4 PENTECOST
Lancelot, Gawaine, Bedwyr, and Peredur sat drinking wine in Arthur's room. Lancelot as usual drank less than the others. The king liked to have his favored few in his room after he left the grand table for the night. Lancelot felt honored to be included but always longed for the moment when she could leave and go to Guinevere.
Arthur imbibed some expensive wine—the wine at this table was always finer than that served at the large one. "Gawaine, tell us the tale you once told about bedding two women."
Lancelot's clenched her hands, which were under the table.
Gawaine choked. "That was just a foolish story that I told when I was young. I think it is more common for men to tell tales about such things than actually to do them. I never really did anything like that." His face reddened to the shade of his beard.
Arthur set his winecup on the table. "What difference does it make whether you really did that or not? No one cares. Tell the tale."
Gawaine regarded his winecup. "Rather, I shall tell about the time that I met the goddess Cerridwen in a forest glade..."
"Lying with Cerridwen? That's foolish." Arthur grumbled. "Why not tell the other story?"
"Of course I have been intimate with Cerridwen. She was supremely fair. Her hair looked sometimes gold as the sun, sometimes red as fire, sometimes black as a raven's wing. Her eyes were sometimes deep blue, sometimes green, and yet also brown..."
Lancelot quietly rose from the table, inclined her head to the king, and departed. She tried to keep herself from shaking with anger at the thought of a man lying with two women at once, or even telling a tale about it. That seemed to profane a love like hers.
When Lancelot woke the next morning, Guinevere touched her cheek. Her hand thrilled to the touch, as always. “Can you go riding with me today?” she asked, looking into Lancelot's eyes. “I long to go to the forest with you. I don't care what the weather is.”
Lancelot sighed. “I need to work with the young men to prepare them for the Pentecost contests. I wish I could go with you. Could you go with another escort?”
Guinevere looked at the wall. “I want to go with you. I understand that I cannot. But Bors is the only other one I would want to ride with, and he will also be busy. How I wish I could go to the woods without an escort. But I know that is not your fault.”
Lancelot kissed Guinevere's hand. “I'm sorry that you cannot go without an escort. But I think Arthur's right that it would be too dangerous.”
“Perhaps. But I wish I could decide that for myself rather than being ordered.” Guinevere tried to pull herself together. She understood the rules that she must follow as a queen. “Please enjoy your day.”
“I would enjoy it more if I could be with you.” Lancelot embraced her, then rose from the bed and dressed.
It was always the same. It would always be the same. Guinevere told herself she must be grateful for all she had. Perhaps it would have been better if she had not grown up loving to ride so much.
In fighting practice, Lancelot avoided being partnered with Gawaine. But when she left the great hall after supper, he followed her into the darkened courtyard. The night was clouded, hiding the stars.
"Don't be angry over a foolish story I told years ago, when I didn't know about you," Gawaine said in an unusually contrite voice—or was it cajoling, not contrite? "I wouldn't make up one like that now because I don't want to offend you."
"I'm not angry, just disgusted." Without saying anything further, Lancelot strode away. She would have to speak with him in the future, of course, but she didn't need to do so at the moment.
The older warriors had been teaching the younger ones, who seemed nearly mad with enthusiasm as they practiced for the coming Pentecost contest, a first for some of them. The new spring grass had quickly been worn to dust on the practice field.
Gawaine casually walked up to Lancelot and said, "I'd like a word with you."
Lancelot did not smile, but she could not refuse to talk with him. "Very well." Wiping the sweat from her brow, she handed her horse to a stablehand and put down her spear.
Camelot rang with the clatter of blacksmiths sharpening swords and fixing chain mail in preparation for the contest. Lancelot was more used to the tumult than she had been when she first came, but it still made her long for the quiet forest.
They walked away from the noise, towards the tilled fields where farmers tried to grow enough for the permanent army and the livestock that it needed. A blackbird sang.
"Pentecost is coming," Gawaine observed.
"Do you want me to pray for your soul?" She didn't look him in the eye. "I doubt that would help much."
