Lancelot and Guinevere

by Carol Anne Douglas

  Cringing and querulous of voice, the man replied, "It was south of here, on the way to Cornwall. I bought it from a group of men who sold only that horse, no others."

  "No doubt. You must have guessed that it was stolen. Give it to me," he demanded.

  The man drew back. "Why, you're a thief yourself! I won't give you my horse. You'll have to buy her."

  "Buy her!" Gawaine shouted. "I'll do that the day the seas dry up! She was stolen, and you must give her back."

  "I certainly won't let you have her out here, where I'd be left stranded." The man clung tightly to the reins.

  “Use your packhorse!” Gawaine yelled.

  Telling himself that the man probably hadn't been the one to injure Lancelot, if someone had, Gawaine decided not to beat him. Instead, he called the black mare, which was looking eagerly at Sword. "Raven!" Then Gawaine turned and made his horse go back across the stream.

  Throwing her rider, Raven followed Gawaine and his horse. Gawaine didn't even pause to see how the rider fared, but moved south with the two horses. He stopped at every town or dun he passed, looking for Lancelot.

  He wished that Raven were magical, like the horses in tales, who could find their rider or at least the place where the rider had last been seen. However, when he let Raven loose to go where she wanted, she just stayed nearby and hunted unsuccessfully for a patch of grass that was not brown. He fed her some of the oats he had brought for his horse.

  He came to the shabby hill fort that he knew belonged to a man named Badgemagus. Gawaine noted with disapproval that only the main building's roof was well-thatched. The outbuildings' roofs looked as if they might not survive the winter.

  Bagdemagus, whom Gawaine had met on a previous journey to the area years before, had aged. His beard and thick eyebrows were gray and his steps were slow. He had gained a great deal of weight.

  "Gawaine! Well met!" he cried, as if they were old friends.

  "Greetings, Bagdemagus." Gawaine was barely polite because Bagdemagus had never been a great supporter of King Arthur and had to be pressed to pay his taxes.

  "I am a loyal subject of the High King, one of his most loyal subjects," Bagdemagus muttered, his face twitching as if something was the matter with his right eye.

  Gawaine cut him short. "Has anyone here seen a strange warrior who is black-haired and handsome? I'm looking for a friend of mine."

  Bagdemagus nodded. "Indeed, my daughter found such a strange warrior near the marsh. We took him in and she cares for him. He weeps and seems quite mad. Perhaps he is your friend."

  Gawaine sucked in his breath. He hardly knew whether to hope that this warrior was Lancelot.

  Bagdemagus sent a serving woman to bring his daughter to what passed for his great hall. The hangings had long since faded and the benches were the worse for wear, but clean rushes lay on the floor.

  The reddish-haired young woman was pretty enough, despite her plain brown gown, but she scarcely glanced at Gawaine.

  "This is my daughter, Elaine. Daughter," Bagdemagus said in a tone common to proud fathers, "this is Gawaine of the Matchless Strength, Prince of Lothian and Orkney and cousin to King Arthur. See that a good supper is prepared for him, and then you might stop with us a while. It would do you good to hear about the court."

  "I'll see to the supper, but then I must return to my poor patient." Her tone was only slightly deferential.

  "The Lord Gawaine believes that our poor patient may be a friend of his who is lost. Why don't you take him to the building where your patient is and let him see?" her father coaxed.

  The young woman frowned, her face locked like a door. "He is much too agitated to see anyone."

  Gawaine spoke as gently as he could. "The warrior I am seeking is my good friend. I'll not disturb him, kind healer. If he is my friend, he might recognize me."

  "I doubt it." Sighing, she added, "You may come as far as the door and look in for a moment, but that is all."

  "Pardon her, Lord Gawaine. She has worn herself out caring for this stranger," Bagdemagus told him. He frowned at his daughter.

  Gawaine followed Elaine out of the door and across the courtyard. He refrained from making the comments he would have made to another lady in similar circumstances.

  "Is your patient missing two fingers on his left hand?" Gawaine asked.

  Elaine nodded.

  Gawaine groaned.

  They came to a small building with a roof that, like others in the dun, was ill-repaired. Elaine opened the door halfway, barring Gawaine from entrance.

