As they crossed the courtyard to Gawaine's house, Gawaine flourished his new walking stick, as if to say he didn't need it, but he leaned on Ragnal as never before.
Ragnal smiled to herself. She had watched Gawaine and Lancelot at supper, and seen that they seemed closer than ever, but not in the way she dreaded.
9 MISTAKEN FOR LANCELOT
Drian rode merrily through a forest. Her green tunic was good enough to wear in summer, and it was that season, so what did it matter that she had no warm clothes for winter? If cold winds blew, she could find a cloak—or borrow one from an unwary traveler. Her friend Lancelot called such acts stealing. Lancelot was lovable, but could be such a prig. She was the only other woman Drian knew who pretended to be a man.
The scent of the forest filled her as if it were a lover's breath. It was pleasanter than the scent of most great halls, and the forest would not cheat her or reject her.
Patting her harp, Drian hummed a tune that told of hidden love. She didn't know whose hall she would next play in, but she thought she had enough new songs to convince a steward that his lord would be delighted with her playing, and so would the ladies. Especially the ladies, Drian hoped.
A fox darted across her path, and Drian, thinking she was like a fox herself, nodded to it. The creature was not good to eat, or she would have taken up her bow and an arrow.
Smelling the carcass of some long-dead animal, she made her horse hurry. True, not all smells in the forest were sweet.
Drian's tunic matched the green leaves—all the better to surprise travelers if she wanted to borrow something from them, or to conceal herself if a group of warriors passed. Drian was not fond of men, for some had raped her when they learned she was a woman. And how had they learned? Drian sighed. A woman she had lain with had betrayed her. Most of the many women she had been with had been glad to keep her secret, though.
Lancelot trusted too many men. Shaking her head, Drian hoped that Lancelot was safe.
Drian heard a horse coming down the road and peered through the trees to see who was passing. A pretty brown-haired lady, not quite young, rode by. She was dressed in fine clothes. But of course any woman riding a horse would be a lady and would wear fine clothes. No man in fine clothes rode with her.
Drian emerged from the trees. Perhaps fortune smiled on her. She might get a good meal—and a good deal more.
She hailed the lady. "God grant you good day, my lady! Is it safe for such a pretty lady to ride through the forest alone?"
Stopping her horse, the lady stared at Drian. "Why, it is Lancelot of the Lake. I have always wanted to meet you," she simpered.
Astonishment made Drian unable to speak, which was unusual for her. True, she had the same build as Lancelot, and perhaps there was some vague similarity in the face, although her hair was not as dark. Would she gain favor with this lady more easily if she pretended to be Lancelot? She wasn't sure whether she should try it.
"Greetings, lovely lady," Drian said, bowing to her.
Some half dozen men in chain mail rode up behind the lady. Drian pulled back. Were they with the lady, or threatening her?
"These are my men," the lady said, not giving them another glance. "They wear my badge." Indeed, they wore peacock badges that seemed too gaudy for fighting men. "Will you honor me by coming to my caer, Lord Lancelot?"
Not being overly eager for the company of groups of men in chain mail, Drian replied, "I fear I cannot, my lady. Perhaps some other time."
The lady smiled, but her expression was not pleasant. "You will come now," she commanded.
Drian turned her horse back on the path through the trees. "Not today," she said.
The lady made a gesture to her men. "Make sure that he comes with me, but don't hurt him too much," she told them.
Armed men surrounded Drian. Drawing her knife, she tried to stab the nearest one, but blows fell on her, she dropped her knife, and the world turned black.
Waking, Drian felt her whole body ache. She vaguely remembered a fight. She had been captured, but her clothes were still on her, so likely no one had yet discovered that she had a woman's body underneath them.
"Lord Lancelot," murmured a woman who was stroking the hair back from Drian's forehead.
Drian's eyes opened wide and saw the pretty brown-haired lady, dressed in an elegant silver-gray gown. Most nobles made Drian uncomfortable, and this lady was no exception. Glancing around, she saw that she was in a bare-walled dungeon. "Who are you?" her groggy voice inquired. "Don't like Lancelot much, do you, if you'd shut him up in a dungeon?"
