Lancelot and Guinevere

by Carol Anne Douglas

  The unfairness of it! He had been positively a monk. He hadn't lain with a woman in nearly two weeks, since they had started this journey, and now he had to travel with a woman who was so disgusted that she would scarcely speak to him.

  "I don't suppose you'll believe this," he said querulously. "But I go to bawdy houses now because I have a quest to find and free a... a certain woman... who is in one."

  Lancelot's eyes widened. She looked surprised, but not entirely skeptical. "I hope that you are telling me the truth, because I am likely to believe what you say. If this really is true, I'd go to brothels myself to look for this woman and help her."

  "Gods!" he exclaimed, staring at her. "No, you won't. This is my quest, not yours, friend. It's not fitting for you."

  "Surely helping a woman is always fitting for anyone," Lancelot said, but he shook his head.

  Thank the gods he had not told her the whole story, or she really might have gone to such places looking for a woman with eyes like his. Lancelot was the only friend he had who would have undertaken to help him in this task, and therefore the best friend he had. But she would be miserable if she saw the conditions of whores' lives. Seeing camp followers had grieved her during the Saxon War.

  He knew how Lancelot felt about injuries to women. Before he had learned Lancelot was a woman, she had told him about seeing her mother raped and murdered. He thought that Lancelot was as she was, liking women rather than men, because she had seen the attack on her mother.

  That evening, when they camped for the night and ate the food they had been given at the last fort, Gawaine brought out his gwyddbwyll board. "Shall we play a game, Noble Black Warrior?"

  She nodded. "Bring on the game pieces, Noble Red Warrior."

  Gawaine's set, unlike most, had red pieces, not white, to contest with the black. Gawaine's stories about the game pieces, usually bawdy, were on this journey scrupulously clean.

  Lancelot tended to see the pieces taken as real soldiers fallen in war, but his jests distracted her from her solemnity.

  Lancelot and Gawaine came to a village of crude wooden buildings. Saxon men yelled at them, and some rushed at their horses. All her nerves tensed, Lancelot put her hand on the hilt of her sword. Gawaine had already drawn his.

  A guttural voice called out a command, and the Saxons stopped in their tracks.

  "Why are you seeking us? You have come at a strange time," the Saxon leader said, walking up to their horses. Although he had a strong accent, he seemed to know their language well. He wore a bearskin cloak and many golden ornaments.

  Lancelot took her hand from her sword and Gawaine sheathed his.

  "I am Gawaine ap Lot, cousin to King Arthur, and this is Lancelot of the Lake," Gawaine said, speaking because he was the closer to the High King. "We have come in the High King's name."

  "I am Aldwulf, these people's thane," said the man, who was about their age. His face was lined, but his yellow beard showed no signs of graying. "A British warrior carried off my daughter this morning." His voice was controlled, but his fists were clenched and his eyes filled with rage. "We were about to set out to capture him. My men would have attacked you, but I told them that if you had anything to do with his crime, you would not have been stupid enough to come here."

  "Do you know the brute who took her?" Lancelot felt her blood surge with anger as it did when any man tried to injure a woman.

  Aldwulf's voice still maintained a deadly calm. "I don't know his name, but her thrall, who saw her carried off, said he had a long cut on his cheek, and his shield had green stripes on it."

  "Sangremore! We know him." Lancelot said, her heart sinking at the thought that another of Arthur's warriors had abducted a woman. Sangremore was rough and rude, but she had not imagined he could do such a thing. "Let us pursue him and return your daughter!" she cried, ready to see Sangremore executed. "If we take him to the High King for punishment, we can avoid bloodshed between our peoples."

  The thane paused a moment, as if considering her offer. "I have heard of Gawaine and Lancelot. You have slain many of our warriors and burned our villages."

  Lancelot sucked in her breath.

