Morgaine blinked, trying to collect herself. A young man, slender and dark-haired, with dark eyes; something familiar about him, but she could not quite remember. . . .
“You do not remember me, lady?” he said reproachfully. “And I was told you had wagered a ribbon on my success in just such a mock battle a year or two ago—or was it three?”
Now she remembered him; he was the son of King Uriens of North Wales. Accolon, that was his name; and she had wagered with one of the Queen’s ladies who claimed that no man could stand in the field against Lancelet. . . . She had never known how her wager came off; that was the Pentecost when Viviane had been murdered.
“Indeed I remember you, sir Accolon, but that Pentecost feast, you may remember, ended in such brutal murder, and it was my foster-mother who was slain—”
He was at once contrite. “Then I must beg your pardon for calling such a sad occasion to your mind. And I suppose there will be enough mock battles and combats before we leave here again, now that there is no war in the land—my lord Arthur wishes to know that his legions are still skilled to defend us all.”
“The need seems not too likely,” she said, “even the wild Northmen turn elsewhere these days. Do you miss the days of battle and glory?”
He had, she thought, a nice smile. “I fought at Mount Badon,” he said. “It was my first battle, and came near to being my last. I think I prefer mock battles and tourneys. I will fight if I must, but it is better to fight in play against friends who have no real desire to kill, with pretty ladies looking down and admiring us—in real battle, lady, there is none to admire gallantry, and indeed, little of gallantry, for all they talk of courage. . . .”
They had moved, as they spoke, nearer to the church; and now the sound of the bells nearly drowned his voice—a pleasant, musical voice, she thought. She wondered if he played upon the harp. She turned abruptly away from the sound of the bells.
“Are you not going to the holy day mass, lady Morgaine?”
She smiled and looked down at his wrists, where the serpents twined. She ran a light finger over one of them. “Are you?”
“I do not know. I thought I might go to see the faces of my friends—no, I think not,” he said, smiling at her, “when there is a lady to talk to. . . .”
She said, tingeing her voice with irony, “Do you not fear for your soul?”
“Oh, my father is pious enough for both of us . . . he has no wife now, and no doubt he wishes to study out the land and see how it lies for his next conquest. He has listened well to the Apostle and knows it is better to marry than to burn, and he burns oftener than I would think dignified for a man of his years. . . .”
“You have lost your mother, sir Accolon?”
“Aye, before I was weaned; and my stepmothers one, two, and three,” Accolon said. “My father has three sons living, and it is certain he can have no further need of heirs, but he is too pious only to take a woman to his bed, so he must marry again. And even my oldest brother is married, and has a son.”
“You were the son of his old age?”
“Of his middle age,” Accolon said, “and I am not so young as all that. If there had not been war when I was younger, I might have been destined for Avalon and the lore of the priests. But my father has grown Christian in his old age.”
“Yet you wear the serpents.”
He nodded. “And know something of their wisdom, yet not enough to content me. In these days there is not much for a younger son to do. My father told me he would also seek a wife for me at this gathering,” he said with a smile. “I would that you were the daughter of some lesser man, lady.”
Morgaine felt herself blushing like a girl. “Oh, I am too old for you,” she said, “and I am only the King’s half-sister by his mother’s first marriage. My father was Duke Gorlois, the first man Uther Pendragon killed as a traitor. . . .”
There was a brief silence before Accolon said, “In these days it is dangerous, perhaps, to wear the serpents—or will be, if the priests grow more powerful. When Arthur came to the throne, I heard he had the support of Avalon, that the Merlin gave him the sword of the Holy Regalia. But now he has made this so Christian a court . . . my father told me that he feared Arthur would move this land back to the Druid rule, but it seems he has not. . . .”
“True,” she said, and for a moment anger stifled her. “Yet still he wears the Druid sword. . . .”
He looked at her closely. “And you bear the crescent of Avalon.” Morgaine blushed. All the people had gone into the church now, and the doors were shut. “It has begun to rain harder—lady Morgaine, you will be drenched, you will take cold. You must go inside. But will you come and sit beside me at the feast this day?”
She hesitated, smiling. It was certain that Arthur and Gwenhwyfar would not seek her company at the high table this day of all days.
She who must remember what it was like to fall prey to Meleagrant’s lust . . . should she blame me, she that comforted herself in the arms of her husband’s dearest friend? Oh, no, it was not rape, nothing like to it, but still I was given to the Horned One without anyone’s asking if it was what I wished . . . it was not desire brought me to my brother’s bed, but obedience to the will of the Goddess. . . .
Accolon was still waiting for her answer, his face turned to her, eagerly. If I willed it, he would kiss me, he would beg me for the favor of a single touch. She knew it and the thought was healing to her pride. She smiled at him, a smile that dazzled him.
“I will indeed, if we can sit far off from your father.”
And it struck her suddenly: Arthur had looked at her like that. That is what Gwenhwyfar fears. She knows what I did not know, that if I stretched my hand to Arthur, I could make him ignore anything she said; Arthur loves me best. I have no desire for Arthur, I would have him only as a dear brother, but she does not know that. She fears that I will beckon with my hand, and with the secret arts of Avalon I will seduce him to my bed again.