Brown eyes met hers. "I love you, Lancelot. I can't live without you." But the lady held onto her fine skirts so they would not brush the floor, which was not bad as dungeon floors go, but of course dirty.
"You'll have to live without Lancelot because I'm not he," Drian mumbled, putting a hand on her aching jaw. "Let me go, lady."
The lady scowled. "It ill becomes you to deny your name. Mine is Cecilia, and I have seen you in fighting contests. No one is as handsome as you are."
Drian grinned. "Sounds like Lancelot is. I'm not Lancelot. I'm no noble warrior, lady. Can't you tell from my voice?"
"Don't think you can fool me by pretending to sound common," Cecilia complained. "You shouldn't demean yourself so. I once tried to speak with you after a contest, but you didn't notice anyone but that wanton queen."
Drian sat up straight, which made every muscle in her body ache. She had met Guinevere and didn't care for her. But her friend Lancelot would not endure any insult to the queen. "The queen's not a wanton, lady. She's as pure as the snow that's never fallen. You shouldn't talk about her that way."
Cecilia chortled. "You are Lancelot. I knew that by criticizing the queen I could provoke you to disclose your identity. I love you greatly and you must love me. I won't let you go unless you do."
"Funny kind of love that is." Drian's voice showed her disgust. "Can't say that it interests me. Let me go, lady. My name's Drian and I'm a harper." Drian stood up and moved away, despite the pain in her throbbing head. She took up her small harp, which fortunately was in a corner of her cell, though one of the strings was broken.
"Many nobles have their own harps. You truly are Lancelot. Refusing to love me proves it. Everyone knows that Lancelot won't touch anyone but the queen." There was a look of triumph on Cecilia's face.
"That doesn't prove a thing," Drian objected. "And he's just the kind to have some foolish, dreamy love with no touching."
"No one could be fool enough to believe that," the lady insisted, putting a hand on Drian's arm. "I don't care whether you say you're Lancelot or not. You're handsome, and you can't leave unless you love me." Though she spoke of love, her eyes had no warmth in them.
"Care to bet on that?" Drian darted past her, raced to the cell door, and rattled it. It was locked fast, and a man, whose voice Drian recognized as one of the captors', called out, "Lady Cecilia, is that man threatening you?"
"No, be still and stay away, I am safe," Cecilia replied. "That was a foolish move, my dear Lancelot. Why must you object to making love to me? It could be very pleasant," she purred, fluttering her eyelashes.
"Love's not forced," Drian objected. The dungeon was cold and she wished she was wearing warmer clothing. "I'm not about to bare myself to someone like you. If this is how you'd treat Lancelot, I can guess how badly you'd treat me." Drian shuddered, thankful that those men who fought her hadn't torn her clothing enough to see through her disguise and learn that she was a woman, like her noble friend Lancelot. She had no faith that the lady would free her—or love her, either—if she discovered Drian's secret. Cecilia would just be angry at having been fooled.
The lady left Drian in the dungeon, provided with only barley bannock and water and a pail for her wastes. Drian was used to simple living and sleeping on the hard earth, but the dungeon's ancient stench of urine was hard to bear and she hated confinement. She shut her eyes and tried to imagine that she was in a forest.
The next day the lady returned. "Will you love me now, my beloved Lancelot?"
Drian shook her head vigorously. "Lady, you don't want me. You don't want to know what I'm like, and I know too much about what you're like."
"I am displeased," Cecilia announced, stamping her foot. "If you don't make love to me, you must at least fight in a contest for me." She reminded Drian of a cat playing with a mouse.
Drian groaned. "Lady, can't you tell I'm no warrior? I don't know anything about that kind of fighting. I can use my fists as well as anybody, and I've used a sword more than once, but I've never even held a spear in my hands."
"Whether you know it or not, that's the only way you can escape this dungeon, if you don't love me," Cecilia insisted. "You must acknowledge that I am your lady, one way or another."
