Lancelot and Guinevere

by Carol Anne Douglas

  "Truly?" Percy looked at Galahad with interest. "Perhaps there's hope for me—when I marry. I won't try again until I do."

  "No doubt that will be better," Galahad said.

  "I pray that it will." Percy sighed.

  Then they saw Bors, which ended the confidences, none too soon for Galahad.

  The sun lingered in the sky and they didn't feel like sleeping. They sat in a beech grove where Bors told stories about the saints and assured the young warriors that nothing was more glorious than holy martyrdom.

  Then came the most exquisite music they had ever heard, music produced not by nightingales, but by something like harps. They rose and walked through the trees to seek the source of the melody.

  They came to a clearing that was even lighter than the rest of the still sunlit woods. There sat a small mud-and-wattle chapel with an overwhelming light pouring out through an open door, and with it the music.

  "How wonderful!" Bors exclaimed. "We must go inside."

  Bors and Percy started towards the chapel, but Galahad saw an old woman beckoning from behind an oak tree.

  "First, I must speak with this crone and find out whether she needs anything," Galahad called out.

  "If she does, let her come to the church and be given alms," Bors said. He entered the church, and Percy, after a backwards glance, followed him.

  "We'd better take whatever chance of grace we have, because we might not get another," Percy said to Galahad.

  The small, gray-eyed crone, who seemed to be the most ancient woman Galahad had ever seen, moved away and beckoned Galahad to follow her. With only the slightest hesitation, Galahad did, holding her horse by the reins. The way seemed too narrow for Galahad's horse, yet somehow the steed slipped through the bracken and brambles.

  As they passed into a grove of hazel trees, the withered crone danced in front of Galahad and chanted, "Holy cup and holy grail, holy rant and holy rail, holy wine and holy ale, holy girl and holy male." She laughed. Then she chanted again, in a more solemn tone, "Holy laugh and holy wail, holy hill and holy dale, holy hawk and holy snail, everything is the holy grail."

  Then she ran off into the forest and Galahad followed her.

  Toward morning, a mist rose and she lost track of the crone. Galahad's mare had shied at the bank of a stream and she was trying to soothe her.

  The white horse wobbled on her hooves, then steadied and shook her head so that her mane rippled. Galahad let out a joyful shout that was stronger in spirit than in elegance.

  Here, in the mist, was the grail. Here, on the banks of a stream, was the grail. Here, on the hooves of the horse, was the grail. A fine rain began to drizzle, and Galahad pulled her cloak around her. But still the grail was present.

  The crone appeared again, out of the mist, and Galahad again followed.

  23 THE SCARRED WARRIOR

  Guinevere had gone out with Cai to admire the garden and thus please the men who tended it. Yes, she said, the roses looked as if they would bloom well this year, and it would be good to plant more rosebushes. She praised the lilies as well.

  She walked off by herself, looking out towards the forest, and wondering where in it Lancelot was. The day was fine, and she wished that they could be together. She wandered about on the grass near the horse pasture. She wanted to ride, but she planned only to ride her favorite horse around the pasture because she didn't want to ask any man to ride with her. Since the episode with the warriors from Dumnonia, Arthur had been all the more insistent that a number of men must accompany her. She pointed out that the warriors had only gotten themselves wounded when they confronted the Dumnonians, but she could not sway him.

  She saw blackbirds squabbling. No doubt one male was fighting for territory with another male. It was rather amusing in birds, she thought, but not in men.

  When she reached the stables, she saw that there was a great commotion, with grooms rushing around and Cassius the physician bending over someone who was lying on the floor.

  There was no reason to think that it could be Lancelot, but Guinevere hurried over anyway and saw Mordred lying unconscious.

  Cassius had taken off Mordred's tunic and was examining his left arm, which appeared to be broken. Guinevere saw that the young man was covered with terrible scars that looked years old, but she thought that he had never seen battle. He must have been beaten when he was still a boy. She gasped.

  "Mordred fell from his horse, but he'll be well soon enough, I warrant, except for that arm, Lady Guinevere," said Cuall, the old stablemaster.

  Mordred regained consciousness and, when he saw the group surrounding him, flew into a rage. "Why the fuck are you stripping me and examining me in front of all these onlookers?" he yelled at the physician. Then his gaze focused on Guinevere. "What are you staring at? Never seen a real man before?"

  Even his crude speech could not erase her horror at seeing his scars. "Someone has hurt you dreadfully, Mordred," she said. Little as she liked him, she felt pity.

  "Does that attract you?" he sneered, grabbing his tunic from a groom and trying to pull it over his head, which he could not manage with the broken arm. In his haste he nearly struck Cassius.

  "No, you mistake my concern," she said, pulling away from the group, and most of the stablehands did the same. Mordred's serving man hurried over to help him.

  "You probably want a younger man. I don't mistake that," Mordred said, although the physician and all of the stablehands looked aghast at his speech to the queen.

  "May you heal your mind as well as your body," Guinevere said to him as she swept out of the stable. She put aside the thought of riding.