"Probably not," he said cheerfully, as if he hadn't noticed the lack of warmth in her tone. "Of course I'm referring to the fighting contests. We'll defeat everyone else, so we'll have to fight each other as usual."
"Yes, for the first time you'll have fight me knowing I'm a woman." Lancelot couldn't help smiling at that prospect. She was the same warrior he'd always fought, but she knew he wouldn't feel the same about it.
"Fighting a woman goes against everything in me, but of course I'll have to do it." His forehead wrinkled. "But I'm not going to try to knock you off your horse. I've told Arthur that it's undignified for such senior warriors to knock each other about. We'll fight standing on the ground."
Understanding that he wouldn't want to knock a woman off her horse, she nodded. "Agreed. But if I win, you'll have to learn to live with it."
"Yes, it's likely enough that you'll win." He grinned. The sunlight shone on his red hair.
"What do you mean by that?" Lancelot stared at him.
"Nothing." Gawaine shrugged his shoulders.
"If people ever find out I'm a woman, won't you mind if I've defeated you?"
Gawaine grunted. "If people ever find out, there will be a great deal more to worry about than how I fought at the last Pentecost contest."
"That's true," Lancelot conceded. Then she changed the subject because the thought of what might happen if more men found out that she was a woman was not pleasant. She had long feared rape, perhaps even from her brother warriors. Perhaps none of them would attack her, but she did not want to put them to the test. "Do you think the young warriors have practiced the jousts enough? I think we should make them practice more on horses these next few weeks."
On Pentecost, the warriors prayed—or some did—then fought. Lancelot was not so eager to don her chain mail. It seemed to shine less brightly than it had when she was young, though Catwal had polished it almost to silver. The long-vanished bloodstains of war still seemed to cling to it. How much she had wanted glory when she was young! Now she no longer believed that fighting was glorious.
She did not smile when she picked up her sword. Was it a friend? Many a time it had saved her life, but had it led her to lose her soul? Arthur claimed that his sword was enchanted, a gift from a lady who emerged from a lake. Perhaps, Lancelot thought, all swords were enchanted objects that drew the souls from their owners' breasts and, in exchange for might, left them shells, with no substance beneath their chain mail.
Sighing, she sheathed her sword and went out to the contests.
Sangremore and Bellangere, two of her less preferred companions of the round table, stopped her before she got to the field. Sangremore's appearance was distinguished only by a long scar on his cheek, and Bellangere was a burly man with a brown beard.
"I know you'll win," Sangremore said. "We're betting on you. Agravaine and Gaheris always bet on Gawaine, but I don't think he's in as good shape as he used to be."
"None of us are, me included." Lancelot shook her head. "You know I don't like placing wagers on these contests."
Bellangere chuckled. "We know you won't disappoint us. Bedwyr is betting on you, and that's a good sign."
Lancelot didn't like the sound of that. Bedwyr usually bet on Gawaine. Had Gawaine told him that Lancelot would be the winner? Perhaps because Bedwyr had let Gawaine know in advan
ce about the plan to deceive Lancelot with a woman who pretended to be Guinevere? Was Gawaine planning to throw the fight? It was bad enough if the winner of the fight was predetermined, but much worse if people wagered on a predetermined winner.
Lancelot proceeded to the field. The crowd shouted her name, but she glanced neither to the left nor to the right. Although she was proud of her fame, she thought that it was fleeting.
When Lancelot faced Gawaine, on the ground, she sensed that he had changed. His moves were technically perfect, but there was no force behind them. He would not fight his best against her. For a time, she fought fiercely, trying to compel him to attack her, but he would not. She saw that he was determined to let her win. Finally, when she struck his shield, he let the blow knock him down, and she won.
Gawaine rose quickly and clapped her on the back.
"Why did you do that?" she whispered as they walked away.
"You can't afford not to be the greatest warrior in the world," he told her.
She saw that it would always be that way. She would never again have a chance to contend with his full strength and cunning. They would be watered down, like a young girl's wine. He would never let her defeat him honestly, but would pretend that he was letting her win, and tell himself that it was for her protection. She sighed, then shrugged. The most tiresome thing about men was their endless contests to see who was best.