“I beg you, go inside and change your—your gown,” said Accolon earnestly, and Morgaine smiled at him again and pressed his hand in her own.
“I will see you at the feast.”
All through the holy day service, Gwenhwyfar had sat alone, striving to compose herself. The Archbishop had preached the usual Pentecost sermon, telling of the descent of the Holy Spirit, and she thought, If Arthur has at last repented all his sins and become a Christian, then I must give thanks to the Holy Spirit for coming on us both today. She let her fingers stray unseen to her belly; today they had lain together, it might be that at Candlemas she would hold in her arms the heir to the kingdom . . . she looked across the church to where Lancelet knelt at Elaine’s side. She could see, jealously, that Elaine’s waist was already swelling again. Another son, or a daughter. And now Elaine flaunts herself, beside the man I loved so long and so well with the son I should have borne . . . well, I must bend my head and be humble a while, it will not hurt me to pretend that I believe her son will follow Arthur on his throne. . . . Ah, I am a sinful woman, I spoke to Arthur of humbling his pride, and I am full of pride.
The church was crowded, as always at this holy day mass. Arthur looked pale and subdued; he had spoken with the bishop, but there had been no time for extended talk before the mass. She knelt beside him and felt that he was a stranger, far more of a stranger than when she had first lain in his bed, terrified of the unknown things ahead of her.
I should have held my peace with Morgaine. . . .
Why do I feel guilty? It was Morgaine who sinned . . . I have repented my sins and confessed them and been absolved. . . .
Morgaine was not in the church; no doubt, she had not had the brazenness to come unshriven to holy services when she had been exposed for what she was—incestuous, heathen, witch, sorceress.
The service seemed to last forever, but at last the blessing was given and the people began to move out of the church. Once for a moment she found herself crushed against Elaine and Lancelet; he had his arm pro
tectively around his wife, that she should not be jostled. Gwenhwyfar raised her eyes to them, so that she need not look at Elaine’s swollen belly.
“It is long since we have seen you at court,” she said.
“Ah, there is much to do in the North,” Lancelet said.
“No more dragons, I trust?” Arthur asked.
“God be thanked, no,” Lancelet said, smiling. “My first sight of a dragon was like to be my last. . . . God forgive me that I mocked at Pellinore when he spoke of the beast! And now that there are no more Saxons to slay, I suppose our Companions must go against dragons and bandits and reavers, and all manner of ill things that plague the people.”
Elaine smiled shyly at Gwenhwyfar. “My husband is like to all men—they would rather go into battle, even against dragons, than stay home and enjoy that peace they fought so hard to win! Is Arthur so?”
“I think he has battle enough, here at court where all men come to him for justice,” said Gwenhwyfar, dismissing that. “When will this one come?” she added, looking at Elaine’s swelling body. “Do you think it will be another son, or a daughter?”
“I hope it is another son, I do not want a daughter,” Elaine said, “but it shall be as God wills. Where is Morgaine? Did she not come to church? Is she ill?”
Gwenhwyfar smiled scornfully. “I think you know how good a Christian Morgaine is.”
“But she is my friend,” Elaine said, “and no matter how bad a Christian she may be, I love her and I will pray for her.”
Well you might, thought Gwenhwyfar bitterly. She had you married to spite me. It seemed that Elaine’s sweet blue eyes were cloying, her voice false. It seemed to her that if she stood there a moment more listening to Elaine she would turn on her and strangle her. She made an excuse, and after a moment Arthur followed her.
He said, “I had hoped we would have Lancelet with us for some weeks, but he would be off to the North again. But he said Elaine might stay, if you would like to have her. She is near enough to her confinement that he would rather she did not return alone. Perhaps Morgaine is lonely for her friend, too. Well, you women must arrange that among yourselves—” He turned, and his face was bleak as he looked down at her. “I must go to the Archbishop. He said he would speak with me immediately after mass.”
She wanted to clutch at him, keep him back, hold him with her by both hands, but it had gone too far for that.
“Morgaine was not in church,” he said. “Tell me, Gwenhwyfar, did you say anything to her—”
“I spoke not one word to her, good or bad,” she said shrilly. “As for where she is, I care not—I wish she were in hell!”
He opened his mouth and for a moment she thought he would chide her, and in a perverse way she longed for his wrath. But he only sighed and lowered his head. She could not bear to see him so beaten, like a whipped dog. “Gwen, I beg you, do not quarrel further with Morgaine. She has been hurt enough already—” And then, as if he was ashamed of his pleading, he turned abruptly and went away from her, toward where the Archbishop was standing and greeting his flock. As Arthur came toward him he bowed, spoke a few words of excuse to the others, and the King and the Archbishop moved away together through the crowds.
