Lancelot had risen and was shaking not far away. Then she ran off. Drian rushed after her. Although her legs were stiff and sore from the jump, Drian could run faster than anyone she knew, and she soon caught hold of Lancelot's arm.
"Lance, it's Drian." Lancelot stared vacantly at her, but did not seem afraid. She led Lancelot to the stream, broke the ice, and washed Lancelot's face and hands, which had been hurt by the man. Then she gathered Lancelot in her arms and sat down by the bank.
Drian muttered soothing sounds and held Lancelot, who did not resist but seemed not to know who Drian was. Drian sang old songs that she had learned from her grandmother.
That night, Lancelot slept, and sometimes Drian drifted off too.
In the morning, she woke up to the sound of Lancelot's voice. "Drian! How did you get here? I dreamed of you."
Drian rubbed her eyes and hugged Lancelot. "Lance! I'm glad to hear your voice," she exclaimed heartily. She had wondered whether Lancelot ever would recover, and how she would care for Lancelot if she did not.
Lancelot flushed. "I lose myself sometimes. I hope I didn't distress you. Why, I'm covered with bruises!"
"Some man attacked you."
"And you saved me!" Lancelot hugged her tightly.
"I jumped on him from a tree."
"You might have been killed." Lancelot embraced her again and Drian felt so warm that it might have been summer. "Is his body near? Of course, he couldn't have been anyone I know, but I want to see."
"Of course he couldn't." Drian’s voice was sarcastic. Lancelot's faith in the other warriors of the round table struck her as mad. She led the way to the man's body.
"It's Bellangere, another warrior of the round table!" Lancelot exclaimed. "No, it's the man who saw through me." She fell silent. Trembling, she closed her eyes.
When Lancelot opened them, she again looked at Drian as if she did not recognize her. Drian guided her away from the body, but Lancelot still did not speak. She sank to the ground as if exhausted, and Drian sat beside her.
Drian sang again, but Lancelot seemed not to notice. As the morning waned into afternoon, Lancelot still sat staring vacantly. Another cold night passed, and Drian hoped that Lancelot would again be better in the morning, but when the warrior's eyes opened, she did not know Drian.
Drian managed to coax the shaking warrior to walk off with her. She had looked for Lancelot's horse, but it was nowhere to be seen, so she helped Lancelot onto her own brown mare and walked beside her, only riding with her when she became exhausted, because it was hard for a horse to carry two riders.
For several days, Drian traveled, she knew not where, with Lancelot. She fed the warrior, and when they had used up all of her food, Drian snared some squirrels. When they came to a small village, she asked if there was a wise woman who was a healer. She was directed to a crone's hut.
The mud-daub hut was poor but cheerful, with many cats by the fire and herbs hanging from the thatched roof.
Drian led the trembling warrior into the smoky hut. A much-wrinkled little crone regarded them kindly.
"He's been attacked by another warrior who he thought was a friend, and since then he doesn't seem to know who he is or who I am," Drian said. Her voice shook.
"Don't be afraid," the old woman said soothingly, trying to hold Lancelot's hand in her gnarled one, but Lancelot put her hands over her face and sobbed.
A cat rubbed against Lancelot's ankle and she stopped weeping. She looked at the cat sadly, but she petted it.
"I can't help him," the crone said, "But a young lady who lives in a nearby dun is the daughter of a famous healer, and they say that she's a healer, too. Go down the road and turn when you come to a bog. Then take this warrior to the dun, and say that you're seekin' the help of the Lady Elaine."
"I'll do that. Thanks," Drian said, although her stomach sank at the thought of asking nobles for help. She helped Lancelot back to the horse.
They went along, and when they came to the bog, a red-headed lady in a plaid cloak appeared by a pond.
Tears were dripping down Lancelot's cheeks.
"What ails this warrior?" the lady asked, for after all it was not common to see a warrior ride by weeping.
"He's sorely troubled, and can't speak or care for himself," Drian said. "I'm looking for the Lady Elaine, who's supposed to be a healer."
