothing with which to reproach me. Whence comes this sorrow in the very air?
7
On a day in late summer, Queen Gwenhwyfar, with several of her ladies, sat in the hall at Caerleon. It was afternoon and very hot; most of them were making a pretense of spinning, or of carding the last of that spring's wool for spinning, but t
he spindles moved sluggishly, and even the Queen, who was the best needlewoman among them, had ceased to set stitches in the fine altar cloth she was making for the bishop.
Morgaine laid aside the carded wool for spinning and sighed. At this season of the year she was always homesick, longing for the mists that crept in from the sea over the cliffs at Tintagel ... she had not seen them since she was a little child.
Arthur and his men, with the Caerleon legion, had ridden out to the southern coast, to examine the new fort that the Saxons of the treaty troops had built there. This summer had brought no raid, and it might well be that the Saxons, except for those who had made treaty with Arthur and were living peacefully in the Kentish country, would give up Britain for lost. Two years of Arthur's horse legion had reduced the Saxon fighting to a sporadic summer exercise; but Arthur had taken this season of quiet to fortify all the defenses of the coasts.
"I am thirsty again," said Pellinore's daughter, Elaine. "May I go, my lady, and ask for more pitchers of water to be sent?"
"Call Cai-he will attend to it," Gwenhwyfar said.
Morgaine thought: She has grown a great deal; from a scared and timid child she has become a queen.
"You should have married Cai when the King wished for it, lady Morgaine," said Elaine, returning from her errand and sitting down on the bench beside Morgaine. "He is the only man under sixty in the castle, and| his wife will never lie alone for half a year at a time."
"You are welcome to him, if you want him," Morgaine said amiably.
"I still wonder that you did not," Gwenhwyfar said, as if it were an | old grievance. "It would have been so suitable-Cai, the King's foster-brother and high in his favor, and you, Arthur's sister and Duchess of Cornwall in your own right, now that the lady Igraine never leaves her nunnery!"
Drusilla, daughter of one of the petty kings to the east, snickered. "Tell me, if the King's sister and brother marry, how is it other than incest?"
The Mists of Avalon Page 43
