Lancelot and Guinevere

by Carol Anne Douglas

  "If the man liked her so much, he would have been glad to marry her," Gawaine said.

  Lancelot gasped and shook her head.

  "I suppose the man must have been ugly for her to spurn him so," Arthur said, playing with the ears of his dog, which had put its head in his lap.

  "Or he was a terrible lover," Bedwyr contributed.

  "No." Lancelot's voice was emphatic. "He wasn't ugly or a bad lover. That's not the point. Love is not just a matter of this act or that act, but of the whole person."

  "Well, he was a soft and sentimental man to pay so much attention to a woman's whims," Arthur said, gesturing for his serving man to pour yet another round. "That running off in the forest sounds like Tristram and Iseult. Mark was a brute to kill Tristram. He was a great warrior."

  "Why don't you tell one of your stories, Gawaine? Yours are much better," Bedwyr asked.

  "Not at the moment," Gawaine said quietly. It would take him a while to recover from this one.

  "Well, I must get some rest before I set forth tomorrow." Lancelot nodded to them all and departed after accepting their good wishes.

  As soon as Lancelot left, Bedwyr said, "Lancelot must have been the man in the story. Only he would be so foolish as to listen so much to a woman who was impossible to please. And did you see how annoyed he was at the idea that the man was ugly or a bad lover?"

  "How clever of you to guess that Lancelot was the man in the story," Gawaine told him. No one else would ever guess that Lancelot was the woman in the tale.

  Guinevere heard the secret door open and the tapestry rustle. Lancelot entered the room. At least Lancelot would say farewell to her.

  Lancelot's face was pale and unsmiling. She looked as if she might weep, but she held herself erect.

  "Are you leaving tomorrow, dearest?" Guinevere asked, striving to keep her voice calm.

  "Yes. A long parting would be too difficult." Lancelot's voice was just as strained as her face.

  Guinevere sucked in her breath. Lancelot did not mean to stay the night. Biting her lip, Guinevere said, "Do what you must. I hope you will return soon."

  "I am not certain how soon. God keep you well, my lady." Lancelot turned and pulled back the tapestry.

  "I pray that you will be safe," Guinevere replied.

  Then Lancelot was gone.

  Guinevere sat down in a chair. She could not keep standing.

  Determined not to show her grief at Lancelot's departure on what promised to be a long journey, Guinevere put on a smile and went to Cai's office. Although the day was dark, he had several oil lamps burning brightly. How little he seemed to age, she thought. He had no gray in his hair, and his skin was much less wrinkled than that of Arthur's other men. Of course he spent far less time out in the elements than they did.

  "I want to hold a special feast to cheer the court in the January gloom," she said.

  Cai's eyebrows shot up, but he said, "Will the guests be sustained by spiritual nourishment from the grail, or should we plan fine foods?"

  Guinevere gave him a look that said she believed as little in the grail as he did. "Fine foods, of course. What everyone likes best to eat. Be sure that there is roast pork for the king, and partridges in wine for Peredur, the freshest fish for Bors, and plenty of apples for Gawaine. Surely you must have some apples that are not too dried up."

  "Apples in January. Of course we have some in the cellars, but I can't make them taste as if they just came from Eden. But I doubt that you want to tempt the guests." Cai grinned at her, as if he knew just how little she wanted to tempt anyone, least of all Gawaine.

  She rolled her eyes. "No, just to feed them well. Put some sort of wine sauce on the fruit, if you must, to improve the taste. The warriors will like it well enough if it tastes of wine."

  The feast started off well. Several whole roasted pigs brought appreciative smiles from many warriors. The fires burned bright, warming them all, and Cai had brought out some of the best wines. Harpers played and sang of the sorrows of winter and the tantalizing joys of spring.

  Just as they began to eat, a slender young warrior, Patricius, picked up an apple dripping with wine sauce. "You can't have all the apples, Gawaine, although you always find women ready to offer them to you. I shall sin now, and perhaps redeem myself later by looking for the grail," he said.

