Marion Bradley - The Mists of Avalon

Alienor gave her a startled glance. "Thank you, Gwenhwyfar. Go and make yourself tidy and you may serve the wine. I am far too busy."

Gwenhwyfar ran to her room, pulled her best gown on over the simple kirtle she wore, and hung a string of coral beads about her neck. She unbraided her fair hair and let it fall, rippled from the tight braiding. Then she put on the little gold maiden's circlet she wore, and went down, composing her steps and moving lightly; she knew the blue gown became her as no other color, no matter how costly, could do.

She fetched a bronze basin, filled it with warmed water from the kettle hanging near the fire, and strewed rose leaves in it; she came into the hall as her father and Lancelet were entering. She set down her basin, took their cloaks and hung them on the peg, then came and offered them the warmed, scented water to wash their hands. Lancelet smiled, and she knew he had recognized her.

"Did we not meet on the Isle of the Priests, lady?"

"You have met my daughter, sir?"

Lancelet nodded, and Gwenhwyfar said, in her shyest little voice-she had found, long ago, that it displeased her father if she spoke out boldly ' -"Father, he showed me the way to my convent door when I was lost."

Leodegranz smiled at her indulgently. "My little featherhead, if she goes three steps from her own doorway, she is lost. Well, sir Lancelet, what do you think of my horses?"

"I have told you-they are better than any we can buy or breed," he said. "We have some from the Moorish realms down in Spain, and we have bred them with the highland ponies, so we have horses that are sturdy and can endure our climate, but are swift and brave. But we need more. We can breed only so many. You have more than enough, and I can show you how to train them so you can lead them into battle-"

"No," the king interrupted, "I am an old man. I have no desire to learn new battle methods. I have been four times married, but all my former wives bore only sickly girls who die before they are weaned, sometimes before they are baptized. I have daughters; when the eldest marries, her husband will lead my men into battle, and can train them as he will. Tell your High King to come here, and we will discuss the matter."

Lancelet said, a little stiffly, "I am my lord Arthur's cousin and his captain, sire, but even I do not tell him to come and go."

"Beseech him, then, to come to an old man who does not want to ride out from his own fireside," the king said, a little wryly. "If he will not come for me, perhaps he will come to know how I will dispose of my horses and the armed men to ride them."

Lancelet bowed. "No doubt he will."

"Enough of this, then; pour us some wine, daughter," the king said, and Gwenhwyfar came shyly and poured wine into their cups. "Now run along, my girl, so that my guest and I may talk together."

Gwenhwyfar, dismissed, waited in the garden until a servant came out and called for the lord Lancelet's horse and armor. The horse he had ridden here and the horse her father had given him were brought to the door, and she watched from the shadow of the wall until she saw him ride away; then she stepped out and stood waiting. Her heart pounded-would he think her too bold? But he saw her and smiled, and the smile seized her very heart.

"Are you not afraid of that great fierce horse?"

Lancelet shook his head. "My lady, I do not believe the horse was ever foaled that I cannot ride."

She said, almost whispering, "Is it true that you control horses with your magic?"

He threw back his head with a ringing laugh. "By no means, lady; I have no magic. I like horses and I understand their ways and the way their minds work-that is all. Do I look to you like a sorcerer?"

"But-they say you have fairy blood," she said, and his laughter grew grave. He said, "My mother was indeed one of the old race who ruled this land before the Roman people ever came here, or even the northern Tribesmen. She is priestess on the Isle of Avalon, and a very wise woman."

"I can see that you would not want to speak ill of your mother," Gwenhwyfar said, "but the sisters on Ynis Witrin said that the women of Avalon were evil witches and served the devils ... ."

He shook his head, still grave. "Not so," he said. "I do not know my mother well; I was fostered elsewhere. I fear her, as much as I love. But I can tell you she is no evil woman. She brought my lord Arthur to the throne, and gave him his sword to stand against the Saxons-does that sound so evil to you? As for her magic-it is only the ignorant among them who say she is a sorceress. I think it well that a woman should be wise."

Gwenhwyfar hung her head. "I am not wise; I am very stupid. Even among the sisters, I learned only enough to read my way through the mass book, which they said was all I needed of learning, and then such things as women learn-cookery and herbs and simples and the binding of wounds-"

"For me, all that would be a greater mystery than the training of horses, which you think magic," Lancelet said, with his wide smile. Then he leaned down from his horse and touched her cheek. "If God is good and the Saxons hold off a few moons yet, I will see you again, when I come here in the High King's train. Say a prayer for me, lady."

He rode away, and Gwenhwyfar stood watching, her heart pounding, but this time the sensation was almost pleasant. He would come again, he wanted to come again. And her father had said she should be married to someone who could lead horses and men into battle; who better than the High King's cousin and his captain of horse? Was he thinking, then, to marry her to Lancelet? She felt herself blush with delight and happiness. For the first time she felt pretty and bold and brave.

But inside the hall, her father said, "A handsome man, this Elf-arrow, and good with horses, but far too handsome to be reckoned more than that."

Gwenhwyfar said, surprised at her own boldness, "If the High King has made him his first of captains, he must be the best of fighters!"

Leodegranz shrugged. "The King's cousin, he could hardly be left without some post in his armies. Has he tried to win your heart-or," he added, with the scowl that frightened her, "your maidenhead?"

She felt herself blushing again and was hopelessly angry at herself. "No, he is an honorable man, and what he has said to me is no more than he could have said in your presence, Father."

"Well, don't get any ideas into that featherhead of yours," Leodegranz said gruffly. "You can look higher than that one. He's no more than one of King Ban's bastards by God-knows-who, some damsel of Avalon!"

"His mother is the Lady of Avalon, the great High Priestess of the Old People-and he is himself a king's son-"

"Ban of Benwick! Ban has half a dozen legitimate sons," said her father. "Why marry a king's captain? If all goes as I plan, you'll wed the High King himself!"

Gwenhwyfar shrank away, saying, "I'd be afraid to be the High Queen!"

"You're afraid of everything, anyway," her father said brutally. "That's why you need a man to take care of you, and better the King than the King's captain!" He saw her mouth trembling and said, genial again, "There, there, my girl, don't cry. You must trust me to know what's best for you. That's what I'm here for, to look after you and make a good marriage with a trusty man to look after my pretty little featherhead."

If he had raged at her, Gwenhwyfar could have held on to her rebellion. But how, she thought wildly, can I complain of the best of fathers, who has only my own welfare at heart?

3

On a day in early spring, in the year following Arthur's crowning, the lady Igraine sat in her cloister, bent over a set of embroidered altar linens. All her life she had loved this fine work, but as a young girl, and later, married to Gorlois, she had been kept busy-like all women-with the weaving and spinning and sewing of clothes for her household. As Uther's queen, with a household of servants, she had been able to spend her time on fine broideries and weaving of borders and ribbons in silk; and here in the nunnery she put her skill to good use. Otherwise, she thought a little ruefully, it would be for her as it was with so many of the nuns, the weaving only of the dark plain woolen dresses which all of them, including Igraine herself, wore, or the smooth, but boring, white linens for veils and coifs and altar cloths. Only two or three of the sisters could weave with silks or do fine embroidering, and of them Igraine was the cleverest.