  "But," Aldwulf continued, "I also know that when Gawaine and Lancelot burned villages, they spared the women and children and checked to make sure every home was empty before they burned it." He scrutinized them as if reading the pores on their skin. "So perhaps you would rescue my daughter, Hilda. But we must be the ones to punish the man who attacked her. I don't want to start a war. If Hilda's betrothed were here, I would not be able to hold him back, but he is visiting his kin in the North. So I will let one of you go after this Sangremore, but the other must stay here as a hostage."

  Lancelot gasped, and she saw that Gawaine turned pale. "We will keep our word and rescue her. No hostage is needed to ensure that," Lancelot said, trying to keep her voice calm but not succeeding.

  The thane's men glared at the British warriors.

  "My people would never accept letting you both go," the thane told them, his gaze cold as a winter's day. "One will stay here, and the other must return Hilda and bring back her abductor by dawn. If he fails, I will let my people do as they wish with his companion."

  Lancelot froze in horror. The Saxon warriors, who now seemed to number in the hundreds though there were only dozens, looked fierce as a pack of wolves.

  "We will do as you say, but remember we have come as the High King's delegates," Gawaine told Aldwulf. "May we have a moment to ourselves to decide who will go and who will stay?"

  The thane nodded. "A moment. That's all." Backing off, he began speaking to his men, no doubt telling them his plan. Most grunted in response, but some appeared to argue with him.

  Lancelot knew what Gawaine would say.

  "Of course I will stay and you will rescue the thane's daughter," Gawaine said, keeping all emotion out of his voice and his face. "I didn't want to tell him too quickly, or he might guess why the answer was so easy."

  "We could draw straws," Lancelot said. "I hate to think of you staying here."

  "No drawing straws. There's no question." Gawaine's voice still was flat.

  Lancelot sighed. It was useless to protest. Gawaine would never let her stay while he went off. And she had to admit that she dreaded the prospect of being a hostage. "I'll get them back here somehow. I swear it."

  "Better bring Sangremore back dead. It will be easier that way, and more merciful. The Saxons would torture him to death. Sangremore saved Agravaine's life in the war, and I'd rather not see him torn limb from limb." Gawaine seemed to have aged ten years. "But don't you come back. Just get Hilda within a mile of here and send her back with his body."

  "Of course I'll come back to get you!" Lancelot exclaimed.

  "I don't want you to." Gawaine shook his head.

  "Sangremore has no doubt raped the girl, and even if he's dead, the Saxons still might take revenge."

  "All the more reason for me to return." Lancelot felt as if her arm, not her friend, was being torn from her.

  "Listen to me. They are more likely to spare me because I am Arthur's kinsman, and my death would mean war, than they would be to spare you. But we cannot trust them enough to be certain. It is best if you send Hilda home and wait for me in the forest."

  Aldwulf turned to them. "One of you must go to save my daughter. Now. She doesn't know your language, so you must show that you are harmless."

  "Lancelot will go and I'll stay here." His voice still toneless, Gawaine dismounted.

  Aldwulf extended his hand. "Give me your sword, and your knife as well."

  Gawaine relinquished his sword and the knife he kept in his belt. Then he pulled a knife out of his boot, and handed that over, too.

  Lancelot felt like screaming, don't give up your weapons. Instead, she told the thane, "Remember, Gawaine is the High King's closest kinsman. If any harm comes to him, you'll regret it." With one final—no, it must not be final—look at Gawaine, she turned her horse away from Aldwulf'
s village.

  Lancelot sped across fields and through forests. She had never thought she would force her mare to run so far, so fast. Sangremore had not passed them when they had ridden to the village, so she guessed what direction he must have gone, and prayed that she was right. She had never been to his holding, but she had an idea where it was. She must reach him before he got to his own land, with men to fight for him.

  Lancelot found recent tracks and, hoping they were Sangremore's, followed them. She had to admit that she worried even more about Gawaine than about a girl she had never seen.

  Twilight filled the woods, and Lancelot's pursuit became more frenzied. An owl called. No, it must be too early for owls. There must be more time.

