Mador went down on his knees. "I yield. Have mercy, Lancelot."
Lancelot held her sword to Mador's throat. Her voice was harsher than a hailstorm. "Only if you say that the queen had nothing to do with poison and promise that you will never again repeat this slander against her."
"I swear it," Mador said, and Lancelot let him scramble to his feet.
Guinevere held back tears and pulled the fur cloak tighter around her. All she wanted was to see Lancelot alone and be in her arms.
There was a contented sigh among the crowd, and people murmured that justice had been done and the process had once again proved to be the best possible.
Arthur said a few words to that effect, thanked Lancelot, praised justice, and asked for God's blessing. Guinevere nodded, and discreetly let her husband give her thanks for her.
Later, as night came, she retired to her room, and finally Lancelot came from the hidden passage.
"Thank you," Guinevere said simply, opening her arms just a little in anticipation of a possible reconciliation, but not so wide that she would look like a fool if Lancelot did not enter them.
"Of course I came to save your life," Lancelot responded, not moving close. There was no tenderness in her gaze. "But tell me, did you try to poison Gawaine?"
Guinevere recoiled as if Lancelot had struck her. "Why ever should I poison Gawaine? I have no reason to poison him." A terrible thought came into her mind. "Do I?"
"No!" Lancelot yelled. "Don't you trust me?"
"Don't you trust me?" Guinevere echoed her.
"Do you really think I'd murder anyone?" They glared at each other. "And he doesn't even know that you're a woman."
"Yes, he does," Lancelot replied defiantly.
Guinevere's stomach heaved. "You told him?"
"No, he just found out. It doesn't matter how. He's my friend, anyway."
"No doubt he wants to be more," Guinevere countered in a bitter tone. Of course Gawaine wanted more with nearly every woman.
"You don't trust me." Lancelot trembled with anger. "After all these years, you don't trust me."
Guinevere felt as if her world was collapsing. Instead of comforting her, Lancelot was harsh with her. Had Lancelot been more concerned about the possibility that someone might have tried to poison Gawaine than about the danger to Guinevere's life if her champion had lost? Her voice became more frenzied. "You're the one who doesn't trust me. You think I'd commit murder out of jealousy and spite. You think like a man."
"I suppose that's the worst possible insult, coming from you." Lancelot's eyes still held no warmth.
"You think they aren't so bad?" Guinevere felt angry blood rushing through her heart. "I hope you aren't so foolish as to trust that friend of yours."
Lancelot glowered. "Of course I trust him. He cares as much about the friendship as I do."
More thoughts flooded Guinevere's brain. "And does he know that you haven't told me that he's aware you're a woman?"
"Yes." Lancelot's voice was impatient, as if the matter was insignificant.
Guinevere trembled. "Then he must have jested about my ignorance, and you've let him laugh about it?"
"What of it?" Lancelot's face and voice showed no sign of apology.
"I call that infidelity."
Lancelot glared at her as if she were an enemy. How unnerving to see her gentle brown eyes glare! "Infidelity indeed! No one could or would be more faithful to you than I have been. Does my friendship with him bother you so? Oh, how terrible that you should have to feel for a few moments what I've had to feel for the last ten years. I hate it that you're married. I hate it!" Her face was red, and not with blushing.
Guinevere was strangely relieved to hear those words, but she just snapped back. "Oh, that old refrain again. You know I don't lie with Arthur."
"You kiss him!"
"Only in public! It's nothing. It's less than nothing." She was unwilling to remain on the defensive. "But you like Gawaine."
"Well, that's not nothing," Lancelot asserted, frowning. "It's friendship. I'm as fond of him as if he were my brother. Must you harp on this nonsense about Gawaine? I even told him a story that made it sound as if I could never possibly be attracted to a man, which might be an exaggeration. I just don't want one. Some friendships are better with a little distance."
Guinevere was stung by the absence of an avowal of love. "Oh, by all means, don't do anything to spoil your friendship. It's not as if you had some other love. If you told him a story that's not true, he probably knows it isn't."
