Lancelot and Guinevere

by Carol Anne Douglas

  "Past, present, and future, the best we have to hope for is Arthur?" Guinevere asked, sighing.

  Lancelot felt her heart race with anger. "Likely he is the best. But you should not count on ruling after he dies." She raised her voice, in spite of Guinevere's disdain for loudness, or perhaps because of it. "Don't you realize that most people think Gawaine will inherit the throne?"

  Guinevere pulled back as if slapped. "I suspect that he may," she said with some disgust. "He is a fighter, and that seems to be all men care about."

  Lancelot frowned. "Those who have fought have no great desire to follow a ruler who has not."

  Guinevere's eyes narrowed. "And you agree with them that a woman should not be a ruler. I cannot imagine Gawaine as the High King. What kind of ruler would he be?"

  "Probably not a bad one, not least because he does not want such power." Lancelot rose from the table.

  "You would rather see him rule than me?" Guinevere's eyes blazed, but her lip trembled.

  "I have no wish to be a ruler's lover," Lancelot said, turning from her. "Still less do I want to continue this conversation. I hope that Arthur's life is long."

  So agitated was she that she bumped into a chair on her way to the hidden doorway.

  "Please stay," Guinevere begged her, but she did not.

  Lancelot retired to her own house. Much as she loved Guinevere, sometimes she wondered what it would be like to be with a gentler woman who did not seek power and did not criticize her friends. A wife of her own. Because no woman she knew fit that description—certainly Drian did not—Lancelot did not believe the thought was too disloyal to Guinevere.

  10 THE YOUNG WARRIORS

  Morgan sat alone in her room, but her every muscle tensed with anticipation. The winter night was cold, but she wore her finest gown, which was not overly warm. She did not sit near the brazier with burning coals.

  This was the night of nights, the time she waited for all year. This was the time of the visitor, the only man who mattered.

  She wished that he would let her live near him, so she could see him often, instead of just once a year, but he never would. When people guessed at their love, he had repudiated and punished her. But, despite her anger, she could never say no to him. She was sure she was the only woman he had ever loved, as he was the only man she had ever loved.

  There was a gust of wind, and he was in the room with her. Brought by the sword that Merlin had enchanted, her lover was almost a specter. But he was real enough to lie with her.

  Arthur took her in his arms.

  It was late and the warriors had dispersed for the evening. Lancelot was away, and Talwyn had gone to bed in tears because she had seen her mad father, who had raved more than usual.

  Guinevere's eyes were tired from reading. Restless, she decided to make an unusual nighttime visit to the stable to see that a sore on her horse's back was healing. She wrapped her fur-lined cloak around her and descended the stairs. Carrying a torch, she crossed the courtyard.

  Guinevere was not fond of the dark, but what could happen to her at Camelot? She was, after all, the queen. She took care on the cobbles in case some water on them had frozen.

  She might wake some sleeping stablehands or disturb their dice games, but that prospect did not worry her.

  But when Guinevere reached the stable, she saw two stablehands outside, shifting nervously on their feet. Although they did not appear to be doing anything illicit, they almost jumped when they saw her.

  "Why aren't you inside guarding the horses?" Guinevere asked, moving towards the stable door.

  "A warrior ordered us to stay outside, your highness," one young man said in a strained voice. "We can't disobey him."

  "Best not go inside, highness." The other stablehand trembled with apprehension.

  "I shall go wherever I please," Guinevere told them. "You may not disobey a warrior, but I don't have to obey him."

  She pushed open the door and heard sounds of a struggle.

  "Get away from me!" cried a woman.

  "You hit me, you bitch! You'll pay for that."

  "Halt!" Guinevere commanded. She shone her rushlight in the direction of the voices and saw a serving girl break away from a man who had been holding her down. The man raised his head, and Guinevere saw that it was Agravaine.

  The girl, whose skirt was torn, threw herself against the wall near Guinevere. She grabbed a pitchfork.

  "That won't be necessary now," Guinevere told the girl. "Be calm. Agravaine, explain yourself."