  Pausing a moment to let Raven rest—killing her mare would do Gawaine no good—Lancelot heard sounds ahead of her. Hooves pounded, branches were breaking.

  "Just a little more, please, Raven," she whispered in her horse's ear. "For Gawaine. You like Gawaine, don't you?"

  But when Lancelot caught sight of Sangremore and the girl slumped in his arms, Hilda's suffering became real to her.

  "Sangremore! Where are you going? What are you doing?" Lancelot cried.

  "Lancelot!" Sangremore called out, reining in his horse. "What good fortune." His voice was full of false cheer. "I thought I was followed by Saxons or robbers. I just saved this girl from brigands, but she's been through so much that she's deluded and is afraid of me. I'm taking her to my home, where she'll be cared for, poor thing."

  The Saxon girl—Hilda, of course—looked to be about fifteen. Her face and arms were badly bruised and her clothes were torn and covered with blood. Both eyes were blackened, and a cut on her forehead had bloodied her face. Apparently she had struggled much, and been overpowered. Now she seemed limp, but her eyes were filled with horror. She looked at Lancelot as if this was yet another man who would rape her, too.

  "Put her down, Sangremore." Lancelot spoke in the voice she had used to command a hundred men.

  Sangremore flinched, but he continued his pretense.

  "That would be unkind. She's so terrified that she'd run off and get lost."

  "You are the one who attacked her. Put her down." Lancelot trembled with rage.

  "Oh, Lancelot, you've saved so many women that you see rape everywhere. You're becoming quite mad. But I'll put her down, just to humor you." Sangremore set the girl none too gently on the ground.

  Hilda staggered, then rushed off into the trees. Lancelot called out, "No, come back" and started to follow her.

  Sangremore began to ride off.

  "No, you're not going anywhere!" Lancelot yelled at him. If Sangremore got away, the Saxons would kill Gawaine.

  Hoping she could find Hilda later, Lancelot rode in pursuit. She kept Sangremore in eyesight, but she did not gain on him.

  Fearing that he would disappear among the trees, she pulled out her throwing spear and cast it. Impaled, Sangremore fell from his horse.

  As a hostage rather than a prisoner—at least, not in name—Gawaine was not bound, but he felt as if he was watched every moment. He had been taken to a one-room dwelling that had only a chair and a bed. He was alone, but he knew he could not step outside without being seen. In the evening, a man brought him food, but he could not eat. Who wanted food Saxons had prepared, though it seemed to be some kind of meat? He sat on the bed but would not lie down.

  Gawaine did not wonder whether he could escape, because he knew Lancelot would return. If Gawaine had escaped, the Saxons would take out their anger on her.

  But he did want to see the night sky again, perhaps for the last time. He went out to take a leak, and lingered a short distance from the house. Thinking of his mother, Gawaine watched the moon, which was waning, and tried to count the numberless stars.

  Gawaine heard a whirring noise and felt a stab of pain in his leg. He fell to the ground.

  A Saxon loomed over him and roughly pulled out the axe that had cut his leg. He aimed a kick at Gawaine's balls.

  Resisting a lifetime of training to fight back, Gawaine curled up like a hedgehog, so his thigh took the blow. If he resisted, the Saxon would surely kill him and say Gawaine had attacked him. And if he died, the returning Lancelot would fly into a rage and get herself killed. But at least that would be a quick death, not what she could have faced as a hostage.

  The Saxon struck Gawaine's head. Death was coming. The certainty that Arthur would fight a war to avenge his death did not console him. Morgause help me, Gawaine cried silently. Mother!

  Other Saxons ran up to them, exclaiming in their ugly language.

  Then another voice, speaking in Saxon but with a strange accent, called out loudly, and another man pushed through the group.

  An arm grabbed Gawaine's shoulder, but the grip was not fierce. "What happened? Did you try to escape?" asked a man who spoke British. In the moonlight, Gawaine could see that it was a priest with dark hair and a Roman profile.

  Never had he been so astonished.

  "No. I went out for a leak and this man attacked me."

