Gawaine shook his head. “Not this year. I leave the honors to you.”
“Does Arthur know you’ll miss the contests?” she asked, incredulous that the king would allow him to be absent.
“No. I’ve planned a longer journey. But there’s no need to tell him, is there?” Gawaine grinned.
Nevertheless, she felt that he wasn’t so cheerful.
Elaine fell back to her old routine. Her father didn't speak much to her, but she didn't mind that. She wanted to be silent. She tried to regain her pleasure in her walks, now solitary as they had been before Lancelot. At night, and sometimes in the day, she wept.
One morning while she was telling the servants what to cook for supper, Bagdemagus bade her come to his great hall. The tic in his eye was moving faster than ever.
When they were alone, he said, "You might not be here for supper. I am sending you away. You have disgraced me."
Elaine could hardly believe what she heard. It felt as if a blow had struck her chest. "I'm sorry if I have disgraced you, Father, but how could you send me away? I've tried to be a good daughter."
His face reddened and his mouth tightened. "You're no daughter of mine. I had hoped that your father would be grateful to me for raising you, but I was wrong."
He was not her father? She trembled at his words. Surely they were just spoken in anger. He could not believe them. "There must be some mistake." Her voice faltered. "My mother would never have been untrue to you."
Bagdemagus yelled, "Of course my wife was never unfaithful to me! You aren't her daughter, so stop saying that you were." His face twitched more fiercely than she had ever seen.
She could hardly remain standing. "My mother was not my mother? It can't be true."
Looking at Elaine as if she were a rat hidden among the rushes on the floor, he raged on despite her shaking. "Your mother is the witch Morgan, and I have sent for her to take you back. Your bad blood has shown itself."
Reluctantly, she began to believe this unbelievable tale. Her head spun. She glanced at the hangings on the walls, the benches, the trestle tables. Would she never see them again? She had never known any other place. "But I look like my mother—like the Lady Elaine."
"As you know, my wife was a cousin of the witch's on her father's side, worse luck. She wanted a daughter and didn't have one, so I let her take you. I was a fool." He glared at her.
"Don't you care about me at all, after all these years?" Elaine begged. She wasn't so fond of any of his qualities, but she was used to him, and the thought of leaving her home terrified her.
"I have a son. I have no need for a daughter who is no daughter, who disgraces my name. Morgan, your lady witch mother, sent a messenger who said that she should be here today, or by tomorrow at the latest. Go get your things ready. You may take all of the clothes and little things I have given you over the years." He averted his gaze from her.
Sobbing, she ran to her room. Her mind was such a blur that she could hardly make out what he had said.
The Lady Morgan was her mother! She had liked the lady when she had met her, years before, and her mother—but she must not call her that anymore—had said that Morgan was no witch. But, however pleasant the Lady Morgan was—and she had been that, although formidable—she was not the one who had held Elaine when she was sick or the one who had taught her everything. Elaine did not want to leave the woods and marshes where she had walked with the woman who had raised her. She would have left them for Lancelot, but she did not want to go with anyone else.
Her mother was not her mother. Who was her father? That didn't matter.
After some time, she heard a horse ride into the courtyard, and went to the window. She saw the Lady Morgan ride up, and quickly darted away because she didn't want to be seen just yet.
Soon she opened her door, and she heard voices from the hall.
"How can I take her back to Tintagel?" the Lady Morgan was saying. "That would disgrace her far more than being with Lancelot. She'd be called a witch. It's better for her not to go anywhere with me. Let me send for Lancelot to take her away somewhere else."
"Take her away without marrying her? No doubt he'd like that. You have no shame, and neither does she!" Bagdemagus shouted.
Elaine rushed out of her room. The Lady Morgan didn't want her either. She ran to the stable and threw herself on her horse.
Elaine rode towards the bog. No one wanted her. Her mysterious brother might have, but he had never even told her his name, much less where to find him.