  "There's nothing to explain, Lady Guinevere." Panting, he struggled to his feet. "We had an assignation, but the girl demanded more money."

  "I did not!" the girl exclaimed. "I don't want you. I didn't come here to meet him, highness. He followed me here and grabbed me."

  "She's a whore!" Agravaine spat out the words. "Why would a serving girl go to the stable at night, except to meet a man?"

  "Evidently she did not plan to meet you," Guinevere said in a voice of ice. "Your own words suggest that."

  "What difference does that make? She's just a kitchen wench." He was shaking with anger.

  "You may leave us, Agravaine, and never disturb this girl again, unless you want me to tell the king that you tried to rape a serving woman." Guinevere spoke as if from a throne.

  "Yes, Lady Guinevere. I realize you're the guardian of purity." Agravaine's tone was insolent, but he strode out of the stable.

  "Were you meeting a sweetheart?" Guinevere asked the girl, who looked about the same age as Talwyn. "As you can see, this isn't a safe place."

  "No!" the girl cried, only now dropping the pitchfork. "I went here to get away from one of the cooks, who's been after me."

  "The chapel might be safer," Guinevere said.

  "Hah! A man grabbed me there once."

  The girl shivered.

  "No place is safe. I want to leave here and find some dun where all the men are too old to care, if there is any such."

  "I doubt that there is." Guinevere wanted to embrace her, but she held back. "What is your name?"

  "Creirwy, highness. I work in the kitchen."

  "Doesn't Cai protect the kitchen workers?"

  "As much as he can, highness. He's a good master. But he isn't there all the time."

  Guinevere was relieved to hear that Cai tried his best to look after the serving women. She would tell him about the cook. But her heart still raced with anger.

  "Come with me," Guinevere told the serving girl. She wanted to accuse Agravaine of attempting rape, but she thought no one, not even Arthur, would want to believe Creirwy's account over Agravaine's.

  When they left the stable, Guinevere turned to the stablehands, who were shaking as if Agravaine had just cursed them, which he undoubtedly had.

  "If any warriors try such a thing again, you must go to someone in authority, like Bors or Lancelot, who will put a stop to it," Guinevere ordered them. "Or wake Cuall, and he'll summon them." She was sure the old stablemaster would never countenance any misbehavior, much less crimes, in his jurisdiction. "And if any man bribes you, you'll be judged as guilty as he is. Now watch over the horses, as is your duty."

  "Yes, highness," they said in unison.

  Silently, the girl followed Guinevere across through the shadowy courtyard back to her room.

  Guinevere told her to enter and bade her light some beeswax candles. In the flickering light, she saw the young face, tousled brown hair, strong arms, and rough hands.

  "You're a fighter, are you, Creirwy?" Guinevere smiled, showing that she did not disapprove.

  Creirwy nodded. "I don't want to be had again."

  "Indeed not," Guinevere agreed. "My chief serving woman is old now. You could work for me and be one of my serving women."

  "I never worked with ladies' gowns, highness." Creirwy looked less than excited at the prospect.

  "Never mind, you can learn. And you will be working at a little more distance from the men. And perhaps you might learn a bit mor
e about fighting, so that you might guard me, just in case the guards need guarding. Will you do that?" Guinevere scrutinized her face.

  "Yes, Lady Guinevere." The words were innocuous enough, but the voice was not submissive, and Guinevere liked that.

  Lancelot stood with Creirwy in the queen's room, where old Fencha had left them after assuring the girl that Guinevere had asked the warrior to speak with her.

  "Queen Guinevere says that you would like to learn how to fight. Is that so?" She was not overly enthused about this scheme of Guinevere's, but the queen had spent half a night persuading her.

  Creirwy eyed Lancelot coolly. The serving girl's hands were on her hips. "You never bothered me and I never heard of you botherin' anyone else, Lord Lancelot, but I don't want to be off alone with you much more than with any other man. And I don't want the lessons enough to give you anything for 'em."

  "No," Lancelot agreed in a calm voice. She should not be offended, for the girl undoubtedly had good reason to be so wary.