"I am Elaine," she said, reaching up to pat Lancelot's hand. Her gray eyes seemed to reflect back Lancelot's sorrow. "But I don't know whether I can care for him. I have never tended a man, except for my father and brother when they had slight fevers. I usually tend women."
Drian spoke reluctantly. "Well, my friend's really not a man, but don't tell anyone. It could be dangerous."
"Not a man!" Elaine exclaimed. Her eyes widened.
"Will you promise not to tell anyone?" Drian asked. Should she trust this lady? But there was no choice.
Lancelot looked down through her tears at Elaine. She did not stop crying, but she did not seem afraid of her.
"Please do help, if you can," Drian begged her.
They took Lancelot to the dun, an old fortress with great stone buildings that had fallen into disrepair.
"I can give you some money for caring for the lord," Elaine said uncertainly.
Drian gave her an enraged look and snapped, "No. You're speaking of my friend."
"I am sorry if I offended you. Perhaps you should leave now. I don't think my father would accept you as a guest," Elaine said, looking at Drian's patched clothing, "and he cannot pay a harper," she added, noticing the harp tied to Drian's horse.
Drian rode off, but stayed only a few miles away. She did not rob, as she often had, but foraged in the forest, not an easy task at that time of year. She managed to kill a thin red deer, which fed her for a while. Her heart was still heavy with concern for Lancelot.
Elaine told her father, "Here is a poor warrior who is sorely troubled. By his clothing, you can see that he must be wealthy, and he seems gentle. Do give him a room, Father, and let me take care of him."
Her father, Bagdemagus, looked closely at the warrior, who shook terribly and backed off from him. Eyeing the warrior's fine crimson wool cloak and tunic, he assented to Elaine's request without much enthusiasm.
Elaine told her father and her brother—that is, Lanval, the man she had thought was her brother, a dull man who was nothing like her newly found true brother—that they must keep out of the sickroom, which of course they did not mind. She put her poor warrior to bed in a small house in the dun, and gave her strong teas to cure her madness, though they might at first make it seem worse.
Lancelot lay in a bed in a dark room. She could hardly bring herself to speak. Her world was gone.
Was there anything she knew for certain? She could see that her body was female. Was she indeed Lancelot, or was she some raving woman who had never held a sword but wished she could? How did she know she was Lancelot? She was locked in a room. Would Lancelot be locked in a room for who knew how many days? Surely Lancelot would have found a way to get out. But she did not want to get out until she knew where else she should go.
She had no memory of being anyone else but Lancelot, except when she was a girl named Anna and a boy named Antonius. She thought she had never been anyone else since she had grown. But perhaps if she claimed to be Lancelot, people would laugh at her.
She had no sword, so she had no way of showing that she could use one. Her sword might have been taken away. She seemed to have a great many ideas about how a sword could be moved, but perhaps they were just imaginings.
No, she had too many memories of being Lancelot. They could not all be imagined. She knew too many fine phrases to be a serving woman, but her hands were far too calloused to be a lady's, and her muscles were too firm.
She had killed. She was sure she had killed many men. She could see their blood and remember the feel of her sword piercing their bodies. Perhaps the room was a prison, and she was being punished?
She h
ad made love with a woman whom she believed was Queen Guinevere. Again, there were too many memories for that to be a dream. Oh, let that be true! Even if Guinevere no longer loved her, Guinevere had loved her once.
She felt the bag on a strip of leather that hung around her neck. The red-haired fairie witch who fed her had tried to take it off, saying she might strangle herself, but Lancelot had held onto it fiercely.
Trembling, Lancelot looked into the bag, and counted her treasures once again. A relic, two raven feathers, a ring that was too small for her hand—surely that was Lancelot's mother's ring—and a pearl. That must be the pearl that Guinevere had given Lancelot long ago, before they had been lovers. These were Lancelot's treasures. Therefore, she must be Lancelot.
But why was Lancelot locked in a room? She began to cry, though she had wept so much that she had few tears left.