She rode as fast as she could, fast as a woman who has come from nowhere and has nowhere to go, who has only the wind to ride through. Nothing was behind her and nothing before her. She wished that the wind would carry her away to some crag, where she might find comfort with ravens and eagles.
Morgan frowned at the stubborn man. Why had her cousin married such a dolt? "You have given up too soon on Lancelot. He still might marry her. I hope he will be persuaded without having to be told who her father is, but if nothing else works, that might. He is the perfect husband for her." True, Lancelot was a woman—which of course she wouldn't tell Bagdemagus—but what could be better than denying Arthur grandchildren? The handsome warrior would be gentle with Elaine.
An old serving man hurried into the hall.
"Lord Bagdemagus, the lady Elaine has ridden away in great haste," he said anxiously. "It isn't safe for her to ride so."
"What have you told her? Have you driven her away?" Morgan cried. "Where did she go?" she asked the serving man.
"Towards the bog, Lady."
Morgan ran from the hall, found her horse, and rode towards the bog.
She saw Elaine's horse galloping by the bog, where no horse should run. Waterfowl from the pond screamed and flew up.
Morgan called out, "Elaine!" All her love and fear went into her voice as she called again.
But Elaine rode on.
A bittern's large brown and white body, frozen still, blended into the reeds. When Elaine's horse came near, the bird suddenly flew up, and the horse threw its rider. Elaine fell into a pond.
Morgan galloped to the spot, leapt from her horse, rushed into the shallow pond, and pulled out her daughter's limp body. She wailed.
Morgan moaned like the wind, shrieked like the gulls she knew so well, howled like a wolf. She curled there, at last with a chance to hold her daughter.
She thought of the last time she had held her, a babe at her breast, and how her breasts had ached after she had to give the child away. They ached again at the memory.
The child of so much passion could not hold back from passion. Morgan castigated herself for not seeing that much sooner.
She managed to lift the poor body, pull it onto her horse, and carry it back to Bagdemagus's dun.
The wretched man came to the courtyard and wept at the sight of Elaine's body. "She was a good girl. I didn't mean to hurt her."
Morgan didn't want to hear anything he had to say. She had rather strike him dead. But she said, "We should send her to Camelot. Let Lancelot mourn her."
"I don't suppose the king will reward me for raising her now." Bagdemagus moaned, seeming to grieve over the loss of an imagined reward as much as that of the girl.
Holding back her rage, Morgan spoke in an icy tone. "No, he won't. Don't dare to tell him about her, or I shall tell him how you treated her in the end, and he'll be angry. It would be too cruel to tell him about her now—but not as cruel as what you would face. You have my curse, but no doubt you fear him more."
Shuddering, Bagdemagus turned away.
Morgan, with the help of his serving people, prepared the poor body. Then she accompanied Elaine's body in a cart to the river that flowed by Camelot. The body, still uncorrupted after the journey, she placed on a barge. It was strange to her that she so much wanted her daughter to be buried near Camelot, even though she could not visit the grave there because Arthur had exiled her.
When Morgan had bade farewell to the barge, she rode, not
to her caer in Cornwall, but to the Convent of the Holy Mother in the woods.
As soon as she entered the convent, Morgan began weeping. Soon the abbess was by her side and put her arms around her.
"I shall take her to my quarters," the abbess told the other nuns. When they had reached the abbess's office, Morgan slumped against her.
"Elaine died," she sobbed. "Why her instead of me, why, why? I would have died to save her. Why?"
"Does there have to be a reason for these things? Just weep, that's all right." She stroked Morgan's hair, which had turned white in these few days. "Stay here as long as you want, and heal."
Morgan flung herself on the bare floor and pounded it. "Heal? You never bore a child. There is nothing more terrible than living after your child has died. I never even knew her, I just saw her a few times. She was the sweetest girl who ever was, the sweetest. I couldn't see her first steps, I couldn't be the one to talk to her when her first blood came, I wasn't the one who taught her about wild things. I could kill Arthur for calling me a witch so I didn't dare to raise her."