  Gawaine peered into the small, dark room.

  "We dare not keep a lamp or candles here," Elaine whispered. "We fear he might hurt himself in the fire."

  There was no fire in the firepit, and the hut was cold. Lancelot was sitting in a chair. She looked at Gawaine, but there was no recognition in her look.

  He was stung by the thought that Lancelot could actually forget his face. "It's old Gawaine, Lance," he said, as softly as his loud voice could speak. "Don't you know me?"

  Lancelot glared at him. "You're not Gawaine. You're not even like him. Cease this deception."

  "Lance! I am Gawaine!" he moaned, feeling as if he had been knocked from his horse.

  She leapt up and pushed her way past Elaine. "Where is Gawaine? Have you injured him?"

  Stunned, he tried to reassure her. He grasped her hands. "No, Lance, I'm Gawaine. I'm safe. You're among friends here."

  Pulling away her hands, Lancelot yelled in his face, "Where's Gawaine? What have you done with Gawaine?"

  He tried to speak calmly, but his voice cracked. "I am Gawaine," he said again. "Who else could I be?"

  "You could be anyone, seeming to be him. Go away!" Lancelot demanded. "Lady?" Lancelot called to Elaine, "Are you safe?"

  "I'm here," Elaine said soothingly, as if none of this had been frightening. She stepped into the room and gestured for Lancelot to follow her back into it. "I'm safe. Never fear."

  Lancelot hurried to her and clasped her hand.

  Elaine patted Lancelot's shoulder and stroked her hair. "All is well. Now I must leave for just a moment. Don't worry yourself, I'll be back."

  Then she left the room and joined Gawaine in the courtyard.

  Gawaine shook as if he had spent the night in a cold rain. His heart ached. "It is my friend Lancelot of the Lake."

  "Truly?" Elaine gasped. But she frowned. "He doesn't want to see you. He has never made any violent moves before. Leave him to my care. I'm trying every remedy I know. My mother was a fine healer and I learned from her. I believe that the great Lancelot will recover. Now I must return to him."

  "Of course, of course. May the gods grant you the power to help him," Gawaine said as fervently as he could. "All of his friends would be grateful. But must you keep him shut up in that hut?"

  "He is afraid to leave it," Elaine told him. "His heart is so heavy that he can scarcely walk, and he sleeps a great deal."

  Gawaine groaned. Elaine slipped through the door and closed it behind her.

  He slumped across the courtyard. The only good thing in all this horror was that Lancelot was in the care of a healer who did not reveal that she was a woman.

  "A fine girl, is she not?" Bagdemagus asked, bidding a serving man to offer Gawaine some mead. "A pity that there are so few travelers who pass here. It is lonely for her. But she has managed this dun well since her mother died. I should insist that she join us for supper."

  Gawaine gulped down the proffered mead, which was not particularly good. "Pray do not. I am well pleased that she is such a diligent healer, for the warrior she is tending is my friend, the great Lancelot of the Lake."

  "Lancelot?" A smile broke out on Bagdemagus's face. "The angels be praised that we took him in. I hope he recovers, but no doubt he will with her care."

  Lancelot put her head in hands and wept. How cruel that man was, pretending to be Gawaine! He did look like Gawaine, but Gawaine never had such a sad, worried expression on his face. Gawai
ne laughed and jested.

  How long had the false Gawaine been substituted for the true one? Perhaps the one who had looked so strangely into her eyes when he asked to accompany her had been the false Gawaine. The true Gawaine had never done that.

  If only she could see the real Gawaine! But she would probably never see any of her friends again.

  The gentle lady stroked her hair, but Lancelot did not lift her head.

  As she cared for her warrior, Elaine was sorry that she was tending the famous Lancelot, for Lancelot was reputed to love the queen. Elaine tightened her grasp on Lancelot's arm. Lancelot must be hers, not anyone else's.

  The next morning, Lancelot saw the man who pretended to be Gawaine enter the room again.

  “How are you today, Lance?” he asked.

  “You mock me!” she cried, not moving from her chair. She tried to hold back tears. “You call me Lance as if you were Gawaine, and even try to make your voice sound like his. But your mimicry is flawed. I can tell that the voice is not the same.”