When she re-entered her small house, Lancelot saw a man—one she had killed in the Saxon War—his guts spilling out of him as he lay on the floor. She covered her face with her hands. When she uncovered her eyes, the dead Saxon was gone. She saw such sights at times, but she told no one. It seemed to be the price she must pay for killing so many.
The contests were over. Half the warriors had gone off and the others milled around. The horses had been led off, but the contest field was pungent with their wastes. Dinadan laughed at the thought of the comments Cai would make about the smell.
The spectators had dispersed, but lost flasks and cloaks and crumbled bits of food littered the ground where they had stood. Some poor people were scavenging the lost objects, and dogs wolfed down meat pies that had been dropped.
Dinadan had done well that day, but his muscles ached. Humming a tune, he strolled to the stands to look for Cai. A tall, veiled lady walked up to him. Strangely, she wore a scabbard.
But this was no she. The height and the muscles showed that it was a man. Why was he wearing a gown?
Stepping up close, this strange man pulled a sword from his scabbard in an unmistakable gesture of challenge.
Dinadan just stared at him. He had no desire to strike at this strangely disguised challenger, but the he-lady's sword cut his cheek and Dinadan found that he really did have to fight. Dinadan drew his sword, but the other slashed at him mercilessly. Blows came before Dinadan could parry them. The sword danced around him so that he tripped and fell. The pretended lady laughed a guttural male laugh, like those that might be heard in a tavern, jumped on a horse, and rode off.
Several hooting warriors grabbed Dinadan and pulled a gown that they had obtained who knows where over his head and his chain mail, beat him, and knocked him back onto the ground. He fought back, but fighting one against four was more than he could manage.
That night, he sat on Cai's bed, in a room that had one of the caer's best hangings on the wall. Cai muttered over Dinadan's bruises and cursed his assailants roundly. "That was the young warrior Tristram wearing the gown, wasn't it? Many men were saying it was Lancelot because the fighting was so fine, but of course Lancelot would never have done such a thing."
"Aye, it was Tristram. I recognized the blows," Dinadan said, holding his aching head in his hands.
"If he had hurt you worse, I'd challenge him myself," Cai asserted, stroking Dinadan's hair.
Dinadan groaned. "It's a good thing he didn't. Then I'd have to patch you up. You're the worst fighter in the kingdom—but the best lover," he added, as Cai grumbled.
"Tried them all, have you? Sit still, and move that arm." He ran his hands over it. "Are you sure it isn't sprained?"
"It isn't. Only in my imagination, of course, fair seneschal."
Cai stroked his forehead and Dinadan leaned on his shoulder and sighed with contentment. "It's good to have you looking after me for a change."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Cai grumbled. "You don't have to look after me."
"Only to soothe you in your bad moods, dear seneschal, which are of course rare," Dinadan teased. "Ow, don't touch that bruise on my shoulder."
"Why you have to go to the trouble of helping that ungrateful Tristram in his foolish passion for King Marcus of Dumnonia's wife, Iseult, I don't know, unless perhaps you lust after him secretly."
Cai's grumble was as constant as ever. He poured some wine—the best Falernian—into a silver goblet and gave it to Dinadan.
"Muscles he has—all too many," Dinadan said with a grin. "No, I am not overly fond of him. I help him because of the lady. Barely a girl, she is, queen or not. She begged for my aid, 'I don't know why,' she said, 'but I trust you more than other men, Dinadan. Would you help us? If I have to stay with Marcus much longer, I'll kill myself, I swear it.' Now, how could I not help her after that?"
"God's elbow, will you become another Lancelot, rescuing every unhappy woman in the land? You'll never be at home then," Cai muttered, pouring another goblet of wine for himself. "I'm glad that I'll never be a hero, and I hope you won't be one either"
Although Guinevere's fosterling Talwyn had long since learned to read, still she took lessons from Guinevere. She sat in the queen's room and read a heavy tome. The queen gave her ever more complex books.