Then her tone changed. "Poor Arthur, he never even knew about her." Morgan wailed. She grieved for their lost love and the lost child of that love.
A groom from Camelot's stables brought the message that a man on a barge in the river wanted to see Lancelot.
"There's a woman's corpse in the barge, too," the boy ventured. The whole court, the pious and the appalled, the amused and the morbid, went down the hill with Lancelot to view it.
The king and queen both came to stand near the barge.
Seeing Elaine's pale body, Lancelot could hardly keep standing. She jumped on the barge, bent over, and kissed the cold cheek. She tried to take the stiff body in her arms.
"What happened?" she choked.
The wrinkled man who poled the barge said, "She was riding. She fell and hit her head, and died, that's all."
Lancelot exclaimed, "Can that be true? What really happened? Did she kill herself, or was she killed?" She still clasped the poor body.
"That's what I was told," the man said.
"Who told you that?" Lancelot asked. "Her father?"
"The Lady Morgan of Cornwall, who put her on this barge."
"What did she have to do with her?" Arthur asked, with the usual displeasure in his tone when Morgan's name was mentioned.
Impatient with the king for thinking only of his old grievance in the face of this tragedy, Lancelot spoke. "The Lady Morgan was her mother's cousin. The mother was related to the Duke Gorlois, Morgan's father."
Arthur leaned over the barge and looked at the girl.
"Pretty, but no great beauty," he said. "But of course she healed you, and that is why you were fond of her."
Lancelot made no reply. She cut off a lock of Elaine's hair and put it in the small pouch of treasures that she wore hanging from a piece of leather around her neck. With Peredur's help, Lancelot lifted Elaine's body from the barge.
No one spoke much until they had put Elaine's body on the bank.
Tears streamed down Guinevere's cheeks. "Poor, poor girl," she sobbed.
Lancelot loved Guinevere more than ever because the queen wept over Elaine.
After the funeral, Lancelot rode out to the old convent. Now the forest bluebells held no charm for her, nor did the birdsong cheer her. Mother Ninian must have anticipated her visit, for she was waiting in the oak grove where they sometimes walked.
The old nun opened her arms in a motherly embrace. "So, you have loved another woman and she has died."
Lancelot felt only a little surprised that the old seer seemed to know what had happened. "If you can see these things, why don't you warn me, that I may avoid them?" She was ready to be angry with anyone.
Ninian shook her head. "Would you have me be like Merlin, who gave people warnings they didn't understand? No one can see everything, and half-warnings are worse than nothing. They would only worry you. No one can live with knowledge of the future. And I did not see this. The Lady Morgan came here and told us."
"Elaine was so good, so gentle," Lancelot moaned. "And I hurt her. It's my fault that she is dead."
"You must never believe that." Ninian was firm. "You gave her happiness. Everyone must die."
But Elaine was the one who was dead. The blue sky seemed to mock Lancelot's pain. The new leaves on the oak trees promised a rebirth that would not come.
"Do you know how she died? Can you tell me? Did her father kill her because he was angry at her for being with me? Did she kill herself because I left her?" Lancelot did not want to hear, but she thought she must.
"I do know what happened to her," the old nun said, clasping Lancelot's shoulders. "It was not what you fear. Morgan saw Elaine's death. Elaine was riding by a bog. A bittern flew up, her horse threw her, and she fell into a pond and struck her head on a rock. That's all."
Lancelot sobbed. "I can't believe that it's no fault of mine. I think that if had been there, she would not have died."
"You can't think that way," Ninian scolded her. "You can't know everything. What should you have done, gotten attacked in a different part of the country so she never would have seen you?"
Lancelot would not be comforted. She pulled away from Ninian's embrace. "Why wasn't I there with her? Why do I always fail when it is most important?"
"Not so, not so," said the old woman, patting her shoulder.
Lancelot wept. No tears would ever be enough for sweet Elaine.