"I guess fighting's not so bad after all. It sounds better than the other. Maybe I have a chance. So let me give it a try," Drian said, hoping she would not die in the contest.
"You certainly are not noble to speak to me so. I am much aggrieved." Cecilia pouted. "You cannot be Lancelot, but at least people will believe that Lancelot fought for love of me."
No, they won't, Drian thought.
So, accompanied by the fair lady and several of her strong men, Drian rode to a fighting contest at a nearby dun. She tied her harp to her saddle on the chance that she might escape. Cecilia had procured some chain mail and an unmarked shield for Drian, but did not give her a sword until they had already arrived at the contest field.
Cecilia attached a red sleeve of hers to Drian's helmet.
"Fight nobly for me," she urged.
"Why don't you try fighting if you like it so much?" Drian grumbled, closing the helmet and riding off to the field.
Cecilia gasped, "How could you tell a woman to fight?"
It was a true contest, with a group of men on one side fighting a group on the other, as if it were a battle.
Drian had never been in a battle, nor wanted to be in one. Warriors charged up to test her mettle, so she hacked away with the sword as well as she could, and soon several men had injured arms.
"That warrior does not fight well, but he's a menace," one older warrior said.
"Who are you, strange warrior?" a gray-mustached fighter called out.
Hoping that they would guess that she was not a true warrior, Drian opened the visor briefly, then closed it again.
"St. Joseph's hammer, it's Lancelot, fighting other warriors of King Arthur's!" Gray Mustaches exclaimed.
"That pious bastard!" snarled another, who had sustained several cuts. He resembled Lancelot's obnoxious friend Gawaine, whom Drian had encountered before, but was not he.
"Lancelot must be doing this for some strange reason," the gray-mustached fighter suggested. "And Lancelot never wears ladies' favors. Perhaps that's a sign that he's not himself."
"He just wants to make fools of us," the snarler complained.
"Lancelot, it's Bors. What ails you? Why do you attack other warriors from Camelot so fiercely?" the gray-mustached one asked. Drian darted past him and rode straight off the field and into the forest.
"God's wounds, he's mad!" the warrior cried out, and rode after her.
But Drian found a way to slip off among the trees, for she was used to concealing herself in the forest.
Lancelot was riding through the forest when a voice called out to her, "Lance!"
She surveyed the rider in chain mail who came upon her. The rider opened her visor.
"Drian! What are you doing in chain mail?" Lancelot smiled at the sight of the only other woman she had ever known who disguised herself as a man. Though Drian was from a different class and was not unwilling to steal jewels from men who did not pay for her harping, she was a friend.
"I was fighting some of your friends from Camelot at a contest." Drian grinned. "Didn't do so badly, either. At least I didn't get killed. And your red-bearded friend wasn't there, but somebody who looked a lot like him was."
"Why did you fight in a contest? Are you unhurt?" Lancelot asked. She was just as glad that Gawaine had not been present, though on remembering that Drian was her friend he surely would not have fought her. No doubt the one who had fought had been his brother Agravaine.
"Some lady named Cecilia held me in her dungeon and kept insisting that I was you. She said I'd have to either make love to her or fight, and I trusted her too little to embrace her." Drian grimaced. "I kept your reputation for loving Guinevere alone, and I claimed that it was all pure." She rolled her eyes. "Aren't you pleased with me?"
Shaking her head, Lancelot threw her arms around Drian. "Yes, especially that you are safe. Foolish lady to treat you so ungently. Had she only known it, she had a far more experienced lover than I am close by. No doubt you make love better than I do."
Drian winked. "Perhaps I'd better learn how Lancelot makes love, then, if I'm to impersonate you."
Lancelot just laughed. "Sorry, you know I am true to Guinevere, as you said." But she found it so pleasant to have her arms around Drian that she pulled away with some haste.
"Too attractive, am I?" Drian asked.
"Don't seek flattery from me," Lancelot told her.