  Many warriors laughed. Bors and Gareth frowned. Patricius took a bite, and, a moment later, collapsed, crying out in pain. Then he was still, his face horribly contorted.

  Everyone began yelling and jumping up, upsetting the dishes. Men spat food from their mouths. Servers screamed and dropped their trenchers. Warriors who were kin to Patricius hung over him so that Arthur had to order them back to allow Cassius to reach the warrior and pronounce him dead.

  Guinevere sat frozen with horror. He must have been poisoned. How could such a thing happen at Camelot?

  "This poison was meant for Gawaine! Everyone knows he usually takes the first apple!" Gaheris wailed, leaping to Gawaine's side to defend him.

  "It was meant for Gawaine!" Agravaine waved his fist as if menacing the whole company.

  "Someone has tried to murder Gawaine!" Gareth leapt to Gawaine's other side.

  Remaining seated, Gawaine put one hand on Gaheris's arm, the other on Gareth's, as if to restrain them. His face had paled.

  Mador, a lean, well-muscled warrior who was cousin to Patricius, began to yell, "The queen poisoned him. It was her feast. She poisoned the apples. She must have meant to poison Gawaine. Everyone knows that she dislikes him. She must die! My Lord Arthur, I demand justice!" he shrieked, eyes fixed on the king.

  Arthur stood, firm and dignified as a Caesar. "Be calm, Mador. This contemptible murder has unnerved you. Of course there will be justice for the murderer, but it could not have been the queen. Why would she do such a thing?"

  "I have never poisoned anyone. I would never poison anyone," Guinevere said quietly, trying not to shudder at the accusation. She could hardly believe that anyone would imagine she could commit murder. Nor was she pleased at having to rely on her husband for justice. His first words were not bad, but would he be guided by his hatred?

  "I accuse her! You must try her, my lord," Mador insisted, pointing his finger at her.

  Some other warriors nodded. None spoke up to challenge the accusation.

  Feeling as if she would faint, Guinevere clutched the table edge and tried to maintain her dignity.

  "There will be justice," Arthur said, majestic as ever. "If you make this challenge, a defender can fight you and prove her innocence."

  "I do make this challenge," Mador cried.

  "And who will fight for our queen?" Arthur asked, as calmly as if he were asking the outcome of a contest, though serving men were carrying the wretched corpse away not far from him.

  No one spoke.

  Guinevere tried not to look around the table and see the faces of the men who refused to defend her.

  Arthur raised his eyebrows and surveyed his men. "Who will fight for the queen?" His voice had grown sterner.

  So, little though Arthur cared about her now, at least he wanted her to be championed, Guinevere thought. He was far too intelligent to believe that she would poison a warrior. But wouldn't this charge give him an excuse to rid himself of her?

  Gray-mustached Bors bowed to the king, and then to Guinevere. "I would be honored to fight in defense of the queen's innocence, if no warrior who is greater than I will do so, but if a greater one wishes to fight in my stead, he can."

  Arthur and Guinevere both nodded to him in acknowledgment. She was not surprised that Bors was willing to fight for her, but she knew that he was not one of Arthur's best fighters.

  "Let the contest be held a week from today," Arthur proclaimed. "Now let us leave this distressing scene. I offer our condolences to the family of the noble Patricius. We shall bury him with the greatest honor. Meanwhile, if anyone can tell me who the guilty party is, let him come to me, and I shall reward him if his charge
s prove to be true."

  Arthur called Gawaine to his room.

  "Why did you allow Bors to say he would fight for Guinevere?" Arthur demanded, letting his annoyance show in his voice. He had never before felt so irritated at Gawaine. Arthur sat at his table, but he leaned forward towards his cousin. "He doesn't fight as well as Mador. I can't fight for her, because I can't be both judge and defender. Why didn't you offer to fight for her? She's your kin as well as your queen."

  Gawaine remained standing. His face was like a mask. "Wouldn't that seem a bit odd when most people think I'm the one she tried to poison? My brothers would be displeased."

