“Oh, Lancelot, I’m so sorry! You sat on me! Here, let me help you. I have the bed all warm for you now.”
He felt a hand under his elbow and started to get up when he realized whose it was. He wrenched the boot off, throwing Elaine back onto the bed at the same time.
“How dare you sneak into my room!” he roared in blind fury. “Get out of here! At once!”
“Lancelot, please!” she wept. “I will do anything for you. I love you!”
“Get out!”
A light shone in from the doorway.
“Lancelot?” Guinevere’s voice called. “Are you all right? Arthur wants you. I thought I heard. . . .”
She looked from Lancelot standing, boot still in his hand, to Elaine lying on the bed, her arms open, waiting for him. The candle fell to the floor.
“Oh, excuse me. I thought . . . excuse me!”
“No, Guinevere.” Lancelot reached out to her. “I didn’t ask her here. I don’t want any part of her.”
“That’s not true,” Elaine cried hysterically. “He begged me to come. He doesn’t need you! You can’t have him. Lancelot! Tell her the truth.”
Guinevere stood there, confused, betrayed. Lancelot could read the doubt in her eyes. He looked from her to Elaine, who was still swearing that he had brought her to his bed. In another few minutes everyone in Caerleon would be there. What could he tell them? His glance darted back and forth between them as he tried to gather his thoughts.
Guinevere was angry at him. He had lied to her, made a fool of her. She wanted to yell and scream like any fishwife who had been deceived. Why didn’t he say something? He seemed to be losing contact with her, to be withdrawing from both of them.
“No!” she screamed. “You can’t do that again! I won’t let you go!”
She held his face still and forced him to look at her. “You mustn’t leave me again, Lancelot. I believe you. I believe everything you say. You must stay sane. You can’t love me if you’re mad!”
His eyes focused on her. He smiled. “I have no intention of going mad, Guinevere. Not if you love me.”
He took Guinevere’s hands from his face and kissed them before letting go. She turned her eyes away from him.
“You are quite safe. I have never loved anyone in my life as I do you. But now you must go to Arthur.”
The candle Guinevere had dropped in her haste had landed on the cold stone, flickered a few minutes, and gone out. By its last light Elaine saw Lancelot take Guinevere in his arms. She heard their whispers as they went from the room, but she no longer cared. While she thought he belonged to no one she could hope to bind him to her. Now there was nothing left but Galahad and they wanted to steal him too. She cried all night, with deep burning sobs of anguish. But no one came.
“How could you have been so clumsy!” Morgause berated Elaine. “If there had been anyone else I could have chosen for this, I never would have brought you.”
“I wanted him to love me,” Elaine whispered.
“That only confirms your stupidity,” Morgause continued. “Never mind. You at least managed to distract them while I worked. I have found out what I wanted to know. Morgan will be very pleased with me. She never could have done it. All right, girl, stop that eternal weeping. Gather your things together. We leave today.”
Arthur was relieved to hear she was departing, but he had to tell her that the snow which had fallen in the night made it almost impossible for anyone to leave.
“I really must go today,” Morgause insisted. “Can’t you command some of your men to clear the road for us? They have nothing better to do.”
She was swathed in furs so that her face was almost completely hidden. Her arm appeared from between the pelts and gestured what she thought of Arthur’s men. He fought the impulse to flatly deny her order.
“I will ask if any are willing to do it. I do not command people to do such work.”
She pushed back her hood and pouted at him. “Ah, but which of your people would volunteer to help us? They have not been terribly hospitable.”
Arthur thought everyone had treated her very well, some better than he would have liked. But it would still be hard to find men who would spend the day clearing snow for her benefit.
“If you must leave us today, then I will accompany you as far as Monlyth. We will see that you get that far by tonight.”
Morgause thanked him profusely and went to prepare. Arthur wondered how she had managed to maneuver him into going with her, then gave up, deciding that it was worth it to be rid of her. He sent for Gawain.
