The Mists of Avalon

by Marion Marion Bradley

  He grumbled but he listened to her, and when Elaine had taken him away, with his body servants, Morgaine was left alone with Lancelet.

  "So," she said, "how would you best celebrate your killing of your first dragon?"

  He lifted his cup and said, "By praying that it will be my last. I truly thought my hour had come. I would rather face a whole horde of Saxons with no more than my axe!"

  "The Goddess grant you have no more such encounters, indeed," Morgaine said, and filled his cup with the spiced wine. "I have made this for you, it is medicinal and will soothe your hurts. I must go and see that Elaine has Pellinore safely tucked away for the night-"

  "But you will come back, kinswoman?" he said, holding her lightly by one wrist; she saw the wine beginning to burn in him. And more than the wine, she thought; an encounter with death sends a man ready for rutting ... .

  "I will come back, I promise; now let me go," she said, and bitterness flooded her.

  So, am I fallen so low that I would have him drugged, not knowing? Elaine will have him that way ... why is it better for her? But she wants him for husband, for better or worse. Not I. I am a priestess, and I know this thing that burns in me is not of the Goddess, but unholy ... am I so weak that I would have Gwenhwyfar's castoff garments and her castoff paramour also? And while her scorn cried no, the weakness through her whole body cried yes, so that she was sick with self-contempt as she went along the hall to the chamber of King Pellinore.

  "How does your father, Elaine?" She wondered that her voice was so steady.

  "He is quiet now, and I think he will sleep."

  Morgaine nodded. "Now you must go to the pavilion, and sometime this night Lancelet will come to you. Forget not the scent Gwenhwyfar wears ... ."

  Elaine was very pale, her blue eyes burning. Morgaine reached out and caught her by the arm; she held out a flask with some of the drugged wine in it. She said, and her own voice was shaking, "Drink this first, child." Elaine raised it to her lips and drank. "It is sweet with herbs ... is it a love potion?"

  Morgaine's smile only stretched her mouth. "You may think it so, if you will."

  "Strange, it burns my mouth, and burns me within ... . Morgaine, it is not poison? You do not-you do not hate me, Morgaine, because I will be Lancelet's wife?"

  Morgaine drew the girl close and embraced and kissed her; the warm body in her arms somehow roused her, whether to desire or tenderness she could not tell. "Hate you? No, no, cousin, I swear it to you, I would not have sir Lancelet for husband if he begged me on his knees ... here, finish the wine, sweeting ... scent your body here, and here ....emember what he wants of you. It is you who can make him forget the Queen. Now go, child, wait for him in the pavilion there. ..." And again she drew Elaine close to her and kissed her. "The Goddess blesses you."

  So like to Gwenhwyfar. Lancelet is already half in love with her, I think, and I but complete the work ... .

  She drew a long, shaking breath, composing herself to return to the hall and to Lancelot. He had not hesitated to pour himself more of the drugged wine, and raised fuddled eyes as she came in.

  "Ah, Morgaine-kinswoman-" He drew her down beside him. "Drink with me ... "

  "No, not now. Listen to me, Lancelet, I bear a message for you ... ."

  "A message, Morgaine?"

  "Yes," she said. "Queen Gwenhwyfar has come hither to visit her kinswoman, and she sleeps in the pavilion beyond the lawns." She took his wrist and drew him along to the door. "And she has sent you a message: she does not wish to disturb her women, so you must go to her very quietly where she is in bed. Will you do that?"

  She could see the haze of drunkenness and passion in his dark eyes. "I saw no messenger-Morgaine, I did not know you wished me well ... ."

  "You do not know how well I wish you, cousin."

  I wish that you may marry well and cease this hopeless, wretched love for a woman who can only bring you to dishonor and despair ... .

  "Go," she said gently, "your queen awaits you. If you doubt me, this token was sent you." She held out a kerchief; it was Elaine's, but one kerchief is like to another, and it had been all but drenched in the scent associated with Gwenhwyfar.

  He pressed it to his lips. "Gwenhwyfar," he whispered. "Where, Morgaine, where?"

  "In the pavilion. Finish the wine-"

  "Will you drink to me?"