The man who had attacked her could not truly have been the Bellangere who had fought beside her in the Saxon War. Sangremore had not been the warrior she had known, either. And they were not the only ones who had been changed.
The good king she had known would never have lain with his wife's sister. And as for the queen, there was indeed a False Guinevere, far more cunningly mimicked than the one with a crude accent. The True Guinevere had loved her and might have run off with Lancelot as Iseult had with Tristram.
Some evil enchanter must have created a false king and queen, while the true king and queen were God knows where, perhaps imprisoned, perhaps sleeping some terrible sleep. Perhaps even dead.
People said that Merlin had been seduced away and put under a spell. Merlin was not the only one who was gone.
Perhaps many of the warriors had been replaced with false warriors. Perhaps this supposed grail quest had somehow been suggested to her by someone else, so subtly that she did not realize it, and she would be lost forever, and so would any other warrior who went.
Perhaps someday a false Lancelot would supplant her, and the False Guinevere would not mind. The True Guinevere would have cared.
It might be that these false people looked nothing like the true ones, and only some weird glamour they cast about them made them seem to have the same faces and voices.
She might never see the true ones again. Lancelot begged whatever god or goddess there might be to let her see the True Guinevere again, but she did not believe that her prayer was heard. She would never again see anyone she knew.
The woman who had saved her from Bellangere resembled Drian, but she probably was just some kind faerie. And she had left Lancelot with this strange red-haired lady, who seemed gentle, but who might be a witch disguised with enchantments.
Lancelot slept in a fever that pulled her further into the realm of horror than she had been since the days after her mother's death, further even than when she had seen the bodies of women raped in the Saxon War. Warriors of all colors, green warriors, blue warriors, ceaselessly attacked her. When they had vanquished her in battle, they would strip off her chain mail, discover that she was a woman, and rape her. Their faces changed constantly. They were the man who raped her mother, but then they could become other men. Some of them were men she had fought. Some had the faces of warriors at Arthur's court. She saw Mordred's face, and the faces of some of the other young warriors. While they held her helpless, they raped Guinevere and her mother. Sometimes her mother was alive again and other times they dug her corpse from the grave to rape it. Lancelot prayed for death.
But a gentle woman's voice kept saying, "I am with you. You are safe. Hold my hand." Who was this strange, red-haired lady? Was she a friend? Could Lancelot trust her, or anyone?
18 LANCELOT FOUND
Talwyn tried to read the scroll the queen had given her. But nothing interested her, certainly not mere words. Perhaps she was not meant to be a scholar after all. Life had lost its flavor since Galahad had gone. She struggled against thinking about Galahad, but the more she struggled, the more the skinny youth's face appeared to her. She tried to dismiss the memory of Galahad's lop-sided grin, but she could not. The sun shone from the window into the queen's room, illuminating the scroll, but that did not make the words come alive.
"Is everything well with you?" Guinevere asked when Talwyn kept losing her place in her lessons.
How could anyone so old understand her? Talwyn replied in a sharp voice. "I'm not. I am fond of Galahad. He has gone away on that quest and I miss him. I wonder whether he will come back, and whether he will want to marry me."
Guinevere sighed. "This the first time you have spoken of love. I suppose he is a good young man. I hope so. Be careful with your heart. Do you think he cares about you?"
"I believe he does. I think he is good. But how can I be certain?" Talwyn exhaled with relief at being able to talk about her feelings.
Guinevere patted her hand. "If you want to find out whether a man is good, it would be better to ask a serving woman. If there's a bad side, they are more likely to see it than we are."
Pulling away from her, Talwyn exclaimed indignantly, "I can't believe that Galahad would try to seduce a serving woman. I trust him too much even to ask."
"Very well, then. You trust him." Guinevere shrugged. "If you want to marry Galahad, I can ask Lancelot to speak on your behalf to Arthur. When Lancelot returns, that is." The queen turned away, looking out of the window as if she could see where her handsome warrior had gone.
How odd that Guinevere did not offer to speak with the king herself.