  “Can you?” he asked. This time his voice shook, quite unlike Gawaine’s.

  But perhaps this man was not an enemy, even if he belonged to the enchanted world. His voice sounded kind, if not familiar. She would risk entreating him. “Do you know where Gawaine is? Do you ever see him?”

  The man choked. “Yes, I must say that I do.”

  “I don’t know how many years have gone by since I have been under this spell,” Lancelot said. “Please ask him not to forget me, even if I never see him again.”

  The red-bearded man—at least, he seemed to be red-bearded—sucked in his breath. “Gawaine could never forget Lancelot,” he said, making the words sound like a promise. “Gawaine cares more about Lancelot than about anyone else in the world.”

  “False!” Lancelot cried at this unconvincing double. “Gawaine cares more about his mother than about anyone else. You don’t even know him.”

  The man smiled slightly, not unlike Gawaine, though Gawaine’s smile was wider. “Why, when a man says he cares more about someone than about anyone else in the world, his mother is generally excepted. That’s understood.”

  “You are too much like Gawaine, yet not enough.” She groaned, trying not to look at him and be fooled.

  “Why, what do you think of Gawaine?” the stranger asked.

  “He is the best of friends—as you must know if you’ve been sent to perplex me,” Lancelot said, unable to keep from looking at the seemingly well-known face. The eyes were not merry like Gawaine’s. “But it disgusts me that he has used and hurt so many women.”

  “Gods!” the man exclaimed, just as if he were Gawaine himself.

  “Stop imitating him! I can bear it no longer!” Lancelot exclaimed, turning away.

  “Lance, you know I’m Gawaine. You’d never say such a thing about Gawaine to anyone else.”

  She covered her face with her hands. “I never criticize Gawaine to other people. But I don’t know whether you’re Gawaine. You’re like him, and yet not. And I can’t bear the uncertainty. Please, go away.”

  “If you wish. I pray that the spell cast on you will end.” He turned to leave.

  "Wait." She looked up. "There are two King Arthurs, one who is a great and generous leader and another who conjures up false grails. There are two Guineveres, one who loves me and one who is married to Arthur and who is above all the queen. And there are two Gawaines, the man he is with me and the man he is with most women. Which is true?"

  His face, generally unwrinkled, furrowed with added years of age. "The true Gawaine is the man he is with you. With many women, he has often been foolish and arrogant."

  That seemed a good answer, but not enough to convince her. "Am I truly Lancelot?" she asked him.

  The seemingly red-bearded man choked. "Yes, you are Lancelot. Never doubt that."

  She didn't think he would lie about that. "Yes, I am Lancelot," she said. "But how can I be Lancelot if I am locked in a room?"

  "Do you want me to take you out of the room? I will, gladly."

  Lancelot looked at the door and wondered what was on the other side. "No, I am under a spell. I cannot leave this room."

  "As you wish," he said, but he sighed.

  "If I am Lancelot, then I have killed many men." She groaned.

  "That's true," he admitted. "But in war, or fair fights, or to protect those who were in danger."

  "Lancelot is called great," she said, pronouncing the word "great" in no laudatory tone. "Which person is called great, the one who kills or the one who is crucified? Am I great because I have suffered, or because I have caused suffering? Is Arthur great because of his wars, or because of his peace?"

  The man looked at her. "You may be under a spell, but your mind is keen. These are great questions. I try not to ask too many of them."

  "Could this spell be a punishment from God for my sins?" Lancelot asked.

  He shook his head. "Your god does not punish people by putting spells on them."

  "That sounds right." She nodded. Because the man seemed kindly, she asked, "Tell me, will I ever see my friends again?"

  "You'll see them." He tried to touch her, but withdrew when she moved back. "I know you are in pain, but you must not think of killing yourself. Please."

  Lancelot gasped. How did he guess she had thought of that? The True Gawaine knew that she had tried to get herself killed

  in the Saxon War. She stared at the man. No, looking at him was too painful. Tears began to drip down her cheeks. She covered her face again to hide them. "Please leave me."