  The Saxons yelled at the priest, but bending over Gawaine to protect him, the cleric replied in an angry, authoritative voice.

  The Saxons backed off. Gawaine and the priest were alone.

  "Your leg!" The priest tore off his own cloak and bound up Gawaine's leg to stop the bleeding.

  "A throwing axe," Gawaine explained, groaning. Perhaps he would live—at least until the morning.

  "That wound needs tending. Shall I get a healer?"

  "A Saxon healer? No."

  "Let me help you back to the house."

  Although the priest was not a tall man, Gawaine leaned on him. The priest helped him get through the doorway and lie on the bed. Only then did Gawaine have a chance to think about the pain.

  "We should thank God that you are saved. Let us pray," the priest said, looking at Gawaine's wound.

  "I thank all the gods—and goddesses. Cerridwen especially." He named Cerridwen because he didn't want to admit that he had prayed to his mother.

  The priest groaned. "How can you blaspheme when you have almost died, and still might? You must repent, and I will shrive you."

  "I have been baptized, but I have never been shriven. And never will be. But I thank you for saving my life, Father." Gawaine did not like calling an unrelated man "father," but he thought he should use that title out of respect for the one who had rescued him.

  "Saving your soul is more important!" the priest cried.

  "Not to me." Gawaine tried to laugh, but he was in too much pain. "How did you come to be with the Saxons? They have sacked many monasteries and convents and killed priests."

  "Some have, but there is good to be found in Saxon souls." He looked more closely at Gawaine's leg. "I go where I am most needed."

  "You surely did just now," Gawaine admitted.

  "I am Father Paulus. What is your name?"

  "I am Gawaine ap Lot."

  "That explains everything." The priest nodded sagely. "You're just as bad as your reputation."

  "Thank you." Gawaine managed a smile.

  "I urge you to repent," the priest said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  The priest had been so kind to him that Gawaine did not mind talking to him, though he did not feel that he was being shrived. "I am not sorry for what I have done to any man. I have treated my friends as friends and my enemies as enemies. I have killed my enemies cleanly without torture, and I hope they'll do the same to me. But I regret the pain I have caused to women."

  "Does that mean if you live you will sin with women no more?" the priest asked.

  "No, I will as soon as I can," Gawaine told him. "But I'll try to be kind to them, for goddesses have always saved my life, and if I live this time it will be a female spirit who saves me." A true Diana, he thought.

  "There are no goddesses!" the priest exclaimed in anger.

  "There are kind goddesses and cruel goddesses, and with gods it is likewise," Gawaine s
aid.

  The priest groaned.

  "Please confess your sins and affirm the true God. God's blessing may help you undergo whatever might happen."

  "You mean that the Saxons might not just kill me, but might serve me as they would have served Sangremore." Gawaine kept his voice quiet.

  "I fear that is possible," the priest acknowledged.

  "I had thought of that." Gawaine tried to numb himself. "I must ask for your help, Father. My friend Lancelot will surely return with Sangremore's body and Aldwulf's daughter. If Lancelot learns that I have been killed, he will immediately attack and kill as many Saxons as he can before they kill him."

  "Do you want me to try to stop him? I have heard that he is a very good man, almost a saint."

  "Lancelot is good indeed. But there is no way that you can stop Lancelot from flying into a rage and killing those who killed me. I have seen that you are brave. What I charge you to do, if you have any influence with Aldwulf, is to claim Lancelot's body and take it intact to Camelot. Even if the Saxons mutilate my body, don't let them do harm to Lancelot's."

  Father Paulus stared at Gawaine. "Despite your lack of repentance, you're a rare man, caring more about your friend's body than your own. Yes, if things go as you say, I'll preserve his body and bring it back intact to King Arthur for a Christian burial."

  "Thank you. Please take Lancelot's body directly to the queen, for it should be her women who prepare it for burial." Seeing the priest frown, he said, "No, despite the rumors, Lancelot and the queen are not guilty of the sin you are thinking of."