Lancelot and Guinevere

by Carol Anne Douglas

  Arthur pulled back. "Confess your sins to me? Why should he tell you to do that? I am no priest, I don't want to hear them." How distasteful! What a fool priest. "Mayhap you should seek another confessor."

  "Please let me speak, Lord Arthur," she begged, wringing her hands. "You are the one I have wronged. When I was your mis-tress, you got me with child, but I knew that I would lose Gereint's love if I bore it. So I went to an old woman, who destroyed it."

  "You did what!" He felt as if he had been attacked by an assassin—and he had. "But it cannot be. I have never gotten any woman with child. Another man must have been the father." He tried to calm himself. What the woman had done was disgusting, but it could not have concerned him.

  She gasped. "Lord Arthur! No man but you had ever touched me, until I married Gereint, and then only he did. It was your child. I went to Queen Guinevere, and she told her old serving woman to help me."

  "Guinevere!" he shouted. Suddenly believing Enid, Arthur shook with rage. Clenching his fists, he felt as if his veins would burst and his heart would break through his chest. "She destroyed my child!"

  Cowering before him, Enid stammered, "She did not know. I did not tell her the child was yours until after it was done."

  "She must have known." He still shook. Enid's face was now hideous to him. If he had to look at it any longer, he would vomit—or strike her. "Leave me now, and never let me see your face again. Go to your home and stay there. You're right, it's a far better fate than you deserve."

  Trembling, she rose from her knees. "Yes, majesty. I know that you can never forgive me, but I greatly regret what I have done."

  "Go!" He flung the word at her, and shook his fist.

  Enid fled.

  He looked out of the window. The winter fields now seemed as barren as his life. He could have had a child, no doubt a son to rule after him. He had gotten a son on a woman, but evil

  women had killed it. His own wife, whom he had cosseted all these years, had seen to it that the child was killed. What a fool he had been ever to trust a woman. Great racking sobs tore through his body.

  When he was too weak to weep any longer, he stared at the walls of his hill fortress, and the fields and forests that lay beyond them. There would be no son to rule this land after him. And Gawaine might die before he did. Britain would fall apart. And all because Guinevere, who could not bear a child for him herself, was jealous that another woman could.

  If he could father one child, perhaps he could father another, if he put Guinevere aside and married a young woman. Guinevere deserved a far worse punishment.

  But if Guinevere left, Lancelot would doubtless leave also, and take her to Lesser Britain, where Lancelot still had land.

  Arthur would lose one of his best men. Worse, he would be disgraced as a cuckold. And he would have to take an army to Lesser Britain on a mission to destroy Lancelot. Arthur groaned. He did not want to kill Lancelot, who had served him well.

  If he could not put Guinevere aside, how could he punish her?

  Guinevere was explaining a fine point of Latin grammar to Talwyn when a knock came on the door. A young guard of the king's burst in before Fencha could open it.

  "The king is ill, Lady Guinevere! He asks you to come and see him." His voice was breathless, as if he had run to her room.

  She jumped up immediately. "Of course. Go off and read by yourself," she told the girl. Arthur had almost never been willing to acknowledge sickness.

  Stunned, Guinevere walked quickly back with the guard.

  "What ails him?" she asked, feeling almost as concerned as any other wife might be. He was the king, after all, and the land depended on his good health. She sometimes dreamed of succeeding him when he died, but she knew well that some strong man might seize the throne instead. Or Gawaine might be king.

  "I don't know, Lady Guinevere."

  "Has he seen the physician?"

  He stammered. "I don't know, Lady Guinevere. I just came on duty."

  She opened the door to the king's room. Arthur was alone, slumping in a chair and staring out of the window.

  He never slumped, but always sat erect and kingly.

  "What is the matter?" she asked.

  Arthur turned and looked at her. Every wrinkle in his face looked deeper than it had before, and his gray eyes were like storm clouds.

  "You killed my child." His voice was low, but shaking with rage.