  "Later," she said with a smile. His steps faltered a little; he caught at her for support, and his arms went round her. His touch roused her, light as it was. Lust, she told herself fiercely, animal rut, this is nothing blessed by the Goddess ... . She struggled for calm. He was drugged like an animal, he would not care, he would take her now mindlessly, as he would have taken Gwenhwyfar, Elaine ... . "Go, Lancelet, you must not keep your queen waiting."

  She saw him disappear in the shadows near the pavilion. He would go in quietly. Elaine would be lying there, the lamp falling on her golden hair so like the Queen's, but so dim he could not distinguish her features, her body and bed smelling of Gwenhwyfar's scent. She tormented herself by imagining, as she turned to pace the long empty room, how his slender naked body would slide under the covers, how he would take Elaine in his arms and cover her with kisses. If the little fool has but the wit to keep her mouth shut and say nothing till he is done ... .

  Goddess! Shut away the Sight from me, let me not see Elaine in his arms ... writhing, racked, Morgaine did not know whether it was her own imagination or the Sight that tortured her with the awareness of Lancelet's naked body, of the touch of his hands ... how clearly she felt them in memory ... . She went back into the hall where the servants were clearing the tables and said roughly, "Give me some wine."

  Startled, the man poured her a cup. Now they will think me a sot as well as a witch. She did not care. She drank down the wine and asked for more. Somehow it cut away the Sight, freed her from her awareness of Elaine, frightened and ecstatic, pinned down under his rough, demanding body ... .

  Restlessly, like a prowling cat, she paced the hall, flickers of the Sight coming and going. When she judged the time was ripe, she drew a long breath, steeling herself for what she knew she must do now. The body servant who slept across the king's door started awake as Morgaine bent to rouse him.

  "Madam, you cannot disturb the king at this hour-" "It concerns his daughter's honor." Morgaine took a torch from the wall bracket and held it aloft; she could sense how she looked to him, tall and terrible, feeling herself merge into the commanding form of the Goddess. He drew aside in terror, and she moved smoothly past.

  Pellinore lay in his high bed, tossing restlessly in pain from his bandaged wound. He, too, started awake, looking up at Morgaine's pale face, the torch held high.

  "You must come quickly, my lord," she said, her voice smooth and taut with her own controlled passion. "This is betrayal of hospitality ... I felt it right that you must know. Elaine-" "Elaine? What-"

  "She is not asleep in our bed," Morgaine said. "Come quickly, my lord." She had been wise not to let him drink; she could not have roused him had he slept heavily with wine. Pellinore, startled, incredulous, threw on a garment, shouting for his daughter's women. It seemed to Morgaine that they followed her down the stairs and out the doors as smoothly as the writhing of a dragon, a procession with herself and Pellinore at the serpent's head, and she thrust back the silken flap of the pavilion, holding the torch high and watching with cruel triumph as Pellinore's outraged face was lighted by the torch. Elaine lay with her arms wound around Lancelet's neck, smiling and blissful; Lancelet, coming awake in the torchlight, stared around in shock and awareness, and his face was agonized with betrayal. But he did not say a word.

  Pellinore shouted, "Now you will make amends, you lecherous wretch, you who have betrayed my daughter-"

  Lancelet buried his face in his hands. He said through them, strangled, "I will-make amends-my lord Pellinore." Then he raised his face and looked straight into Morgaine's eyes. She met them, unflinching; but it was like a sword through her
body. Before this, at least, he had loved her as a kinswoman.

  Well, better that he should hate her. She would try to hate him, too. But before Elaine's face, shamed and yet smiling, she wanted to cry instead, and beg for them to pardon her.

  MORGAINE SPEAKS ...

  Lancelet was married to Elaine on Transfiguration; I remember little of the ceremony save Elaine's face, joyous and smiling. By the time Pellinore had arranged the wedding, she knew already that she bore Lancelet's son in her belly, and although he looked wretched, thin and pallid with despair, he was tender with Elaine, and proud of her swelling body. I remember Gwenhwyfar too, her face drawn with long weeping, and the look of ineradicable hatred that she turned on me.

  "Can you swear that this was not your doing, Morgaine?"

