Lancelot and Guinevere

by Carol Anne Douglas

  "Is something the matter?" Lancelot asked. She knew that Father Donatus was not a man who was eager to pry, and she had always been glad of it. He often asked her whether she wanted to be shriven, for she used to be before becoming Guinevere's lover, but he never chastised her because she refused.

  Bowing his head, Gareth stared at the floor. "My thoughts are so sinful that I'm ashamed even to look at decent people. I wonder whether I should castrate myself."

  The others both gasped in horror. Lancelot almost fell over.

  Gareth continued in a mournful voice, "The gospel says, 'if your right eye offends you, pluck it out.'"

  "Holy Angels!" Lancelot exclaimed, shaking her head. "The world is not full of Christians with their eyes plucked out, nor castrated ones. You must not take those words so literally."

  "Of course not," Father Donatus hastily agreed. "Prayer and good companions should be sufficient. If women tempt you, just spend more time with the other warriors, especially those whose conduct is generally good."

  Gareth sighed as if in agony, and Lancelot could see that the advice might not be adequate.

  An oil lamp illuminated the young warrior's pale face, surrounded by gold-embroidered robes, giving him the air of a saint's image.

  "But," said Gareth, "any man who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart."

  "That is different from doing it in the flesh," the priest said, "and really much less grievous."

  It occurred to Lancelot that it might not be women who Gareth was committing adultery with in his heart. She wanted to touch Gareth's arm, but she feared that might be an imposition on one so tormented. She tried to think of something in the gospels that might help him. "But if Mary Magdalene was forgiven, why not you? Or anyone?"

  Gareth's face quickly turned contemptuous, as if he smelled something rotten. "That story must just mean that it's of no consequence what women do. They may not even have souls. Men have souls that can be destroyed."

  Lancelot almost reeled.

  The priest's eyebrows shot up. "Of course they have souls," he said. "The Church baptizes them, doesn't it?"

  "Why not?" said Gareth. "It probably does no harm to baptize them, in case they do have souls. But I think that letting them take the other sacraments goes too far. Surely an example about a woman—and a whore, at that—is not appropriate for a man. None of the apostles were unchaste."

  "How do you know that?" Lancelot asked. Surely some of them might have been before they became saints.

  "Of course they would not have been allowed to be apostles if they were," Gareth said earnestly. "And the warriors of the round table should be just as pure."

  "They are not priests," Father Donatus said to him, although that was abundantly obvious, "but if you are so troubled, you should marry."

  Gareth sagged as if he had been hit. "Perhaps I must. I wonder whether it would help."

  "Don't be too hasty," Lancelot told him. If perhaps he was inclined toward men, marriage might only bring grief to him and a wife.

  Father Donatus frowned at her, as if to say that Lancelot was no good example in the matter of marriage.

  "Do you think I shouldn't, Lord Lancelot?" the young man asked, giving her an inquiring look.

  "I think you should do so only if you love a woman and she loves you," she replied.

  The priest stepped between Lancelot and Gareth. "Most marriages are not made for such reasons, but are meant to bring children into the world and to help men be good," he admonished.

  "Thank you for your advice," the young warrior said, bowing to them both.

  Lancelot wondered what to say to him, and how. Not knowing how to broach the subject, she put it off.

  21 GALAHAD’S QUEST

  On the great mountain Yr Wyddfa in Gwynedd, far north and west of Camelot, Galahad rested by a stream whose banks were covered with not-yet-blooming heather. She could see snow at the top of the mountain.

  Perhaps it is not so bad being a mountain, Galahad thought, looking at the lichened rocks and the soft plants bathed in the afternoon light. The mountain's life seemed quiet, but perhaps it was not. Galahad imagined having rocky limbs, covered with earth, with trees and flowers sprouting from them and streams running down the sides. Storms would wash away some of the soil and leave part of Galahad clear and bare. Grouse would scramble across Galahad, digging for bugs, and deer would nibble at roots. An occasional wolf would leap at a deer, and carry it back to her cubs. Ravens' calls would wake the mountain in the morning, and owls would fly through the mountain's dreams in the night.