Guinevere was the only one who cared about her, Talwyn thought. Her mother had died in childbed and her father, the warrior Gryffyd, was mad, hidden off in a room in the caer. The king ignored Talwyn except to smile at her occasionally, when he remembered her, and Lancelot, who had playfully sparred with wooden swords with her when she was younger, was formal with her now that she was becoming a young lady.
Talwyn glanced through the window at the courtyard, which was full of puddles from an earlier rain. Now the sky was still gray, but the air smelled fresh.
"Did Helen really want to go to Troy?" Talwyn asked, pausing in reading the vellum pages of the Aeneid. "Or was she dragged off?"
"She might have gone for love," Guinevere replied, a strange expression on her face. She stared off into the distance.
"If Cassandra had so much insight, why couldn't she use it to save herself?"
"Seeing what will happen does not always give one the means to avoid it." The queen frowned slightly as if she were not entirely confident about the future.
Talwyn sighed, as she always did when she thought about the future. What man would she be required to marry? Some of the young warriors were handsome, but she wasn't so sure she wanted a husband. She would rather stay forever at the queen's side and read books. Every girl married except those who entered the convent, a fate that didn't much appeal to her. But the Amazons in her story didn't marry.
"Why did the Amazons fight for Priam?"
Turning back towards Talwyn, Guinevere beamed at her. "You ask good questions, my scholar. They had no one better to fight for. And they wanted to defend their homeland."
Talwyn looked out of the window. Swaggering as if they owned the world, warriors strode across the courtyard. How good it would feel to swagger. Did one have to know how to use a sword to be that proud?
Then Talwyn asked, "If the Amazons could learn to fight, why can't I? Every time I see the fighting contests, I imagine that I am riding with the warriors."
Guinevere shook her head. "You know that you never can do that."
The Amazons captured Talwyn's imagination. She moved her arm as if she were holding a sword. "Could women fight? Then why do they not? What happened to the fighting women?"
Frowning, Guinevere spoke curtly. "There are some such women in Ireland, and som
e wild Saxon women fight, but it's foolish to imagine that you could. No woman in Britain has fought since the days of Boadicea. Pray concentrate on your reading. That will help you far more than such fancies." The queen took up her scroll as if ending the conversation.
But still Talwyn dreamed, twisting her brown hair around her finger. The Amazons must have been strong, much stronger than she was, if they could fight men and defeat them. She tried to imagine what an Amazon might look like. Perhaps some were a trifle plump and buxom like herself. They could not all have been thin. Could she ever be as strong as an Amazon?
Pentecost came, and Talwyn sat in the stands with the other girls her age. The girls exclaimed over which warrior was strongest or handsomest or rode a horse best, and teased each other about the ones they liked.
The crowd yelled at the sight of the warriors walking out to the field.
"There's Bors, the pious warrior!" A group of monks cheered, and so did Bors's many children.
"There's Bedwyr, who lost a hand in the Saxon war. Yay, Bedwyr!" called out the crowd.
"Here's Gawaine! Gawaine! Gawaine of the Matchless Strength!" A great yell surged from the crowd.
Another cheer went up. "Lancelot! Lancelot of the Lightning Arm! Hurray, Lancelot!"
The crowd smelled powerfully of sweat, ale, and meat pies brought to stave off hunger during the long matches. Talwyn covered her nose as often as she could.
"Lancelot is so handsome," trilled fair-haired Gralla in the stand where the girls watched. "If only he would look at me!"
"There's Gareth! I think his looks are even finer, and he's young, too," exclaimed Felicia, who almost fell off the stand. Felicia tripped often, but she was sweet, Talwyn thought.
"I wish Gawaine would look at me, but of course I'd be careful not to let him do any more," said dark-haired Lavinia.
Talwyn scarcely heard them, for she was watching the start of the fighting and wondering how a woman might fight. What would it be like to be knocked off your horse? If you couldn't win a fight through superior strength, how would you win? Perhaps you would have to be very fast.
Lancelot and Guinevere Page 4