"Enough water from your eyes. You should go to the nearby pond and swim," Ninian urged.
"How can I?" It seemed like too great a pleasure, something she did not deserve. She also thought of drowning.
"Of course you can swim." Ninian led her, holding her hand.
Thinking of Elaine's body riding down the river on the barge, Lancelot went into the water, still cold though it was a warm day for spring. She begged Elaine for forgiveness. She longed to drown, but of course she could not with the old nun watching on the bank. Was part of her really living in the depths of some pond with Elaine, as Elaine had said? Should she join her?
Lancelot stayed in the water a long time, and eventually started seeing the fish and hearing the spring frogs. A kingfisher hovered over the water, preparing to dive for a fish. It saw Lancelot and, giving its loud, rattling cry, flew off. An otter slid down a bank into the pond and swam its bouncing way across the water, even though it must have seen Lancelot. The closeness of the animal, going about its life as if she were not there, touched her. She knew that Elaine would have felt the same way. You are with me, I remember you, she thought. See the woods and the water with me, please.
She did not want to leave the water, but when she did she felt calmer.
She had left Elaine, but she must never abandon Guinevere.
When Lancelot climbed out on the mossy bank, Ninian said, "Good, that's done. I urged you to swim while I was near because I feared that you might go in sometime by yourself, and stay there. The danger has passed for now."
True, Lancelot no longer thought of dying, but she saw that Elaine had been right in saying that she would follow always in Lancelot's tracks and that there was no escaping from her.
Talwyn watched Guinevere reading. When the queen lifted her head, the girl dared to speak.
"Lady Guinevere, is it true that women can feel passion for each other?"
Guinevere glared as she had never done before.
Talwyn winced.
"I cannot believe that you would ask me such a question. Never do so again."
Talwyn had never heard so little tenderness in the queen's voice.
"I think Galahad may be a woman." She blushed.
"Impossible!" Guinevere let her precious book drop to the floor. She paused, then picked up the book and put it gently on the table. "Where did you get such an idea?"
"Creirwy observed it."
"Did she? Creirwy is a clever girl." Guinevere sighed. "How dangerous for Galahad."
The queen did
not add "and for Lancelot," but Talwyn understood that was also on Guinevere's mind.
"And what does that mean for you?" Guinevere scrutinized her.
Talwyn suddenly felt shy.
"I think I want Galahad, whatever I find out. But when women love each other, is there more than kissing? I feel passions, and I don't know that I can give my life to Galahad if she is a woman and there is no passion between women."
"You're a dear girl," Guinevere cried, embracing her. "I'm sorry that I didn't understand. Yes, there is passion. Very much."
Talwyn held back from the embrace. "Please don't tell anyone. It may just be a mistake."
"Of course I won't tell." Guinevere spoke with her for a long time and told her many things.
Lancelot, still holding her head down with grief over Elaine, walked past Camelot's lime-whitened chapel. Father Donatus rushed through the door and ran to her. Short of breath, the plump priest grabbed Lancelot by the shoulder, and whispered in her ear, "Gareth is lying on the chapel floor. I suppose he has prostrated himself in prayer, but it frightens me. Please help me speak with him."
"Certes!" Lancelot exclaimed with much concern, hurrying after him.
They found Gareth lying face down in front of the altar. The crucifix above it looked down on him.
The priest spoke in a gentle voice. "Gareth, are you well?"
The young man jumped up, much flustered. "Is there nowhere that I can pray?"
"Indeed there is, but I have never seen anything like this, at least not here at Camelot. I was worried about you," Father Donatus told him. "Please come to the sacristy. Do you mind if Lancelot comes with us?"
"I don’t mind." Gareth looked pleadingly at Lancelot, as if she were someone who might speak the same language, which apparently the priest did not.
Father Donatus took them to the tiny room filled with finely embroidered robes, candles, and other holy things. The smell of incense permeated the air.
Lancelot and Guinevere Page 33