  "If you wish. But if you want to see me again, just say the word and I'll soon be here."

  She heard him walk away and close the door.

  Gawaine left Raven at the dun, in case Lancelot recovered enough to ride her.

  He rode some distance to the nearest outpost of the king's messengers, on one of the Roman roads. He asked for a wax tablet and stylus and bent over the tablet for some time, sealed it in a packet, then gave it to a messenger.

  Should Lancelot go to Camelot, he wondered, where the many who loved the warrior might restore her senses? Or would she slip in this condition and reveal her sex? Better if Guinevere could come to see her. Guinevere would come if she truly cared about Lancelot as much as Lancelot cared about her.

  Arthur hid his concern when a messenger handed him a packet from Gawaine, for Gawaine rarely sent messages. Could there be some rebellion brewing?

  But the words were far different from any he could have anticipated:

  Lancelot is ill, indeed mad, and staying at the hall of Bagdemagus. He did not know me. The daughter is a healer and is caring for him, but I think only Guinevere could help him. Please send her here. You could say that she has gone to Powys to settle some trouble in the land that used to be her father's.

  She could be guarded by men who won't talk, like Bors and Gareth. Or, if that cannot be, shall I bring Lancelot home to Camelot?

  Arthur wiped the tablet clean, sent his serving man away, and sank into his chair.

  Surely Lancelot could not be mad. It must be a fever, and it would pass.

  He prayed to the Christ, and other gods as well, for he had never been certain that there was only one.

  But as for sending Guinevere off to see her lover—it was impossible, he would look like a fool. And perhaps be one, for they might never return. It was hard to imagine Lancelot having enough guile for such a plan, but he had seemed strained when he left. And wasn't it suspicious that the message was sent by Gawaine, who was the man most likely to play the go-between in arranging a tryst? But surely not for his cousin’s wife?

  No, Guinevere would never be released to run off with her lover.

  Arthur also pondered Gawaine's other suggestion, that Lancelot might be brought to Camelot.

  He shook his head. No, Lance should not be seen in some sad state, like Gryffyd. How would it look if his finest warrior seemed mad? What if the Saxons heard of it? Bad enough if the more re
stless subject kings did.

  The king wrote a message on the wax tablet that Lancelot should remain where he was, but that Gawaine should keep watch to see if Lancelot needed anything that it was in his power to do.

  Then he told Gareth how badly Lancelot fared, but not of Gawaine's request that Guinevere be sent.

  Guinevere flinched ever so slightly when Arthur entered her room. She put down her stylus and wiped Talwyn's writing, which had been about Amazons, off a wax tablet.

  "You may stay," the king said to Luned, who had not moved to leave.

  "I have sad tidings," he continued, giving Guinevere a more sympathetic look and tone than he had in many months. "Gawaine sends word that Lancelot is ill."

  Guinevere drew a sharp breath and rose from her chair. She could hardly refrain from crying out.

  "Never fear." Arthur's voice was soothing. "By good chance, Lance is being cared for by a woman who is a healer, the daughter of a lord named Bagdemagus. No doubt he'll be back with us soon."

  "How ill? What illness?" Guinevere made no attempt to hide her fear. A pain stabbed her heart.

  "Some fever, I suppose. He raves. I am concerned, too. We must pray for him."

  "Pray let me go to see him." She had to ask, though it was unlikely that he would grant her request.

  Arthur shook the royal head. "That cannot be." His tone was harsher than it had been. "You are a queen, and your place is here. Moreover, you are no great healer." Then he turned and left.

  It was no wonder that he would not let her travel to Lancelot, but Guinevere felt that she was imprisoned. She hurled her gold-tasseled, embroidered pillows against the wall. Then she sunk on her knees in prayer.

  All that day and through the night she agonized over what to do. Just after dawn, she determined that she would ask Gareth to take her to see Lancelot even without Arthur's permission. The young warrior was fond of Lancelot and so might be willing to help her. The worst that her husband could do was set her aside, and what did that matter, if Lancelot was suffering and Guinevere could help her? Could Arthur try to kill Lancelot because Guinevere went to heal her? Surely not if they returned to Camelot, though Guinevere would much prefer not to do so.