Inside the castle there was much to do—welcoming guests to the hall, speaking to men who had been Arthur’s Companions in years gone by, explaining to them that Arthur had business with one of his councillors—that was no lie, Patricius was indeed one of Arthur’s advisers—and would be late. For a time everyone was so busy greeting old friends, exchanging stories of what had befallen in their homes and villages, of what marriages had been made and daughters betrothed and sons grown to manhood, of what babies had been born and robbers slain and roads built, that the time went on and the absence of King Arthur was hardly noticed. But at last even reminiscences palled, and the people in the hall began to murmur. The food would be cold, Gwenhwyfar knew; but you could not start the King’s feast unless the King was there. She gave orders for wine and beer and cider to be served, knowing that by the time the food was served now, many of the guests would be too drunk to care. She saw Morgaine far down the table, laughing and talking with a man she did not recognize, save that he had the serpents of Avalon around his wrist; would she practice her priestess-harlotries to seduce him too, as she had seduced Lancelet before him, and the Merlin? Morgaine’s whorish ways were so great, she could not let any man slip beyond her grasp.
When Arthur finally came, walking slowly and heavily, she was overwhelmed with distress; she had never seen him look like that except when he was wounded and near to death. She felt suddenly that he had taken a deeper wound than she could know, in his very soul, and for a moment wondered, had Morgaine been right to spare him this knowledge? No. As his devoted wife, what she had done was to secure the health of his soul and his eventual salvation; what was a little humiliation against that?
He had taken off his holiday gown and wore a simple tunic, unadorned; nor had he put on the coronet he wore on such occasions. His golden hair looked dull and greyed. As they saw him enter, all his Companions had broken into wild applause and cheering; he stood solemnly, accepting it, smiling, then finally raised a hand.
“I am sorry to have kept you all waiting,” he said. “I beg you forgive me, and go to your meat.” He sat down at his place, sighing. The servants began to go around with the smoking pots and platters, the carvers to wield their knives. Gwenhwyfar let one of the butlers lay some slices of roast duck on her plate, but she only played with her food. After a time she dared to raise her eyes and look toward Arthur. Among the abundance of festival meats, he had nothing on his plate but a bit of bread, without even butter, and in his cup was only water.
She remonstrated, “But you are eating nothing—”
His smile was wry. “It is no insult to the food. I am sure it is fine as always, my love.”
“It is not well done, to fast on a feast day—”
He grimaced. “Well, if you must have it,” he said impatiently, “the bishop would have it that my sin was so grievous that he cannot absolve it with ordinary penance, and since that was what you wished of me, well—” He spread his hands wearily. “And so I come to Pentecost holiday in my shirt and without my fine clothing, and I have many fastings and prayers till I have done full penance—but you have had your wish, Gwenhwyfar.” He picked up his cup and drank water, resolutely, and she knew he did not want her to say more.
But she had not wanted it like this. . . . Gwenhwyfar tightened her whole body so that she would not weep again; all eyes were on them, and surely it was scandal enough that the King sat fasting at his own highest festival. Outside the rain beat and battered on the roof. There was a strange silence in the hall. At last Arthur raised his head and called for music.
“Let Morgaine sing for us—she is better than any minstrel!”
Morgaine! Morgaine! Always Morgaine! But what could she do? Morgaine, she noticed, had put off the bright gown she had worn that morning and was wearing dark sober stuff like a nun’s. She looked not so much like a harlot, now, without her bright ribbons; she came and took the harp, and sat near the King’s table to sing.
Because it seemed to be what Arthur wished, there was some laughing and gaiety, and when Morgaine had finished, another took the harp, and another. There was much moving from table to table, talking, singing, drinking.
Lancelet came toward them and Arthur gestured to him to sit beside them, as in the old days, on the bench. The servants were bringing great plates of sweets and fruit, baked apples in cream and wine, all manner of delicate and subtle pastries. They sat talking of nothing in particular, and Gwenhwyfar felt happy for a moment: it was like old times, when they had all been friends, when there was love among them all . . . why could it not always have stayed like that?
After some time, Arthur rose and said, “I think I will go and talk to some of the older Companions . . . my legs are young, and some of them are getting so old and grey. Pellinore—he looks not as if
he could fight a dragon. I think a good stiff fight with Elaine’s little lapdog would be hard for him now!”
Lancelet said, “Since Elaine is married, it is as if he has nothing more to do in life. Such men often die soon after they have decided such a thing. I hope it may not be so with him—I love Pellinore and hope he will be long with us.” He smiled shyly. “I never felt I had a father—though Ban was good to me in his way—and now, for the first time, I have a kinsman who treats me as a son. Brothers I had not either, till I was grown and Ban’s sons Lionel and Bors came to the court. I grew to manhood hardly speaking their language. And Balan had other concerns.”
Arthur had hardly smiled since he had come from the bishop’s rooms, but he was smiling now. “Does a cousin count for so much less than a brother, then, Galahad?”
Lancelet reached out and gripped his wrist. “God strike me if I could forget that, Gwydion—” He raised his eyes to Arthur, and for a moment, Gwenhwyfar thought Arthur would embrace him; but then Arthur drew back and let his hand drop. Lancelet gazed at him, startled, but Arthur got quickly to his feet.