  Galahad could easily imagine Moses and Jesus going to mountains for prophecies, as the Lady of the Lake had peered into the waters. The mountains looked almost ready to speak. Or rather, they seemed to say that they had a message for anyone who could learn to read it.

  Then Galahad's thoughts turned to wondering whether it ever would be possible to explore Talwyn's mountains and valleys.

  The tranquility of the scene was disrupted by a large warrior in chain mail who galloped up to the slope where Galahad lay, as if to ride right over her. She rolled away in time to escape being trampled.

  "Why did you do that?" Galahad exclaimed, but instead of replying, the man turned and charged again, with spear out to impale Galahad. Clearly not all warriors obeyed the rules of fighting taught at Camelot.

  A sword hung from Galahad's baldric, but Galahad's spear was on her horse, which grazed some distance away. As the warrior bore down on Galahad, she turned aside, then lunged out and grabbed his spear, pulling the attacker off his horse.

  He cried out in anger.

  "Why must you attack me? Stop this madness," Galahad cried, attempting to sound calm though her heart beat faster than it ever had before and her breath came in great strangling gulps.

  "I attack everyone who comes here," the man snarled, scrambling to his feet and reaching for his sword.

  "Then I'll leave," Galahad said, but before that was possible, the warrior had attacked again, and Galahad had to draw her sword and fight off his blows.

  The strange warrior aimed at her head as if he wanted to cut it clean off her body, but Galahad was able to cut his right arm. Yelling in pain, he dropped his sword.

  "Can we stop this fight?" Galahad asked, panting, but then two other men in chain mail came riding across the ridge.

  Help me!" the warrior called, and they galloped up. He laughed unpleasantly. "These are my kin. You'll be finished now."

  "But why?" Galahad cried, just as perplexed as dismayed. "I have fought only to defend myself against this man's unprovoked attack," Galahad called out to the men who were bearing down.

  "Wretch, he's our kin!" one of them yelled.

  Galahad briefly prayed to be spared the fires of hell, but then another warrior who held a familiar shield emblazoned with a hawk and wore a familiar many-colored plaid cloak rode in from another direction.

  "Hold on, Galahad!" Gawaine called, and his horse flew towards the attacking men.

  There was a great clash of spears and swords, in which Galahad fought the warrior who had first attacked her, who had grabbed up his sword with his left hand, and Gawaine fought the other two. At the end of it, the three turned and fled, and Galahad rode off with Gawaine.

  "Many thanks," Galahad gasped, when the breath to talk returned.

  "I'm glad I was there," Gawaine replied gruffly. "You fought well, though."

  "I suppose so." Galahad sighed, not amused by the narrow escape. Everything seemed a blur. Someone had wanted to kill her for no reason. Truly, men were mad. She was surprised that she had the strength left to climb back on her horse.

  They came to a stream running down the mountain slope.

  "It should be safe to camp here," Gawaine told Galahad.

  Thank all the gods he had come in time to save this decent young man. "Those men won't be in any shape to look for us, and they seemed to be marauders, without followers to back them up." He pulled out his
flask of wine and drank deeply.

  Galahad also drank from a flask.

  "Do you have only water? Want some wine?" Gawaine asked, wondering how the young warrior could recover from the fight without a stronger drink.

  "No, thank you." Galahad sprawled on the grass, which was just springing up this far up the mountain.

  Poor young man. No doubt this was the first time anyone had tried to kill him, Gawaine thought. Remembering the first time he had faced a similar threat, so long ago, he splashed some water from the stream on his face.

  "If I had been killed, no one would have known to tell my mother, because no one knows who she is." Galahad sighed. "I am not supposed to say what my family is. I have kin at Camelot, but they don't know it."

  Gawaine groaned and shook his head. What was the matter with young people? "Why must all the young warriors have this desire for anonymity? Gareth hid in the kitchens, Percy pretends that he has no father though he has a good one, and Mordred won't say who his real mother is. Must you also live incognito? If you have kin, you should let them know. That man who attacked you had kin who helped him, and your kin would help you."

