Standing, Arthur drank to the knights who would never return from the quest. "Here before you all, I swear that none of their wives or children shall ever know want while I live and Camelot stands with one stone upon another," he said. "I share your sorrow. The heir to my throne died in the quest of the Grail." He turned, and held out his hand to Gwydion, who came slowly to his side. He looked younger than he was, in a plain white tunic, his dark hair caught in a golden band.
Arthur said, "A king cannot, like other men, indulge in long mourning, my Companions. Here I ask you to mourn with me for my lost nephew and adopted son, who now will never reign at my side. But even though our mourning is still green, I ask you to accept Gwydion-sir Mordred- the son of my only sister, Morgaine of Avalon, as my heir. Gwydion is young, but he has become one of my wise councillors." He raised his cup and drank. "I drink to you, my son, and to your reign when mine is done."
Gwydion came and knelt before Arthur. "May your reign be long, my father." It seemed to Gwenhwyfar that he was blinking back tears, and she liked him better for it. The Companions drank, and then, led by Gareth, broke out in cheering.
But Gwenhwyfar sat silent. She had known this must come, but she had not expected it to happen at Galahad's very funeral feast! Now she turned to Lancelet and whispered, "I wish he had waited! I wish he had consulted with his councillors!"
"Knew you not he intended this?" Lancelet asked. He reached out and took her hand, pressing it softly and holding on to it, stroking her fingers beneath the rings she wore. Her fingers seemed now so thin and bony, not young and soft as they had been; she felt abashed and would have drawn her hand away, but he would not let her. He said, still stroking her hand, "Arthur should not have done that to you without warning-"
"God knows, I have no right to complain, who could not give him a son, so he must make do with Morgaine's-"
"Still, he should have warned you," Lancelet said. It was the first time, Gwenhwyfar thought distantly, that he had ever, even for a moment, seemed to criticize Arthur. He raised her hand gently to his lips, then let it go as Arthur approached them with Gwydion. Stewards were bringing smoking platters of meat, trays of fresh fruits and hot breads, setting sweetmeats every few places along the table. Gwenhwyfar let her steward help her to some meat and fruits, but she barely touched her plate. She saw, with a smile, that it had been arranged that she shared her plate with Lancelet, as so often she had done at other Pentecost feasts; and that Niniane, on Arthur's other side, was eating from his dish. Once he called her daughter, which relieved Gwenhwyfar's mind somewhat-perhaps he accepted her already as his son's potential wife. To her surprise Lancelet seemed to follow her thought.
"Will the next festival at court be a wedding? I would have thought the kinship too close-"
"Would that matter in Avalon?" Gwenhwyfar asked, her voice harsher than she intended; the old pain was still there.
Lancelet shrugged. "I know not-in Avalon as a boy I heard of a country far to the south of here, where the royal house married always their own sister and brother that the royal blood might not be diluted by that of the common people, and that dynasty lasted for a thousand years."
"Heathen men," said Gwenhwyfar. "They knew nothing of God, and knew not that they sinned ... ."
Yet Gwydion seemed not to have suffered from the sin of his mother and his father; why should he, Taliesin's grandson-no, his great-grandson -hesitate to wed with Taliesin's daughter?
God will punish Camelot for that sin, she thought suddenly. For Arthur's sin and for mine ... and Lancelet's ...
Beyond her she heard Arthur say to Gwydion, "You said once in my hearing that Galahad looked not like one who would live to his crowning."
"And you remember too, my father and my lord," said Gwydion quietly, "that I swore to you I would have no part in his death, but that he would die honorably for the cross he worshipped, and it was so."
"What more do you foresee, my son?"
"Ask me not, lord Arthur. The Gods are kind when they say that no man may know his own end. Even if I knew-and I say not that I know -I would tell you nothing."
Perhaps, thought Gwenhwyfar, with a sudden shiver, God has punished us enough for our sin when he sent us this Mordred ... and then, looking at the young man, she was dismayed. How can I think so of the one who has been to Arthur as a son indeed? He is not to blame for his fathering!
She said to Lancelet, "Arthur should not have done this before Galahad was cold in his grave!"
"Not so, my lady. Arthur knows well the duties of a king. Do you think it would matter to Galahad, where he has gone, who sits on the throne he never wished for? I would have done better to make my son a priest, Gwenhwyfar."
She looked at Lancelet, brooding, a thousand leagues away from her, gone into himself where she could never follow, and she said, awkwardly, reaching for him in the best way she could, "And did you, then, fail to find the Grail?"
She saw him come slowly back through the long distance. "I came- nearer than any sinful man can come and live. But I was spared, to tell the men at Arthur's court that the Grail has gone forever beyond this world." Again he fell silent, then said across that vast distance, "I would have followed it beyond the world, but I was given no choice."
She wondered, Did you not, then, wish to return to court for my sake? And it seemed clear to her that Lancelet was more like Arthur than she had ever known, and that she had never been anything more, to either of them, than a diversion between war and quest; that the real life of a man was lived in a world where love meant nothing. All his life he had devoted to wars at Arthur's side, and now when there was no war he had given himself over to a great Mystery. The Grail had come between them, as Arthur had come between them, and Lancelet's own honor.
Now even Lancelet had turned to God, and thought, no doubt, only that she had led him into grave sin. The pain was unendurable. In all of life, she had had nothing more than this, and she could not keep herself from reaching out to him, clasping his hand. "I have longed for you," she whispered, and was shocked at the longing in her voice; he will think me no better than Morgause, flinging myself at his head ... . He held her hand and said softly, "And I have missed you, Gwen." And then, as if he could read her whole hungry heart, he said in a low voice, "Grail or no Grail, beloved, nothing could have brought me back to this court but the thought of you. I would have remained there, spending the rest of my life in prayers that I might see again that Mystery that was hidden from my eyes. But I am no more than a man, my beloved ... ."
And she knew what it was that he was saying, and pressed his hand. "Shall I send away my women, then?"
He hesitated a moment, and Gwenhwyfar felt the old dread ... how dared she be so forward, so lacking in a woman's modesty? ... Always, this moment was like death. Then he tightened his grip on her fingers and said, "Yes, my love."
BUT AS SHE awaited him, alone in the darkness, she wondered in bitterness if his "Yes" had been like Arthur's, an offer made from time to time out of pity, or a wish to save her pride. Now that there was no longer the slightest hope that she would bear to Arthur a belated child, he could have stopped coming to her, but he was too kind to give her women cause to smile behind her back. Still, it was like a knife in her heart that Arthur always seemed relieved when she sent him away; there were even times when she invited him in and they talked together or she lay for a time in his arms, content to be held and comforted, but demanding no more of him. Now she wondered if Arthur felt that his embraces would be unwelcome to her, so that he seldom offered them, or whether he truly did not desire her. She wondered if he ever had desired her, or had always come to her because she was the wife he had taken and it was his duty to give her children.