"He is clever enough to know that we all make stories of our lives, and to see the significance of my choosing the one that is the most discouraging." Still she stormed at Guinevere. "How can you complain about me, when you act like a wife to someone else? How do I know that you are faithful to me?"
Guinevere shook with anger. As if she could do anything but pretend to be a good wife to Arthur! "How dare you accuse me! If you think I’m unfaithful, you’re a fool. You understand nothing of what it is to be a woman. No one has ever touched you without love. You know nothing of what I have endured, nothing! Go back to the company of noble men. This humble lady thanks you for taking the time from your quest to save her. I'm saved now; you can go again, if you like." Her hands formed fists.
"I must, at least for a time. Will you come with me?" Lancelot did not beg, but her longing was visible in her eyes. Her face finally showed something other than anger.
"And do what? Try to live on roots and nuts in the woods in winter? With Arthur chasing after us to redeem his honor by taking me back?" Guinevere said scornfully. Even if she had been willing to go to Lesser Britain, they could not have gone at that time of year. No ships would sail until spring.
"It would be better than this misery," Lancelot said, and turned to the door.
"So you think I should show my love for you by running off and getting you killed like Tristram? I've told you I won't be free until Arthur dies."
Lancelot bolted out of the door.
Guinevere called after her, but Lancelot thudded down the stairs of the secret passage. Guinevere threw herself on the bed and sobbed.
How long would it be before she saw Lancelot again? Why didn't Lancelot understand that she couldn't leave with her? Lancelot knew only freedom; she didn't understand what it was not to be free. Guinevere stifled her sobs in the pillow. She couldn't bear to see Lancelot cut down by Arthur. Better to be captive, better even to be misjudged by the one she loved.
Gawaine was free to spend more time with Lancelot than she could, curse him, Guinevere thought bitterly. He could go out riding with Lancelot at any time; he could speak with her all day. Not while Lancelot was away, of course, but he had had such freedom for years. He could go on journeys with Lancelot; he could save Lancelot's life.
Although she could not fight, Guinevere had saved Lancelot's life more than once, but those incidents happened years ago. She could not go off and fight at Lancelot's side, which was apparently what Lancelot valued. Killing together—how sweet. Guinevere shook with anger as well as sorrow. Lancelot had once admitted that she trusted Gawaine more than Guinevere. It appeared that she still did.
After ten years of love, Lancelot still did not trust her! Guinevere moaned. How many people would trust her? Lancelot could fight better than Mador, but that did not really prove that Guinevere was not a poisoner. Probably no one would ever know who poisoned Patricius, and no one would bother to try to discover the truth. She would always have to live under suspicion. Guinevere clutched the pillow so hard that she tore it, and feathers came tumbling out.
The next morning, Guinevere approached Gawaine in the stableyard. She could barely force herself to speak to him, now that she realized he knew Lancelot was a woman. Lancelot had told him that she and Guinevere loved each other. Did Gawaine find the idea of two women loving each other amusing, curse him?
Guinevere kept her face and her voice as expressionless as possible.
"You had better look
elsewhere for your poisoner, if you think you were the intended victim. I don't stoop to such things. No one will ever die because of me."
"Thank you for the warning, your highness," he said, just as formally, his face just as impassive.
Gawaine ought to realize that some unknown person who had tried to kill him was likely to try again, and that he should attempt to find out who it was—but he probably wasn't clever enough to believe her and do that, Guinevere thought as she stalked to her horse.
17 LANCELOT’S QUEST
Galahad rode off across snow-whitened land that was still except for the occasional call of a carrion crow. The land seemed empty, though tracks of hares, foxes, and red deer were threaded across it. She had just visited her mother's caer, Tintagel by the sea. Following directions that her mother had given her, she came to a moorland bog near a wood. Some waterfowl flew up from a pond that was only partly covered with ice, and a young woman rose up out of the reeds. Galahad rode to her.
The lady had reddish hair, tangled from the wind, and a wild, shy look. She did not hold her plaid wool cloak tight around her, but let it flap in the breeze.