  "That would be a poor bargain, wouldn't it, letting one man help you fight the others if he extracted a price for it. You are right that people help each other for reasons. Mine is that it would please the queen."

  "Why learn to fight? If I cut any of the warriors, they'd hang me." She shook her head defiantly, and her braids swayed.

  Lancelot felt her face flush. This girl was no fool. "Perhaps. But not all men who might attack you are warriors."

  "I know that well enough." Creirwy grimaced.

  "I don't want to teach you if you don't want to learn. You must tell me whether you do." Lancelot stood there quietly, waiting for her to think about the matter.

  After a pause, the girl said "I do."

  "Very good." Lancelot nodded, as if she had struck a bargain. She saw that Creirwy had muscles that would help her fight and work-reddened hands that had calluses enough so the girl likely wouldn't fear getting more from handling a sword.

  "Want a new cloak?" Creirwy asked. "Get me some wool and I'll make one for you. Then I won't owe you nothin'."

  "I teach one of the young ladies, and she gives me nothing, so why should you?"

  "Talwyn? The queen told me." There was a note of scorn in her voice. "That's because you think of her like a daughter, the queen says. That's not how you'd see me."

  "Why not? The queen herself had a sister who was a serving girl," Lancelot began to explain.

  Creirwy hooted. "So do all the ladies, if they'd own it. Much good that it does us."

  "Perhaps you're right." Lancelot felt herself blush again. Yes, bastards were common enough, and generally not acknowledged. "I could use a new cloak. I'll get some wool and bring it to you. And if you make a tunic as well, I'll give you some of my old chain mail and a sword."

  "Two tunics."

  "Two tunics. Agreed."

  The chain mail would not be as tight on the wiry Creirwy as it was on Talwyn, Lancelot reflected.

  Lancelot stood with Talwyn in Guinevere's room and told her that Creirwy would join in her lessons.

  "Let a serving girl strike at me?" Talwyn flinched at this horrible idea. Why would Lancelot want her to undergo such humiliation? "Can you truly mean that? Won't it turn her bad?"

  Lancelot frowned. Her voice was grave. "She wants to escape whoring for the men. Is that bad?"

  The bluntness of this speech made Talwyn stare at the floor.

  "No."

  "If she struck you when not at practice with me, you could no doubt have her hand cut off. And if you struck her, she could not say or do anything. So why is it that you fear her?" Lancelot examined her face.

  "I'd never strike a serving woman," Talwyn protested. She had never even thought of doing such a thing.

  "Some ladies do, Guinevere tells me. See that you don't." Lancelot patted her shoulder.

  Talwyn sighed. If the queen and Lancelot wanted her to cross wooden swords with a serving girl, she would have to do it as a price for the lessons. Talwyn vowed that she would be kind to the poor serving girl. But when Creirwy came to the queen's room there was a hint of scorn in the serving girl's gray eyes.

  When they fought, with Lancelot watching every move, listening to every word, it was clear that Creirwy was the stronger.

  The two girls circled around each other, trying to take each other's measure.

  Talwyn had thought she cared nothing about clothes, but as she looked at Creirwy's rough, undyed gown, she knew that she did. Talwyn also had imagined that she worked hard, spinning and sewing every day, though it was less than most ladies did because the queen took her off for lessons. When she looked closely at Creirwy's raw, red hands, she realized that she had scarcely worked at all by comparison.

  Then Creirwy's wooden sword hit her shoulder and Talwyn could barely keep from staggering. She bit her lip to keep from anger at being hit by a servant. Creirwy was stronger than she was, but then, so would men be. She lunged at Creirwy, and missed.

  "Don't just thrash around, Talwyn. Keep your stance," Lancelot urged her. "Don't just stab, Creirwy. That may work against Talwyn, but it wouldn't against a trained man."

  Creirwy looked up boldly at their teacher. "How likely am I to be wearin' a sword when a man grabs at me? Better teach us how to fight with our fists, too."

  Talwyn sucked in her breath. Fighting with a sword was somehow splendid, but fighting with fists seemed low.

  Nonetheless, Lancelot nodded. "I suspect you know some of that already. You can show Talwyn the rudiments. And as for grabbing, come from behind and grab me around the neck, and watch how I break free."