  I looked her straight in the eye.

  "Do you begrudge your kinswoman a husband of her own, as you have one?"

  She could not face me at that. And again I told myself, fiercely: Had she and Lancelet been honest with Arthur, had they fled from the court together, to live beyond Arthur's kingdom, so that Arthur could have taken him another wife to get an heir for the kingdom, then I would not have meddled.

  But from that day, Gwenhwyfar hated me; and that I regretted most, for in a strange way I had loved her. Gwenhwyfar never seemed to hate her kinswoman; she sent Elaine a rich gift and a silver cup when her son was born, and when Elaine had the boy christened Galahad, for his father, she named herself his godmother and swore that he should be heir to the kingdom if she did not give Arthur a son. Sometime that year she indeed announced she was pregnant, but nothing came of it, and I think, indeed, it was only her desire for a child, and her fancy.

  The marriage was no worse than most. That year Arthur had to face war on the northern coast, and Lancelet spent little time at home. Like many husbands, he spent his time at war, coming home two or three times a year to see to their lands-Pellinore had given them a castle near his own-to receive the new cloaks and shirts Elaine wove and embroidered for him-after he married Elaine, Lancelet always dressed as fine as the King himself-to kiss his son, and later his daughters, to sleep with his wife once, or maybe twice, and then he was off again.

  Elaine always seemed happy. I do not know whether she was truly happy, being one of those women who can find their best happiness in home and babes, or whether she longed for more than this and yet abode bravely by the bargain she had made.

  As for me, I dwelt at court for two more years. And then, at Pentecost of the second year, when Elaine was pregnant with her second child, Gwenhwyfar had her revenge.

  7

  As with every year, the day of Pentecost was Arthur's high festival. Gwenhwyfar had been awake since earliest daylight. On this day, all of those Companions who had fought at Arthur's side should be at court, and this year Lancelet would be here too ...

  ... last year he had not come. Word had been sent that he was in Less Britain, answering a call from his father, King Ban, who sought to settle trouble in his kingdom; but Gwenhwyfar knew in her heart why Lancelet had not come, why he had chosen to stay apart.

  It was not that she could not forgive his marriage to Elaine. Morgaine and her spite had brought that about-Morgaine, who would have had Lancelet for herself and would stop at nothing to part him from the one he truly loved. Rather than see him in Gwenhwyfar's arms, Gwenhwyfar supposed, Morgaine would have seen him in hell, or in his grave.

  Arthur, too, missed Lancelet sorely, that she had seen. Although he sat in his high seat at Camelot, and dealt justice to all manner of men-he was loved, loved far more than any king Gwenhwyfar had heard tell of before this-she could see that always he looked back to the days of battle and conquest; she supposed all men were like that. Arthur would bear to his grave the scars of the wounds he had taken in his great battles. When they had fought year after year to bring peace to the land, he had spoken as if he wished for nothing more than leisure to sit at home in Camelot and enjoy his castle. Now he was never so happy as when he could get some of his old Companions about him, and fall to talking of those old evil days when there were Saxons and Jutes and wild Northmen on every hand.

  She looked at Arthur where he lay sleeping. Yes, and he was still the handsomest and goodliest of all his old Companions; at times she thought he was fairer of face and better to look at even than Lancelet, though it was unfair to compare them, one so dark, one so blond. And after all they were cousins, they were of one blood ... how, she wondered, had Morgaine come into that kindred? Perhaps indeed she was a changeling, nothing human at all, but left by the evil fairy folk to do wickedness among mankind ... a sorceress schooled in un-Christian ways. Arthur too was tainted by that background, though she had gotten him to go often to mass and to speak of himself as Christian. Morgaine liked not that, either.

  Well, she would fight to the last to save Arthur's soul! She loved him well, he was the best husband a woman could ever have had, even had he been no High King but a simple knight. Surely the madness that had seized her was long gone. It was right and fitting she should think kindly of her husband's cousin. Why, it was at Arthur's own will that she had first lain in Lancelet's arms. And now it was all past and over, and she had confessed it and been absolved; her priest had told her it was as if the sin had never been, and now she must strive to forget it.