  Guinevere felt the need to talk with someone, so she went to her room and found Luned, who was making a new gown for Guinevere. "Mordred fell from his horse and I saw Cassius examining him in the stable. He is covered with scars. He must have beaten brutally when he was a boy. Mordred's an unpleasant man, but I never guessed that he might have suffered so. He looks so much like Arthur that he really might be his son, although not by Morgan as he says. She has written me that he is not."

  Luned put the gown carefully on the bed. "Of course he's the king's son, my lady. Anyone can see that unless they pretend not to. His mother must have been a serving woman who worked for a cruel family."

  Guinevere shuddered, and thought about how her father had sent Gwynhwyfach away. "How can men treat their children so? Arthur should do something for him. I suppose I should ask him to, but I don't want to do anything that could give Mordred a chance at the throne."

  "You can't, my lady!" Luned cried, turning pale. "Of course the king must know that Mordred's his son, but if he acknowledges him, Mordred might rule us all someday, and everyone from the highest to the lowest can see that he's cruel. All the servants fear him." She trembled.

  "I suppose I won't say anything, then. But I fear I may be selfish in keeping silent about Mordred." Few things made Guinevere feel guilty, but failing to support Mordred in his claims to his father did.

  "Why, my lady? You would surely be a much better ruler than Mordred," Luned insisted, folding her hands as if she prayed for Guinevere to rule.

  "Hush," Guinevere said, smiling a little, and they stopped talking.

  She decided to tell no one, not even Lancelot, about Mordred's scars.

  Gareth made his horse gallop across a moor. Neither a kestrel hovering nor a grouse drumming caught his eye. Nothing so worldly could hold his interest, except what was forbidden. He tried to think of heavenly things, to envision angels appearing on the moor.

  A group of men in chain mail pursuing a lady came into his view. Alone, he attacked the four men. Two men soon were lying dead on the ground, and the others, one terribly wounded, fled.

  The lady let herself slip from her horse. "Thank you, noble lord! What a fighter you are!" she exclaimed admiringly.

  Gareth dismounted. "It was only my duty. My lady, are you unhurt?"

  She looked up into his eyes. She was tall, but of course not ne
arly as tall as he was. Her hazel eyes looked at him with what seemed close to adoration. Her brown hair, tangled by the wind, framed her face softly.

  "I am safe because of you. My name is Lynnette. And what is yours, finest warrior in the world?"

  Gareth nearly stammered. "I cannot claim to be that. That is Lancelot of the Lightning Arm, my teacher. I am Gareth ap Lot of Lothian and Orkney, a warrior of King Arthur's."

  "Gareth of Lothian and Orkney." Her voice pronounced the words in a tone that sounded much sweeter than anyone else's. She put her hand on Gareth's.

  Her touch was warm yet strong. She wore a fine perfume, and her scent tantalized Gareth. The look in her eyes, the smile on her lips intrigued him.

  Gareth felt stirred, as if passion would be possible, a desire that he had never felt toward a woman before. He had done well, and finally the Lord had heard his prayer and had blessed him. Perhaps this woman even had a soul. Much affected, he said, "I hope that you are not sworn to anyone else, my lady. If you are not, I would like to seek your hand in marriage."

  Lynnette let out a brief exclamation that seemed to be one of pleasure, but her eyes became apprehensive. "I am not betrothed, and I want to be yours, but you should not ask for me until you have touched me, Lord Gareth."

  Gareth was stunned by this unmaidenly response. "We must be pure, if I am to show you true respect and love, my lady."

  In reply, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. He trembled.

  "Oh, my lady, aren't you a maiden?" he asked, excited but worried at the same time.

  "I'm frightened, but I must let you know what I am," she said, taking his hand and guiding it below her waist.

  He felt something large and hard.

  "You're no lady!" Gareth screamed in a rage. He leapt on his horse and rode away as fast as he could.

  When he had ridden away from the sight of Lynnette, he sobbed. His prayers had not been answered. He was truly cursed. Only demons came to torment him. What could be a more terrible demon than one who wore the clothes of the other sex to tempt poor mortals with weaknesses like his? He told himself that Lynnette could not have been human, and he thought that if had been a truly good Christian he should have killed her. Probably that was not what Father Donatus would say, but the priest did not understand how dreadful it was to have such temptations.

  Ninian stood at Camelot's inner gate. She held the reins to her gray mare. "I need to speak with the king," she told a muscular guard young enough to be her grandson, if not her great-grandson. He looked amazed at such speech from an old nun.

  "The king doesn't have a public audience today, but he will next week and you can come then," the guard told her, in a reassuring tone that indicated he thought she was doddering.

  Just then, Lancelot came by.

  "Let her in, she's a friend of mine," Lancelot told the guard, who bowed and let Ninian pass. "Mother Ninian, what are you doing here?" She threw her arms around Ninian as she always did, despite startled looks from the guard and other passersby.

  "This time I have come to see the king," Ninian said, returning the handsome warrior's embrace.