  Creirwy grabbed Lancelot, but Lancelot stepped back and threw her off balance.

  "It is good to know more than one way of fighting. Like foxes, you must have many strategies for escaping," Lancelot said.

  "And a good kick in the groin is one of the best," the handsome warrior told them. "You can try it on me. I have padded myself so much that you can't hurt me."

  Creirwy eyed Lancelot with amazement, and Talwyn thought she must guess that a man would never teach her this form of attack. Lancelot did not look like a padded man; in fact, just the opposite.

  Gareth seemed to brood more than any of the other young fighters. Gawaine noticed how much time Gareth spent alone, or praying in the chapel, and so one evening when they were in their house, he said, "Surely you must want a woman, Gareth. Don't be shy. Let me tell you how you can please one," and put an arm on his shoulder.

  But Gareth pulled away, exclaiming vehemently, "Stay away from me. Everything you say is evil and I can't bear for you to touch me."

  Stung, Gawaine retreated. What misfortune that he had one brother who barely suppressed his violence, another who was a foolish lout, and the third was the world's worst prig, and hated him as well.

  "I did passing well, did I not?" Mordred laughed triumphantly over Gereint, one of King Arthur's warriors, whose shoulder he had just nicked in fighting practice. Gereint was of no account, being nearly forty years old and having no imagination.

  "Passing well," Gereint agreed, his hand on his shoulder.

  "No one could guess that you learned sword fighting only this year."

  They stood in the cool cellar of the brothel that Mordred owned. Casks of wine and ale surrounded them and lent the air a pungent smell.

  Mordred wiped his sword—a fine one, with lapis on the hilt—and sat down on a wine barrel. He had done well to kill the panderers who raised him and take the brothel for his own, he reflected with glee.

  "My language is also polished enough for the High King's court, is it not?" Mordred asked, keeping the anxiety he felt out of his voice. Never could he show anyone a hint of uncertainty. Only fools did that.

  "Usually, but at times you slip," Gereint said, also seating himself on a wine barrel. He had stanched the blood that had dripped through his doublet.

  Mordred frowned. How dare this fool criticize him, when he was paying the man so much to teach him sword fighting and noble speech. "My father
will be proud of me, won't he?"

  "You do resemble the High King, but you must never speak of that," Gereint warned, running his fingers through his brown hair, which showed a touch of gray.

  Mordred turned away from the warrior. How dare Gereint suggest that he might not be King Arthur's son. His whore of a mother had died before he was old enough to remember her, and that was just as well. Why couldn't he have had a lady, or even a queen, for a mother? His red-gold hair, his gray eyes, and the features of his face showed whose son he was. The panderers had taunted him with that knowledge, but soon no one would ever taunt him again.

  "My father will not welcome me." Mordred stated these words, but they were really a question.

  "The king will no doubt show mercy to you. It was commendable that you sought to learn how to behave properly before you met him, but he would not be pleased to learn that you own this place." Gereint looked around the brothel's cellar with distaste, as if he could see what was taking place in the rooms above it.

  "I've told you that you can have any of the girls."

  "And I have told you that I am true to my wife." Gereint brushed his sleeve as if wiping off a spot of grease.

  "How noble." Mordred had learned to modify his sneer so it sounded genteel rather than coarse. "But your nobility doesn't prevent you from taking my money. Or would you prefer not to be paid anymore?"

  "I have told you that I need it, for my caer is in a state of disrepair and my cattle sickened and died last winter. I have done much for you. You would do well to show me respect." Gereint spoke not just in the tones of teacher to student but also in the tones of a superior to a social inferior.

  "I do respect you. Have you kept your promise and told no one, not even your so beloved wife, that you are teaching me?" Mordred ran his finger along the blade of his sword.

  "I have done as you asked. It is better that your whereabouts be secret until you present yourself to the king." Gereint wiped his brow.

  "I am in your debt. Do go up to the tavern and at least drink some of my best wine. As you know, I have said that you should be given only the finest." Mordred made a mock bow.