“I will be taking your aunt on the first part of her journey to Cornwall,” he explained. “I would like you and Lancelot to stay here with Guinevere. You both can sleep in the anteroom. Most of the other men will have to go with me to make a passage. What’s the matter?”
Gawain was obviously upset. “I would rather go with you, Uncle. Gareth will stay here. Or Lancelot could come with you.”
“No.” Arthur was firm. “You can’t work long enough in winter to be of use and Lancelot must be disassociated from Morgause and Elaine as much as possible. What’s wrong? You never objected to staying with Guinevere before.”
Gawain could think of no argument. He could not imagine why Arthur was doing this.
Pressing his fingers to his eyes, Arthur tried not to think of what might happen. He knew he could stand it no longer. He had to trust them now or spend the rest of his life watching them, afraid of catching them. Sometimes when he saw them together, he hurt more for their misery than for his own. “Let them have this one chance,” he decided grimly. “It may be enough and then Guinevere will be mine again.”
Gawain would have given anything to be able to keep watch that night. He wanted to have it out with Lancelot beforehand, but Guinevere ate with them and then suggested a game of chess with Lancelot in the anteroom. His last waking image was of the two of them on opposite sides of the board, sitting as stiff and taut as the carved pieces they moved.
They finished the game without speaking. Guinevere lost. She bade him good night and went to her room. Lancelot heard the bar drawn across the door with a mixture of relief and despair. He put out the lamp and lay down on his makeshift bed.
The room was heated only by a small brazier, but Lancelot was sweating. It was growing late. Gawain had been asleep for several hours and the rest of Caerleon seemed to have settled down for the night, too. There was only silence on the other side of the door. Guinevere was also asleep. She must be. He wanted her to be asleep. He told this to himself again. But he could not keep his eyes from the door.
The only sound was the soft sizzle as the coal burned itself to ash. Lancelot began to relax. Then he heard it, the scrape of the bar being lifted. He sat bolt upright as the door swung open. There stood Guinevere, draped in a blanket, holding a small oil lamp. The polished brass reflected the gold of her unbound hair.
Like a man in a dream that he is powerless to stop, Lancelot went to her. When the door had been barred again, she hesitated and then handed him the lamp.
“Hold it high, Lancelot. Don’t blow it out.”
She moved a few paces away from him, swallowed, and dropped the blanket to the floor.
“I know of your vows, Lancelot. I won’t ask you to break them, but you must look at me now, because I never, never again want you to mistake another woman’s body for mine.”
His first reaction was one of exultation. He had known her body would not disgust him. The lamp shook in his hand.
When he made no move toward her, Guinevere’s courage ebbed. She gathered up the blanket again and held out her hand for the light.
Instead of giving it to her, he set it carefully down on the table. To Guinevere, each separate movement was painfully slow. She had been so sure of him, now her breath stopped as she waited.
“Guinevere.” His voice started an erratic beating in her throat. “There is no vow that could stand against my need for you now. May I stay with you the night?”
“Yes, Lancelot, oh yes!”
They touched each other, shyly at first and then more surely, with a growing sense of wonder and excitement. In the last moment before Guinevere forgot herself entirely, she felt a stab of regret for Arthur.
“This is what we never had. This is the difference—not love, but joy!”
Much later they lay together, close and warm, murmuring inarticulate sounds. Guinevere rested her head on his chest, lazily tracing the lines of his ribs with her fingers. She felt such contentment that not even the knowledge that it was almost dawn could disturb her. Suddenly Lancelot started laughing. With a shock, Guinevere realized she had never known him to laugh like that, with such effortless freedom.
“Guinevere!” he kissed her and laughed again. “I must have gone insane, after all. By all rights, I should be wallowing now in guilt and self-damnation. I should be hating myself for giving way to animal lust.”
“I am not an animal,” she teased.