  Guinevere gasped. "What do you mean, my lord?" Had he somehow discovered that she had used a potion to prevent childbearing when he had wanted her to bear his child, before he had his mad dreams about a murderous baby boy and had tried to prevent conception? But he couldn't know that she had taken a potion. Only Fencha knew, and she would never have told anyone. "Do you have a fever?"

  "Enid told me that the vile old witch who serves you, acting on your orders, destroyed her child. My child, the hope of all Britain." His eyes were like knives carving her.

  Guinevere felt as if she had been run over by a horse. For a moment, she had no breath to speak. "My lord," she gasped. "I did not know the child she was carrying was yours."

  "I don't believe you." Standing, he towered over her. His breath smelled rank, as if the bitterness rising within him had tainted it. "You are barren yourself, and you could not endure seeing another woman be the mother of my heir. If Britain falls apart when I am gone, you are to blame. You have betrayed not only me, but all of Britain."

  He grabbed her wrists and held them tightly, so that they ached.

  Sure that appearing weak would only incite his rage, Guinevere tried to keep as calm as possible. She took a deep breath. "My Lord Arthur, you are hurting me," she said in a voice that was not begging.

  Arthur laughed bitterly. "Not as much as you deserve. What should I do with you? How should I punish you?"

  "I did not try to injure you, so you should not injure me. I only tried to help the girl because she was with child, and no man of her station would ever marry her. You should release me." She looked him in the eye, not flinching at his furious expression.

  "Release you? I shall." He flung her away from him, so she fell on the floor.

  Guinevere's arm and one of her ankles hurt, but she made no outcry. Instead, she rose as quickly as she could and sat in a chair. "You have sworn never to strike a woman," she said.

  An ugly laugh answered her. "I have not struck you, have I? Indeed, I should never strike a woman, not even the murderer of my child. What should I do to that murdering old witch?"

  Guinevere shuddered inwardly, she hoped not outwardly. "Fencha is ancient. You surely would not injure her. There is no honor in hurting an old woman."

  "Shall I hurt you instead?" His voice was a mockery of pleasantness.

  "Instead of Fencha? Of course." She sat up straight, trying to radiate defiance.

  "Send the old witch away. Today. Immediately. I can't answer for what I would do if I saw her face." His voice was calmer now.

  Guinevere sucked in her breath. Send away Fencha, who was almost like a mother to her? Perhaps never see her again? Guinevere realized that she had no choice. "If you insist."

  "But that does not answer what I should do to you." Moving closer, he stood over her. "Shall I hurt you?" he asked again.

  Guinevere gripped the arms of the chair so hard that they cut into her hands. "If you did, you would lose Lancelot forever." She could guess what her best protection would be.

  Arthur clenched his fists. "Hide behind Lancelot, will you? I doubt that he knows what you have done."

  "Of course he does not." Lancelot might not approve of helping a woman rid herself of a pregnancy, but even if that were true, Guinevere was sure that Lancelot would not be angry at her.

  "Should I put you aside?"

  "If you wish to do so, then you will." She could sense that she was winning this battle. "Lancelot could take me to Lesser Britain."

  "You bitch!" Arthur glared at her, but he unclenched his fists. "You know I won’t stand for t
he disgrace of having my

  wife run away with another man. You will not find it pleasant to live with me after what you have done. How will you try to

  placate me? Will you return to my bed?"

  Guinevere gasped. "My lord, I cannot. I will not lie with anyone but Lancelot." The thought of being touched by the raging man nauseated her. "Surely you cannot want me when you are so angry at me."

  "Why not? Why should I be gentle? I have spoiled you. But you are my wife, and should obey me." His voice and face were grim.

  "I cannot lie with anyone but Lancelot," she insisted.

  "I have let you be with Lancelot. I have been the kindest husband in the world, and the most badly treated." His voice now held sorrow as well as anger.

  She realized that he believed his words.

  "Forgive me if I have hurt you, Lord Arthur. I have not been all that a wife could be, but I have been a friend to you..."