  A foolish grin spread across Galahad's face. "I wish that Lancelot was my father."

  Gawaine snorted and leaned back on a rock. "But you know that he is not." He was sure that Galahad could not believe that rumor.

  Resting on an arm, Galahad admitted, "True, but I want to be just like Lancelot."

  Gawaine suddenly looked at Galahad, then looked away. He recalled that Galahad, like Lancelot, never wrestled, and was unusually modest, too. Galahad might be a woman. He should have seen it sooner. "Perhaps you are like Lancelot."

  Galahad drank some water and sighed. "Unfortunately, the lady I am in love with says she wants someone who is more like you than like Lancelot."

  Gawaine smiled. Amusing, if Galahad was a woman. "I think you might better aim to be like Lancelot. I hope that Lancelot has advised you about wooing this lady."

  Galahad picked up a rock and examined it. "No, I asked and he wouldn't tell me. He said I should ask Bors how he wooed his wife."

  Gawaine silently laughed at the thought that he had guessed Galahad's secret and Lancelot had not. "Bors chose his wife because he thought she would be a good mother to his children. I don't think that's what you want."

  Galahad moaned. "No, it's not. The lady I love is Talwyn, and she does not want children."

  Stifling wild laughter, Gawaine stared at the rushing stream. Very good, if Galahad could not sire them. "Well, that's not exactly a cause for grief, is it?"

  Galahad did not seem to wonder at this strange remark. "No, but how could I ask for her hand? I have no property, and all I can say for myself is that I have some unnamed noble kin." Galahad frowned.

  Gawaine removed his boot to shake out a pebble. "Who is your mother, anyway? You can tell me. I'll keep your secret."

  "I can't tell you her name, but I can tell you a riddle," Galahad said, wiping dirt off his—or was it her?—breeches. "If Eve was made from part of Adam, does that mean Adam was her father?"

  Gawaine choked. "Of course not. That would make their joining a horrible thing, not only to Christians but to all people."

  "But they were of one flesh. Adam must have been her brother then, so their sin was not as great. I am the child of Eve." Galahad pulled a dried apple from her pack.

  "Gods!" Gawaine dropped his boot. "Your mother was Morgan! I'd never heard that she had a child."

  "I was raised in a convent by a wise old nun," Galahad said, munching the apple.

  "Indeed?" Gawaine stared at the young warrior.

  "So you see, I was saved by kin today, because you are my mother's cousin. You are related to my father, too."

  Gawaine took a long look at Galahad. "Yes, it seems that I am." Galahad was Morgan's daughter. And about the right age to be his. Although her thin frame was nothing like his, she had reddish hair and merry blue eyes that looked much like his own. The old nun who had told him to search for a missing daughter had said that she had eyes like his. But Morgan apparently had told Galahad that she was Arthur's. Gawaine's head swam. He wanted to throw his arms around Galahad.

  "I shouldn't have told you. You won't tell my father, will you?" Galahad said with a contrite voice.

  Trying to recover, Gawaine smiled at Galahad. "I won't tell anyone."

  "I don't want him to know. I don't ever want to be a king, for then I would have to kill people in wars," Galahad confided. "I may be lazy, but I much prefer riding about and seeing the world."

  "Of course. I understand." Yes, she was truly his daughter, with no ambition to rule. Arthur and Morgan were both made of ambition. Gawaine's chest swelled with pride.

  A herd of red deer came into plain sight, but Gawaine was looking at Galahad and scarcely noticed them, while Galahad was staring into the stream. Talking to Galahad seemed more important than killing a deer for their supper. Galahad's hair stood up in various places, and Gawaine longed to pat it down.

  "So you grew up in a convent?"

  "Yes. I was raised in a convent by this old nun—she was jolly, as well as wise—who taught me about the forest and another who taught me to fight, but my mother often visited there. Pardon me, all this couldn't interest you."

  "No, it does, very much," Gawaine hastened to say. "After all, I don't know much about convents." He had never guessed that the place with many women where the old nun had told him his daughter lived might be a convent, not a brothel.

  "No, I don't suppose you do." Galahad chuckled, then continued her confiding tone. "It worries me that Talwyn says she wants someone like you."