“Oh, yes, you are,” he said with triumph, “and so am I. And, God, am I glad of it. Tomorrow I may come to terms with myself, the fight may start once more. Tomorrow I will remember that I have a purpose, that I am the model for all the other knights. But now, this minute, I am only Lancelot and you are all the Heaven or earth I will ever need.”
“Isn’t it odd?” Guinevere mused. “I always felt somehow apart from everyone who loved me. However good they were to me, there was always something missing. They could never touch me. I will never feel that again. You are as much a part of me now as my soul. It is so good to know I will never be totally parted from you again.”
He ran his hand through her hair and down her back and silently promised her that she never would.
• • •
Lancelot was in his bed by the time Gawain awoke, but he wasn’t fooled. He knew that Lancelot was not asleep and probably hadn’t been all night. He went over and shook him.
“So, you were going to do nothing? Arthur will be back this afternoon. If Guinevere’s face glows anything like yours, he won’t be able to ignore it any longer. I won’t let you humiliate him in his own house.”
“It’s that obvious? I’m sorry, Gawain, but not for loving Guinevere. Nothing that could happen would make me sorry for that. But I will not shame Arthur. He gave us last night knowingly. Don’t worry. I will not stay to hurt him further.”
Gawain was skeptical. “She will let you go?”
Lancelot smiled. “Never. She will ride with me wherever I go. But I will find a way to leave Caerleon long enough for us to learn to hide what we share. Will you promise to stand by and help her?”
Gawain nodded. “Lancelot, don’t think I’m judging you. I don’t blame either of you for this. It’s only that I’m afraid of where it might lead.”
“I know, Gawain,” Lancelot reassured him. “But you can rest your fears awhile. Right now it only seems to be leading me away from here. I will tell Guinevere as soon as she awakes. Give me some time. It will not be easy.”
He waited until he heard her dressing and then knocked. She kissed him as if they had been separated a year. Gently he sat her down.
“You know that I can’t stay here now,” he told her bluntly.
“No, I don’t!” She stood again, facing him. “Why not?”
“Because I love you too much.”
“But you have always loved me. You never hid it. If you could stay all that time when I wouldn’t even speak to you, why, by all the saints, must you go now, when I finally admit that I love you?”
Her face was nearly pressed to his. With a force greater than any he had used in battle, he wrenched his eyes away.
“What of Arthur?” he asked brokenly. “Do you not love him?”
Guinevere pulled back, puzzled. “Arthur? Of course I love him. He is my husband and my King. It is my duty to love him. But, Lancelot, it is my destiny to love you.”
She did not try to touch him again, but her words seared him. “When I am with Arthur, I try to be good to him, to take care of him. It is not hard, for he is kind to me. But I feel nothing more. But when I stand beside you, I feel your heart beating out of time with mine and I long to change the rhythm of my body to make it one with yours. When you look at me, the whole earth might fall away and I would still be suspended in your eyes. You cannot go, for we have been joined in more than flesh. You would have to crack your soul asunder to tear me from you!”
“Guinevere!” he cried. “That is why I must go! Please, do not torture us any more than we can bear!”
He caught her hands roughly and pressed them to his face. She felt his tears slide between her fingers. She put her arms around him and he kissed her so fiercely that she was not sure if the salt on her lips were tears or blood.
“I must go. We would destroy ourselves, Arthur, and everything he loves. You must help me to take myself away from here!”
“I want you!” she pleaded. “I have always had what I wanted, however foolish. Why must I live without the first person who has ever had any meaning for me?”
He looked at her with those eyes that were so strangely familiar. She knew his pain to be as great as hers and the martyrdom she felt in him defeated her.
“Tell Arthur you are going, then,” she said dully. “No!” She kept him away with a gesture. “If you touch me again, I will never let you go.”
He went to gather his belongings. Slowly Guinevere went back to the bed. She smoothed her hand over the hollow he had left and then crawled into it, trying to hold his warmth a little longer.