  Arthur frowned. He did not ask Gawaine to be seated. He himself had not many months before suggested to Lancelot that Guinevere might be a poisoner, but of course he hadn't believed it and wouldn't have kept her around him if he had. She was his queen and it was infuriating that some mere warrior had sought to bring her to judgment. "That's completely mad. Guinevere has absolutely no reason to poison you. She was angry some fourteen or fifteen years ago when I suggested that she should lie with you to produce an heir, but nothing came of it. You didn't even try asking her. She could hardly hold a grudge that bitterly for so long. What possible reason would she have for killing you?"

  "None." Gawaine's voice was expressionless.

  "Then why won't you fight for her? You have sworn to defend all women, and that includes Guinevere."

  "I will if I have to," Gawaine said with apparent reluctance, "although it would look very strange. But you set the contest for a week from now, so Lancelot will likely hear about it and come to fight and prove her innocence."

  Arthur relaxed slightly. Yes, he could rely on Lancelot. It would be good to have Lancelot return, even for such a terrible reason. "Of course that's why I put it off. That, and the hope that someone will name the real poisoner. And of course, I won't put Guinevere to death. If worst comes to worst and her champion loses, I'll just send her to a convent for a few months, until this little storm blows over." But there was no need to tell Guinevere that decision too soon. Let her worry a little.

  Guinevere retreated to her room and stayed there as much as possible, but acted calm, both there and when she went about the court, when others were around her. Talwyn had come sobbing to her, and Guinevere had comforted the dear girl and told her, and all the other ladies and serving women, not to worry. When Guinevere was alone, she sat in stunned silence.

  It does no good to weep because I might die, Guinevere thought, shivering. She put on an extra shawl and invited her cat to sit in her lap.

  Why hadn't Gawaine leapt up at once and said that the idea of her trying to poison him was nonsense? Surely he must know that. His silence was inexplicable.

  She should not rely on men's swords to save her. Instead, she must use her mind and try to figure out who the murderer was. She looked at the courtyard, where warriors strolled. Somewhere out there was the killer, laughing inwardly because she had been accused. If she was executed, the murderer would watch her die. She shuddered. Perhaps the murderer wanted her dead? Could the plot really be against her? No, that idea was too far-fetched.

  Sunlight sparkled on snow in the courtyard. She did not want to die.

  Was Gawaine truly the intended victim? Why would anyone imagine that she wanted to kill him? If everyone killed the people they disliked, none of us would be left standing, she thought. There were other men—Agravaine, for instance—whom she disliked more than Gawaine.

  If someone had tried to kill Gawaine, no doubt it was due to his wenching. Perhaps it was some woman he had cast aside? But how could any of the ladies have had a chance to poison the apples? The men were served first, and the bowl had been nowhere near where the ladies sat.

  More likely the poisoner was the father, brother, husband, or sweetheart of some woman Gawaine had seduced, Guinevere thought, patting her cat absently. Men usually settled such grievances with swords, but this man must have known that he was unlikely to kill Gawaine in a fair fight, indeed far more likely to be killed himself if he insisted on fighting to the death.

  Perhaps the murderer might even be a serving man whose woman Gawaine had taken. Poison would be the only weapon that a serving man could use against Gawaine. The serving men had more chances to poison the apples than the nobles did.

  But how could she discover who the murderer was? She had little idea of which women Gawaine had lain with, and how could she find out? She rubbed the cat's cheek, and it purred loudly.

  She could not go about asking who had lain with Gawaine. Was there anyone who could ask such questions for her? Lionors was the lady she liked best, and she surely would believe that Guinevere was innocent, but Lionors did not gossip and would be horrified at the idea of asking anything of kind.

  Talwyn would be only too eager to try to find out who the murderer was, but Guinevere had no intention of letting her do so. Talwyn was little more than a child, and would quickly get herself in trouble.

  If only Fencha were still at Camelot! She always knew who was lying with whom. Luned was much shyer.

  Creirwy knew little of what was happening among the ladies, but she might ask questions of the serving people. Guinevere summoned her.

  "I did not poison the apples," she told the serving girl.