"Why not? I'd be happy to flatter you. I'd sing your praises, but I have to get new harp strings first. One of the brutes who cast me into the dungeon broke some of them." Drian patted the harp as if it were an injured child.
"At least you got out of the dungeon. I'll never forget how you helped me escape from one." Lancelot smiled at her, for Drian had saved her after King Uriens had imprisoned her because she wouldn't acquiesce to his taking Arthur's purloined sword. And she had once saved Drian, when an angry husband attacked the harper.
"We're both much too handsome to rot in dungeons, aren't we?" Drian replied.
They chatted for some time, then Lancelot went on her way. She could not invite Drian to Camelot since Drian had just fought some of Arthur's warriors. Not that Guinevere would have been pleased to see Drian, who all too openly flirted with Lancelot, under any circumstances.
And both Guinevere and Gawaine had told Lancelot that when she was standing side by side with Drian, the sight of the two of them together made it more obvious that they were women.
When Lancelot returned to Camelot she found that the other warriors believed that she was the one who had fought them. They complained about their injuries, for Lancelot had always before been so courteous that she rarely wounded them in contests.
When she entered a room, she sometimes heard muttering against her. Not infrequently she heard the words "Sangremore" and "brutal treatment," and she knew they meant her brutality, not his.
Guinevere, sitting at the small table in her own room, sipped red wine imported from Gaul. The light from her beeswax candles made the silver goblets shimmer. A bit of gold embroidery on her blue sleeve also glimmered in the light. But, Lancelot thought, Guinevere's face was far fairer than shining silver or gold.
The queen sighed. "It's a good thing that your mission led the Saxons to give Arthur more tribute. He wants more, always more, so he can have more men and more weapons. It's all that Merlin, Cai, and I can do to restrain him. I don't like to think how hard it will be when Merlin is no longer with us."
"But we need the men and weapons to defend Britain," Lancelot objected. "The Saxons will always be a threat. I hate Saxons, I hate them!" she cried, surprising herself.
Guinevere stared at her. "You needn't shout. I've never heard you say you hated anyone, not even after the war."
"Perhaps I need to shout sometimes, as most men do." Lancelot found herself thinking "how can a woman understand that," but chided herself for the thought.
"But what would men do if a woman shouted?" Guinevere asked. "At least Arthur doesn't yell much." She looked into her winecup as if reading the future in it.
"But I would do some things differently from him, if I could ever rule."
Lancelot did not want to hear what Guinevere would do. The very subject, premised on Arthur's death, made her want to walk away. Instead, she gulped down her wine.
"I would set up a council to help me govern, and there would be women on it as well as men."
Lancelot gasped at the strange idea. "But what women could you ask to take on such a weighty task?"
"An abbess or two. Certainly the abbess of the Convent of the Holy Mother is wise, is she not?" Guinevere calmly sipped her wine.
"Indeed," Lancelot admitted.
"And, as I would have to ask the advice of the lesser kings, I would consult Queen Morgause of Lothian and Orkney. She has ruled for many years." Guinevere fingered the end of one of her black braids. She had never looked more beautiful—or less appealing.
"But why all of these plans?" Lancelot stirred restlessly in her seat. "Surely Arthur will rule for many more years, and he is the best of kings." She refilled her goblet sooner than she usually did, almost spilling the wine from its silver flagon.
"Arthur won't last forever," Guinevere said impatiently, pursing her lips. "You cannot depend on just one man."
"I can hope that the generations after him will remember his justice and keep his laws," Lancelot insisted.
Guinevere made a disparaging sound. "Men speak of imitating the Christ, but they don't, so why should they keep on following Arthur after he is gone?"
Lancelot shifted in her carved chair. "I have to hope that there is some chance for the world to be better."
"Only if men do not rule alone," Guinevere retorted, setting down her goblet for emphasis. "And I think the Athenian way of electing leaders was better, although women should have voted, too."
"I doubt that it makes much difference how leaders are chosen," Lancelot said, looking out of the window at the waning moon. "I think that a man like Arthur would become the leader in any land. Good kings past must have been like Arthur, and future ones will be, too."
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