That evening Lancelot told Arthur that he had decided to leave at once on a pilgrimage to Tours to pray at the shrine of St. Martin. Guinevere was able to smile and wish him a good journey. Arthur was harder to placate.
“But, Lancelot, I had counted on your wintering with us! We have so much to plan and do. You are not still worrying about Galahad, are you? I made arrangements with Morgause that he is to be sent to us on his fifth birthday. Guinevere, make him listen to reason!”
“I’m afraid that Lancelot will not listen to me if he will not obey you,” Guinevere said. Her efforts to keep her voice steady made her sound cool and aloof. “But he knows that I join you in asking him to stay.”
“My King . . . my friend,” Lancelot began. “I would give anything to be able to remain with you, but I cannot rest here inactive. I am no good at winter games or fireside tales. And I have a great yearning to seek the answers to the mysteries of my life. Perhaps St. Martin can guide me.”
Arthur agreed with a further show of regret, but he was surprised to feel a wave of relief. It would be a year or more before Lancelot returned. He would have time. They were giving him another chance.
“Go, then, may you find what you desire.” He took Guinevere’s hand. “We will always be ready to welcome you. It is a long journey. Try to send us word from time to time.”
“Someone should go with you,” Guinevere said. “Caet! He has crossed the channel before. Take him with you. Please! Then I won’t worry so.”
Arthur hunted mentally through his retainers. The name was familiar. “Caet? Wasn’t that the boy at your father’s house?”
Caet had been sitting in a corner, finishing his stew, when he heard his name mentioned. He knew it would happen one day. Guinevere could not be trusted to remember what should be kept secret. He got up, set down his bowl, and went to the King.
“You must go with him, Caet,” Guinevere insisted before he had a chance to speak. “You are the only one I can trust.”
“Caet?” Arthur studied him sharply. “It is. Briacu, why didn’t you tell me who you were at once? He was with us, Guinevere, years ago, when I saw the vision of the Holy Mother in the forest. You saw her, too, didn’t you? I don’t understand. Why would you hide yourself from me?”
Caet had no answer. But he felt as if he had been stripped of his protection. He did not want to stay at Caerleon while Arthur sorted out his new self from the old. It crossed his mind that Guine
vere might have intended it that way. She was still waiting for his answer.
“I am sorry to have deceived you, Arthur. I have no explanation that would make sense. If Sir Lancelot will allow me, I will be happy to go with him. I have never been to Tours, but the way is well marked. Perhaps St. Martin will also show me guidance.”
“Thank you, Caet.” Guinevere wanted to say more, but he would not let her.
“If you want to leave at once, Sir Lancelot, the snow has been cleared as far as Monlyth and I can be ready in half an hour.”
“I am already packed. I will get the horses while you prepare, and meet you at the gate.”
Guinevere steeled herself for their departure. She watched from the window as Arthur clasped both men’s hands and wished them a safe journey. She would not say good-bye. He would be back, Caet would not let him be hurt. And if she grew tired of waiting, there was one night she could cling to. It was enough for now to know they had shared it.
As they prepared for bed that night, Arthur watched Guinevere pensively. He drew random shapes with his finger on the table, unable to bring himself to go to her.
Guinevere stopped braiding her hair to look at him, really look. She saw a tall, strong, handsome man who wielded immense power and yet was always gentle and loving to her. With a stab of guilt she also saw clearly, for the first time, a man bitterly tired and lonely who was too good to take what she would not offer first.
“Oh, Arthur,” she wept to herself. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t even know. I cannot share with you the joy Lancelot gives me, but I can at least try to give you comfort and, perhaps, a little understanding.”
She left her hair undone and went to him.
About the Author
Sharan Newman is a medieval historian and author. She took her Master’s degree in Medieval Literature at Michigan State University did doctoral work at the University of California at Santa Barbara in Medieval Studies, specializing in twelfth-century France. She is a member of the Medieval Academy, the Authors Guild and Mystery Writers of America.
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