When Talwyn was walking down a passageway that afternoon, she saw Creirwy carrying a large earthenware jar and began to walk beside her.
"Please speak with me a moment."
The serving woman did not look into Talwyn's eyes. "I have no time to speak with you. Can't you see I'm busy?"
"When do you have time?"
"Never," she said, stepping along briskly. "I'm always working from morning to night, except when we practiced with the lord Lancelot."
Talwyn thought the serving woman had little liking for her, but she felt desperate enough to beg. "Please, Creirwy."
Finally, Creirwy gave in to Talwyn's persistence. "You can't walk along beside me like that. Come onto this stairway."
They turned into a small stairway that led to the queen's bed chamber.
The serving woman set her jar down on a stair. Her brow was damp and she smelled of sweat.
"What do you want?" Creirwy's voice was neither friendly nor unfriendly, but not in the least deferential.
Talwyn was almost too embarrassed to speak, but she knew that Creirwy could not pause for long. She forced herself to say, "The queen said that this was a question I should ask a serving woman. Is Galahad a good man?"
Creirwy grinned and tossed her head. "Galahad a good man? No."
"No?" Talwyn exclaimed in horror. She slumped against the wall. Tears began to form in her eyes. "No? He isn't? Can that be true? I must confess I'm terribly disappointed."
Creirwy met her gaze. "I thought you knew because of the way you two look at each other. Galahad uses too many rags to be a good man. I hope you aren't disappointed."
Almost losing her balance on the stairs, Talwyn stared at her. "Could you be saying what I think you are? I can't believe it's possible."
Creirwy chuckled. "Why not? All I've seen is Galahad scrounging up old clothing and tearing it up, but I think that's why."
Talwyn shook her head. It couldn't be. She was nothing like Queen Guinevere or Lancelot. She admired many young men's looks; she just preferred Galahad, even though others were handsomer.
"That's not enough to be sure. Why, I don't know whether I'm in love with a man or a woman."
"You've got at least half a chance of being lucky, then. I have to get back to work." Giving her a hint of a smile, Creirwy lifted her jar and turned back to the passageway.
Talwyn went off to ponder.
"What happened to the harper who brought me here?" Lancelot asked the red-haired woman, who gave her name as Elaine.
; "I sent the harper away. Never mind about him," Elaine told her, putting a hand on Lancelot's arm.
Lancelot groaned. If the harper had gone away, it couldn't have been Drian. The true Drian wouldn't have left her. Tears dripped down her cheeks. She would never see any of her friends again.
Drian approached the dun. Lancelot was, as always, on her mind.
Seeing a serving man unloading a cart, she asked him, "Is a sick warrior still staying here?"
The man scratched his head. "Uh-huh. He's a strange one. He stays all the time in the room where my lady put him. Sometimes people hear him groan or weep." He made a sign of protection from evil. "Me, I don't like men who are possessed. I don't know why the lady keeps tending him."
"Might I see him?"
"Why'd you want to?" The man's eyes narrowed. "She don't let nobody see him anyhow."
There was no recourse but to trust Elaine.
It was nearly evening, and Gawaine was looking for a good place to camp on a moor. He came to a stream that had flooded its banks, carrying trees and bushes with it. A man waited on the other side, apparently trying to determine the best place to cross. The man was unknown to him, but was riding a familiar black horse. His packhorse was an older, far less fine chestnut.
Gawaine quickly found the most likely place to cross and rode his horse across the gushing stream. His gray gelding, Sword, also recognizing Lancelot's mare, was likewise eager to cross and plunged through the swirling waters. Gawaine's legs were soaked.
"Where in Annwyn did you get that mare? She belongs to a friend of mine. Did you kill him, or steal her?" Gawaine yelled.
The man was small, with a pinched face. "What do you mean?" he cried indignantly. "This horse is mine. I bought her last week."
It was difficult to believe that this man could have fought Lancelot. The story was probably true.
"You didn't buy it from a breeder. You must have bought it from a thief. Where did you buy it?" Gawaine shook his fist.
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