  Yet she could not help remembering, a little, on this morning when Lancelet would be coming to court with his wife and son ... he was a married man, married to her own cousin. Now he was not only her husband's kinsman but her own kinsman as well. She could greet him with a kiss, and it would be no sin.

  Arthur turned over, as if her thoughts could disturb him, and smiled at her.

  "It is Pentecost day, sweetheart," he said, "and all of our kinfolk and friends will be here. Let me see you smile."

  She smiled at him and he drew her down against him, kissing her and letting his fingers circle her breasts.

  "You are certain what we do this day will not offend you? I would not have anyone think you were less to me," he said anxiously. "You are not old, God may yet bless us with children if it is his will. But the lesser kings have demanded it of me-life is never certain, so I must name an heir. When our first son is born, sweet, then it will be as if this day had never been, and I am sure young Galahad will not begrudge the throne to his cousin, but serve and honor him as Gawaine has done for me ... ."

  It might yet be true, Gwenhwyfar thought, surrendering herself to her husband's gentle caresses. There were such things told of in the Bible: the mother of John the Baptizer, who had been cousin to the Virgin-God had opened her womb long after she was past the age of bearing, and she, Gwenhwyfar, was not yet thirty ... why, Lancelet had said once that his mother was older than this when he was born. Perhaps this time, after all these years, she would arise from her husband's bed bearing again the seed of his son in her body. And now that she had learned not only to submit to him as a good wife must, but to take pleasure in his touch, his manhood filling her, surely she was softened and all the more ready to conceive and bear ... .

  No doubt it was all for the best, when for a time three years ago she had thought she bore Lancelet's child, but something had gone amiss ... three months she had not had her moon-blood and she had told one or two of her ladies that she was with child; and then, after three more months, when she should have felt the first quickening, it had proved to be nothing after all... but now, surely, with this new warmth she had known since she had been all wakened, this time it would come about as she wished. And Elaine would not gloat and triumph over her again ... . She might, for a little time, have been the mother of the King's heir, but Gwenhwyfar would be the mother of the King's son ... .

  She said something like that later, when they were dressing, and Arthur looked at her, troubled. "Is Lancelet's wife unkind or scornful to you, Gwen? I had thought you and your cousin were good friends ... ."

  "Oh, we are," said Gwenhwyfar, blinking back tears, "but it is always so with women ... tho
se women who have sons think ever they are the betters of any woman who is barren. The wife of the swineherd, in her childbed, no doubt thinks with scorn and pity of the Queen who cannot give her lord so much as a single son."

  Arthur came and kissed the back of her neck. "Don't, sweeting, don't cry. I would rather have you than another woman who could have given me a dozen sons already."

  "Truly?" Gwenhwyfar said, a hint of scorn in her voice. "Yet I was only something my father gave you with a hundred horsemen, just a part of the bargain-and you took me dutifully to get the horses-but I was a bad bargain-"

  He raised his eyes and stared at her with a blue incredulous gaze. "Have you been thinking of that and holding it against me all these years, my Gwen? But surely you must know that since the first moment that I looked on your face, no one could be dearer to me than you!" he said and wound his arms around her. She was rigid, blinking back tears, and he kissed her at the corner of her eye. "Gwenhwyfar, Gwenhwyfar, could you think- you are my wife, beloved, my own dear wife, and nothing on earth could part us. If I wanted only a brood mare to get me sons, God knows I could have had enough of them!"

  "But you have not," she said, still stiff and cold in his arms. "I would willingly take your son to foster, and bring him up as your heir. But you thought me not worthy to foster your son ... and it was you who pushed me into Lancelet's arms-"

  "Oh, my Gwen," he said, and his face was rueful like a punished child. "Do you hold it against me, that old madness? I was drunk, and it seemed to me that you loved Lancelet well... I thought to give you pleasure, and if it might truly be so, that it was my fault you did not bear, then you could have a child by one so close to me that I could in good conscience call whatever child came of that night, my own heir. But mostly it was that I was drunk-"

  "At times," she said, her face set like stone, "it has seemed to me that you loved Lancelet more than me. Can you say in truth that it was to give me pleasure, or was it for the pleasure of him you loved best of all-?"