  Gawaine tried not to smile too broadly at Galahad's obvious fear that Talwyn wanted a man's body. "She surely is a maiden, and is not thinking of these things as specifically as you are. She can't really mean what you imagine. I think she just means that she wants someone who jests more than Lancelot and tries to kiss her."

  "She did say that she wanted someone who jests. She said that she thought I was more like you than like Lancelot." Galahad looked at Gawaine, as if trying to see whether he was insulted or complimented.

  "And so you are like me, around the eyes a little. She is more observant than you believe." Gawaine had just noticed it himself. He wondered why he had not recognized the resemblance sooner. Probably because Galahad was skinny.

  "What?" Galahad blinked. "Yes, of course you are my cousin."

  "Don't be afraid of this lady," Gawaine advised in his gentlest voice, which he sensed was louder than other people's gentle voices. "Just try, and if she doesn't want you, you can love another." Thank all the gods he had turned down Arthur's suggestion that he marry Talwyn, or else his daughter would have hated him. He wanted to tell Galahad that Talwyn was fond of her, but how could he explain ever having such a personal conversation with Talwyn? And it wasn't certain that Talwyn would feel the same if she knew Galahad was a woman.

  "I am afraid," Galahad admitted. "That's half the reason I went away.”

  “Running away from the girl you love is not the best way to catch her.”

  Unable to look at Galahad any further without giving away his delight in her, Gawaine suggested, "Why don't we eat something?" He took some yellow cheese and barley bannock out of his pack and urged Galahad to eat it.

  The deer had moved away, and he was too full of joy to go in pursuit of them.

  "Thanks. You're good to be so concerned about me. I'm glad I told you that we're kin. But I don't want to tell the king."

  "No, you're right, don't tell him." Gawaine's voice was solicitous. He finally remembered to put his boot back on.

  An evening fog began to rise up the side of the mountain, and he watched it more anxiously than usual, as if the mist might become so thick that it could hide the young warrior from him.

  "It's so pretty in these mountains. That does cheer me." Galahad said, taking a bite of cheese. "I was thinking earlier about Moses and Jesus coming to the mountains for rev
elations, but even without any great revelations the mountains are wonderful."

  "Yes," Gawaine replied, grinning about his own revelation, "but if you'll recall, who the latter met was the devil. I hope you won't think me such a bad companion."

  Galahad laughed. "Not at all. The devil probably would be less entertaining. I'm not interested in being handed kingdoms." She took a large bite of the bannock.

  "I've always thought it was puzzling that Jesus said, 'Get thee behind me, Satan.' If I was standing on the ledge of a mountain with the devil, I wouldn't want him to stand behind me." This might be a clean enough jest for Galahad.

  Galahad laughed, choking on her food.

  Galahad swallowed. “I don't suppose I'll ever find the grail.” She sighed. “I wish I were better.” She shook her head. “I try to be good, but I'm afraid I'm not as good as Lancelot.”

  "Who is? You don't have to be perfect." He thought that Galahad was perfect, but it would be too flowery to say so. Galahad must know that Lancelot was a woman, but Gawaine couldn't let on that he knew about either of them.

  Gawaine remembered that he had thought that Lancelot was as she was, loving women rather than men, because her mother had been raped before her eyes. Could some man have done Galahad an injury? "It may be good that you were raised in a convent. I hope that you were not hurt when you were growing up?"

  "I fell off horses a few times, but that's not so bad." There were no painful undertones in Galahad's voice suggesting anything else.

  "No, it's not." Gawaine sighed with relief.

  "That wise nun—is she round bodied, with a gentle face and many wrinkles?" he asked.

  "That sounds like Mother Ninian," Galahad replied.

  "I met her once in the forest. She was a good teacher," Gawaine said.

  "She has taught you, too? She also advises Lancelot," Galahad told him.

  "Lancelot told me that."

  Gawaine didn't mind that the nun had let him misunderstand and go on a mistaken quest. He appreciated his wonderful daughter all the more because she was so different from the sad, embittered, prostituted girl he had imagined.