  "Of course not, Lady Guinevere." Creirwy nodded vigorously.

  "Can you find out whether any of the serving people hated Gawaine?"

  Creirwy frowned. "It would be easier to find out which ones loved him. He's very popular with the serving people, Lady Guinevere. Many of the women throw themselves at him, but the men like him, too. I don't think you'll find the killer among them, but I'll ask." Her voice became harsher. "They won't be too pleased at the idea of someone trying to put the blame on them for a murder committed by a noble."

  Guinevere looked at the girl's troubled face and her red, raw hands, much like those of the other serving people who toiled to maintain the court in comfort. "I would never try to put the blame on any of them if they didn't do it."

  "I know, Lady Guinevere, but they won't all know that. They'll suspect the worst. But I'll ask." Her tone was resigned, too resigned. Creirwy generally did not sound as resigned to her lot as the other serving people, and Guinevere liked that well.

  "Perhaps it is better if you don't ask. Never mind, it's probably a noble, as you said." Guinevere dismissed her. If the murderer really was a serving man, he might be frightened and injure Creirwy. Guinevere did not want to risk that.

  When she was alone again, Guinevere looked out of the window. Mador was speaking with another warrior in the courtyard below. He gestured so fiercely that he was probably talking about the murder.

  What if Gawaine had not been the intended victim? Why had Mador been so quick to accuse Guinevere? What if he had murdered his kinsman because he expected to inherit property?

  But she was in no position to ask about that. If only there was someone who could make inquiries for her, but she was alone. There was no one to ask. If she had still been on good terms with Arthur, of course she could have gone to him, and he would have asked someone to pursue the inquiries. If he had come to see her, she would have told him what her thoughts were, but he did not, and she did not feel that she could go to him. She sighed, but she wanted to beat her fists against the wall in a protest at her helplessness.

  On the day when the test was set, the whole court assembled on the contest field. There was a light covering of snow on the ground, making the footing worse for a fight. No fighting contest would ever be held in the snow, but the trial by combat was not postponed.

  The crowd's mood was somber, and people muttered. Guinevere did not sit beside the king as usual, but off some distance with her ladies. It was mild for a January day, but her marten-fur robe did not warm her. The sky was as gray as her mood. She might die. Surely she would not die. Sitting calmly was an effort, but she was determined not to tremble. If Bors lost, she must not weep. Would Arthur really execute her? He di
d not believe she was a murderer.

  What madness this trial by combat was. All men cared about was their own skills, not justice. If only she could defend herself. But she could barely lift a sword, and her words did not matter. If she could rule, she would not let trials be decided by such means.

  Gawaine stood near Arthur, who was looking at him with great impatience. The red-bearded warrior wore his chain mail. Perhaps he would defend her after all. Though they disliked each other, she thought it was odd that he had not risen to her defense because he was the best fighter when Lancelot was gone and, as Arthur's cousin, was kin to her. Surely he could not believe that she would try to poison him?

  Bors came out on the field, shaking a little, and made the sign of the cross. Walking over to Guinevere, he bowed before her. "God grant me the strength to prove your innocence, my lady. I am sure that He will, because that is the only way that justice can be done. Have faith."

  "I shall," she said, with grave courtesy. "Thank you for your kindness. Do not be distressed if you are not as successful as you hope. Tell yourself that God intended it that way." She pitied Bors having to fight for her life and wanted him not to be stricken with guilt if he failed.

  "His ways are mysterious, but surely not that much so," Bors said, trembling a little more.

  They saw a midnight black horse gallop up, and a smile spread over the pious warrior's face. "My prayers are answered. Here is your true champion, Lancelot. He'll make short work of Mador and his insane accusation."

  Guinevere sighed with relief. Her jaws, which had been tightly clenched, relaxed. She wished she could leap from the stands and throw her arms around her beloved warrior. Of course Lancelot would save her.

  Lancelot rode to the stands, bowed to Guinevere, and then to the king. Both bowed gravely in return.

  It was as Bors said. Lancelot quickly bested Mador, knocking his sword out of his hand after giving him some cuts.