"Are you the Lady Elaine?" Galahad asked, sure that she was.
She stared at Galahad. Her pale face filled with wonder.
"I am. I had the strangest feeling when I saw you ride up. The thought came to me that you are my brother, not the man who I always thought was. I don't know how that can be."
"It's true," Galahad said, smiling in what she hoped was a brotherly way. "I recently was told that you are my sister. That's why I came here to see you, although just briefly."
They looked at each other, not knowing what else to say. Galahad wanted to embrace Elaine, but hesitated for fear the girl would resent such sudden intimacy. Her mother had told her that this Elaine was her sister, but warned her not to reveal anything about their parentage.
Finally, Elaine said, "I know where owls nest. Would you like to see that?"
"Yes, that would be grand."
Galahad dismounted and followed her to a wood where a great gray owl sat high in an oak.
"There's the mate, on the next tree," Elaine said, gesturing.
"I don't see it." Galahad stared at the pine, but its thick needles hid any birds from view.
"You have to look where the branches are thickest, near the trunk, some distance from the top," Elaine replied.
Galahad peered among the branches and found the owl.
"And there's the nest," Elaine added, gesturing toward a wobbly looking nest of sticks.
"Did you see them build it?"
"Owls don't build their own nests, but take old ones made by other birds. Didn't you know that?"
"No." Galahad looked down at the snow. They had not been children together, but perhaps they could recapture a little of that lost childhood. "Did you play with snowballs when you were young?"
"Not much." Elaine picked up a handful of snow and let it fall. "I was mostly alone or with my mother. My brother is much older and was always sullen."
"Did he ever hurt you?" Galahad's stomach tightened.
"No, he mostly ignored me."
"Good." Galahad nodded. What she knew of her own parentage made her leery of how men treated their sisters. "Would you like to know how to make a good snowball?"
"Yes." Elaine smiled shyly and brushed her hair from her face.
Galahad showed her how to pack the snow into a ball. They tossed the snowballs at trees and watched them shatter on the bark.
"Would you like to have a snowball fight?"
Elaine giggled. "Yes."
They threw snowballs at each other for a while, Galahad deliberately aiming to miss. Elaine laughed like one who had been starved for laughter. She hit Galahad several times, and a few times Galahad's softly packed snowballs struck Elaine's shoulder.
The winter afternoon light grew dim, and Elaine asked, "Will you come to my father's hall for supper?"
"I fear I cannot. I have to go on a journey. But I'll be back someday." Galahad looked at her regretfully, reluctant to leave.
Elaine sighed. "I'm glad I met you anyway."
"It's better if you don't tell anyone." The suggestion of something hidden embarrassed Galahad, but she believed that she must obey her mother.
"I thought that might be true. I don't understand, but I won't tell." Elaine kissed Galahad lightly on the cheek.
Galahad hugged her and went off, wondering how meeting a grown sister could be different from this awkward tenderness, as it apparently had been for King Arthur and Galahad's mother.
But her mother had told her to use discretion, so she was glad that Elaine hadn't asked her name.
Lancelot had gone off angry for many reasons. Truly, fighting with her lover was more painful than combat with men.
Perhaps she had been wrong to imagine that Guinevere might have plotted to murder Gawaine, but Guinevere might want her to kill Arthur. That was horrible to contemplate. And worse, Lancelot sometimes wanted to do it.
In many places mud, not snow, covered the land. Everything seemed desolate, barren of beauty.
She passed a frozen pond and stared at the leaves and logs trapped beneath its dark surface. No waterfowl lingered near it. She wondered whether she, too, could freeze, if she stayed forever caught in this half-hidden love, lived out in the husband's shadow. A winter light showed bare trees reflected pale on one corner of the pond, like a ghostly world in which only saints could dwell. Such a world would have drawn her once, but it no longer did. Trying to be a celibate saint was not enough for one who had known love.