  "A friend!" he yelled, shaking with anger again. "A friend who killed my child? I wish I had never heard your name. Go off to your books. I can find ways to cause you pain without touching you. In public, I shall still pretend that you are my wife, but I know you for what you truly are—my enemy."

  She rose from the chair as quickly as she could. "I do not wish to be your enemy. I shall still do my best to be a good queen."

  His response was a hollow laugh. "Remember, there are always accidents. Lancelot would commiserate with me if something happened to my wife."

  Guinevere put her hand to her chest as if she had been attacked—and, indeed, she knew she had been.

  "Are you threatening me? What if I told Lancelot?"

  "You won't," he said with great certainty, "For then Lancelot would attack me and be killed in punishment if he succeeded."

  Guinevere stifled a gasp. Of course that was true. "I can't

  tell him now, but I could leave a letter for him to read if I died." She turned and left the room.

  Guinevere could not stop shaking. She returned to her room, and bade Fencha to close the door.

  Guinevere fought back tears. "Oh Fencha, Enid told Arthur what we did for her years ago. He is in a rage, and says that you must leave Camelot forever. Immediately, before he sees your face. I had to agree."

  Fencha cried out like a woman whose child had been torn from her. "Leave you? Oh, my lady!"

  Guinevere extended her arms, and the old woman fell into them.

  "I'm so sorry, Fencha. There's nothing I can do. Is there a place for you to go?"

  "My youngest son has a farm about ten miles from here. He has a kind wife. I'm sure they'll take me in." Fencha choked on the words.

  Guinevere's cat, which had been sleeping on a cushion, came up to them and rubbed against Fencha's ankles. The old woman bent over with difficulty and patted the cat.

  "Good-bye, puss," she said.

  "Fencha!" Guinevere could no longer hold back her tears at the sight of her serving woman's damp cheeks. "I shall miss you sorely."

  "I'll miss you like I miss my daughter who died, if it isn't bad luck to say so," Fencha said, rubbing her eyes. "Oh, my lady, I fear that the king will be cruel to you."

  Guinevere could not deny that, and did not try. "Whatever he does, I can endure it." She bit her lips. "Luned must be my chief serving woman now."

  "I'll always love you, my lady," Fencha choked.

  "And I shall always love you, Fencha," Guinevere said, putting into words what she had never said before.

  Sobbing, the old woman left the room.

  Guinevere collapsed in her chair.

  She thought she could not tell Lancelot any of this. She would have to tell Lancelot that Fencha had gone because she wanted to be with her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

  Guinevere knew that she was the one woman whom Lancelot could not rescue without bringing the world crashing down around them. How could Lancelot bear to hear about the way Arthur had grabbed her wrists, much less how he had threatened her? Lancelot would... Lancelot would be dead.

  Guinevere felt there was no way to protect herself, except that she would allow only Cuall the stablemaster to saddle her horse. He would never put it on in such a way that it would fall off.

  Guinevere would have run away, but she could not. All she had to hold onto was Lancelot. Their love was all she had to live for. Oh, Talwyn too. But chiefly Lancelot. Talwyn would find her own life.

  Guinevere entered Cai's office. Holding her body stiff and proud, she said, "Will you please order a locksmith you trust to change the lock on my door? And give me the only key. It must be done today, and in secret."

  Cai's face froze. "It will be done," he said, asking no questions.

  Later, he gave her the key, again without making any remark.

  Fencha had had the only key but Guinevere's, yet Guinevere feared that Arthur had found a way to make a copy.

  How could she face her husband at supper? Guinevere wondered. She went to the great hall as usual, of course, and prepared to sit with the women.

  But Arthur called out, "No, my dear, sit near me. I don't see enough of you," flung his arms around her, and kissed her on the lips. He pulled her into the chair beside his and draped his arm over her. She could feel his hatred pouring into her, but she had to keep her face as calm as usual and try to eat her trout. So this was his revenge. At least Lancelot wasn't there.

  A chill crept up the back of her neck as she realized that Arthur would likely act the same when Lancelot was present.

  In the middle of the night, Guinevere's door rattled, as if someone was trying the lock but failed to open it. The attempt ended.

  She shuddered, but she wagered with herself that Arthur would be too proud to speak about the changed lock.

  Her luck, such as it was, held. He never mentioned it.

  Arthur watched Guinevere enter his great hall. Truly, her beauty had faded. Why hadn't he noticed before? Even in the torchlight he could see that tiny lines had begun to form in her face, and a few gray hairs showed among the black. She was too short for a queen. Oh, she had bearing, all too much, in that straight back, that head held high. Those blue eyes hadn't looked so steady when he had uncovered her secret. He had seen fear in them; he would see it again.

  Yes, she must sit by him because he gestured that she should. He would kiss her cheek, less fondly than the cheek of any whore.

  She was his queen, his. Happen the only wife he would ever have, more's the pity. He could dash her down, he could trample over her, but he would not. Let her live with the knowledge that he could.

  She was no idle flirt, no weak woman overcome by passion. No, her adultery was of the mind as well as the body. She did not love Lancelot: Oh no, such as she could not love. She loved her pride. She would be queen with one subject—her husband's friend.

  He bade her sit on one side and Lancelot on the other. He gave Lancelot his warmest look. Poor fool drawn in by a woman's smile, poor trusting fool! Lancelot was too innocent, could not see that the woman lusted only for power.

  Let Lancelot learn not to trust the woman.

  Arthur pressed his arm around Guinevere, and left it there.

  She could not object, she must eat her supper in this posture.

  He smiled and jested with Lancelot, who shifted uneasily on the bench.

  Lancelot lay awake in the middle of the night. Something was different in Guinevere. Guinevere was holding something back. No, it was just Lancelot's own foolish imagination. The woman who slept beside her loved her as much as ever. She must stop imagining things. At supper she had imagined that Arthur touched Guinevere more than usual. It was nothing but Lancelot’s own absurd jealousy.

  Guinevere stirred and Lancelot realized that she was awake also. Lancelot pressed her cheek to Guinevere's shoulder. "Is anything the matter, sweet?" she asked gently.

  "No, nothing. Go to sleep," Guinevere mumbled.

  Lancelot woke again and shifted from her stomach to her side.

  Guinevere asked, "Ar
e you awake?"

  "Mmm," she mumbled.

  Guinevere touched her arm. "I want you to teach me how to fight in case anyone ever attacks me."

  Startled into full wakefulness, Lancelot sat up. "Surely no one would ever dare to try to harm you." She stared at Guinevere's dim shape.

  "How do you know? Perhaps someday a man might. I need to know how to stop a man from hurting me without killing him. And also how to kill him if I have to."

  Lancelot felt her blood run faster at the mere thought of Guinevere being hurt. "If any man hurt you, I would kill him, or Arthur would," she averred.

  Guinevere turned away from her. "It seems that you want me to be weak so I must depend on you to protect me. Are you so much like a man?"

  Lancelot apologized and agreed to teach her. Lancelot sighed audibly.

  Lancelot had no great desire to try giving lessons to a pupil who seemed so unlikely to learn the skill well and was never going to need it. She didn't want to have to correct Guinevere when the queen made mistakes.

  Seeing that swords were too heavy for the small Guinevere, Lancelot taught her how to use a dagger, and bought her a small one that she could keep concealed on her person if she chose.

  "A small blade can be just as effective as a large one," she told Guinevere, who laughed sharply.

  Lancelot also taught her how to kick, and where to place such kicks. And how to press at the temples in a way that might kill a man who could not be deterred otherwise.

  At the end of a long meal, fruits and sweets sat on the round table. Guinevere took a bite of her honeycake. It was sweet enough, but not too sweet.

  Gawaine reached for an apple.

  Bors eyed the apples reproachfully, as if they could leap off the plate and induce him to sin. “Eve’s weakness led us to misery and death,” he said.

  “What Eve wanted was power,” Arthur said in a harsher tone than usual. “She deceived Adam.”

  “No, it must have been Adam who tempted Eve,” Gawaine said, taking a bite. “She was a maiden and innocent.”