Feeling weary, Lancelot camped early for the night. She attempted to eat some of the food that Catwal had packed for her, but she could barely swallow. Nothing tasted as it should, and indeed she did not want food at all.
She wanted to sleep and escape from her troubles, but she could not. Her body was rigid. She couldn't remember long it had been since she had slept much. Not since the Christ Mass, but perhaps longer.
The next day her eyes were bleary, and all she wanted was to lie down again. But when night came, again she was so filled with fear that she had lost Guinevere that she could not sleep.
It did not seem that she ever slept, but she opened her eyes long after dawn had come. A man stood beside her. She reached for her sword, then saw he was Bellangere. She sighed with relief.
"Bellangere, good day. Why do you stand so strangely quiet before me?" Rising, she extended her hand to him.
He did not accept it. "I am calling you out to fight," he said, regarding her as if she wore scales instead of chain mail.
Stunned, Lancelot stared at him. "Fight another warrior of King Arthur's? For what cause? If you want a contest, can't we settle this next Pentecost?"
Bellangere shook his fist and exclaimed in anger, "Contests be damned! I'm fighting to avenge my cousin Sangremore, because you killed him for trifling with a Saxon wench. You gave him no chance to fight, but killed him like a dog."
All of her muscles tensed. Her heart beat faster. "It's true that I killed him, though I would have fought him if he had not fled from me. He did not trifle, as you said, but raped her."
His face almost purple, Bellangere shook with rage. "And you cut off his head and gave it to the Saxons! That's no way to treat a brother warrior."
"I did that," she admitted, trying to face him as calmly as possible. "But the Saxons would have killed Gawaine if I didn’t have proof that Sangremore was dead. I don't want to fight with you. Sangremore's not worth avenging."
"You holy fanatic whoreson, he was my cousin!" Bellangere shouted. "Will you agree to fight, or must I just attack you?"
"I'll fight if you demand it, but I have no wish to shed your blood. We are both sworn to King Arthur," Lancelot replied sadly, nevertheless readying her mind for battle. She already had to pray for Sangremore's soul, and she did not want to have to pray for Bellangere's as well.
Bellangere smiled unpleasantly. "Sangremore was sworn to Arthur,
but you murdered him. I'm the one who tried to poison Gawaine, because he stood up for you, and I thought your lady"—he pronounced this word with great sarcasm—"would die for it."
Lancelot gasped. "What a cowardly act!" Her hand clutched the hilt of her sword. But she could scarcely believe his words. "Can you really be Bellangere and have done such things?" she asked.
The man smiled craftily. "I am Bellangere, but you are not Lancelot. You only imagine that you are. You aren't a great warrior at all. You aren't a true member of King Arthur's round table. You are deluded into believing that a queen loves you, but she does not. When you aren't at Camelot, she hangs on the king's arm. I see you for what you are. You're just a madman who goes about killing people."
Lancelot froze. She must be an imposter. This man had seen through her. And he could see that Guinevere didn't love her.
Panic seized Lancelot. She tried to pull her sword from its scabbard, but her hand would not move. The forest swam before her eyes. Dimly, she saw Bellangere hit her horse on the rump and drive the mare off. Then his fists moved towards her, but her body was unable to move, even when she felt his blows.
Drian rode in the forest far to the south and west of the areas she usually frequented. A commotion drew her to explore on foot and peer through the trees.
Drian's heart plunged into her boots. A large warrior, not as big as the hairy brute whom Lancelot called a friend, but big enough, considerably larger than Drian, was beating Lancelot, who was lying helpless on the ground. How could Drian stop him? If she had her bow and arrows with her it would be simple, but she had left them on her horse, which was some distance away.
Drian climbed one of the bare oak trees. She edged her way out along the largest limb, then sprang down on the man, knocking him over, away from Lancelot. Hitting and kicking, she hoped she could subdue him. He slumped like a sack of grain. She hardly dared to stop pummeling him. What if he were pretending to be unconscious, and would spring at her if she let up? Finally, she left off and got up. She saw that his neck was broken, no doubt from the impact when she jumped on him.
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