  Lancelot beckoned for a stablehand to tie up the mare and led Ninian into the caer. "Let me present you to him," she suggested.

  "No, I'll go on my own," Ninian insisted, looking around the caer, which was too ostentatious for her taste. "Just point the way." Her visit was a test for Arthur, and Lancelot's presence would spoil the test. The king must decide on his own whether he would accept her help. He faced danger from his son, and only she could warn him, for only she could see the future.

  "Very well," Lancelot said dubiously, explaining the way.

  Ninian walked into the great hall, which was the largest she had ever seen. How had Merlin ever been comfortable in this place? His tastes had been much simpler when she had known him. Shields and torches hung from the walls, and a number of warriors were grouped around the fire. Arthur stood to one side, giving orders to an impeccably dressed, beardless man who must be his foster brother and seneschal, Cai.

  The beardless man noticed her first. "A lady of religious disposition is seeking to talk with you," he said, smiling at her as she made her way towards the king. The guards watched her with little apparent concern. Their hands did not move to their weapons.

  Arthur looked up.

  "I am Ninian," she proclaimed. "I have come to help you. I was a friend of Merlin's." Indeed, she would not have come except that she knew Merlin would have wanted it.

  Arthur regarded her warily, and she could tell that he recognized her as the one who many years ago had told him he had a child who was being raised in a brothel. She had not told him that the child was a boy. He scowled, surely not his usual expression on meeting a nun.

  The king nodded coldly to her. "I do not need your help, Mother," he said. "Give her a donation for her convent and send her off courteously," he told Cai, and turned away.

  "I need no assistance in leaving," Ninian said, departing without waiting for the donation. She had known that Arthur would reject her service, but she had to ask anyway.

  As she rode her old mare into the forest, she came upon a warrior riding towards the caer. She recognized his face from a seeing she had had years before. He looked more than ever like Arthur.

  "You're the poor little boy from the brothel," she said gently. "Are you well now?"

  The man lunged at her with his spear, but she kicked her mare and disappeared among the oaks and bracken.

  Mordred shook with rage, then he began to choke as if he would weep. Could he never escape the panderers, even though he had killed them? He wished he had killed the nun. Forcing tears away, he made his horse gallop through the forest. Only fools wept. Fools like Lancelot who wept when travelers told of famines in distant lands. What good had those weepers ever done for Mordred? How could a strong woman like Guinevere love a man as soft as Lancelot?

  The nun's words reminded him that there were people who had seen him in the brothel. He couldn't kill them all. It was best to try to gain the throne as soon as possible, before anyone could spread stories about him. After he was king, no one would dare.

  Mordred befriended Accolon, a young and hot-spirited warrior from Rheged who fought exceedingly well. Accolon was brave but ugly, with a huge nose and flapping ears. He had once been wounded on a mission in Cornwall, and the Lady Morgan had been called in to heal him. He had told this tale privately to some of the other warriors, including Mordred, and made much of how beautiful the lady was, so that even though she was old enough to be his mother, he had begged for her love, but had been denied it. The warriors had warned him not to let a word of this adventure come to the king's ears, because he still might be jealous over his sister.

  Mordred could see that Accolon would be a good tool.

  Mordred rode with Accolon out in the forest, and, when they were hidden from any human eyes, pulled out a sword from his scabbard. "This is the king's sword," Mordred told him, and showed him the gleaming sword with its magnificently jeweled hilt. A huge amethyst shone in the pommel.

  "God's breath, it looks just like it!" exclaimed Accolon, staring as if he had never seen a sword before. "But it cannot be."

  "It is. I stole it, and replaced it with another that looks similar but is not quite so well made," Mordred boasted, smirking. He had bribed one of the guards to let him enter the High King's room, but he did not need to tell that to Accolon.

  "Are you mad? He'll kill you." Accolon's eyes darted around, searching to see whether anyone was spying on them. He looked as if he wanted to flee.

  "Oh no, good Accolon. You'll kill him, and thus win the love of his sister, who hates him." Mordred waved the sword in the air, as if wishing that the wind had a heart that could be split.

  Accolon shuddered. "Kill the king? I'd be killed myself for such an act."

  "You would not, because I am his son and would succeed him. I cannot challenge him because he would not fight me." He poured his voice l
ike a soothing potion. "Come now, I know how the lady feels. She's my own mother. She has been lonely and is longing for some man to deliver her from exile. She would be eternally grateful to you for avenging what the king did to her." If he spoke of the witch Morgan, Accolon would be daft enough to believe anything.

  "No matter what he did to her, it was a lifetime ago, before we were born, and I cannot just murder any man, much less my king," Accolon protested.

  Mordred felt the sword's sharp blade with one of the fingers of his bandaged left arm and smiled at the thought of whom it might cut. "Of course you'd fight him, not just cut his throat. I understand that you are a noble warrior, with much honor. If he knows that you have his sword, he'll want to fight, I can assure you. And if he believes that you're fighting for her, he'll be so maddened that he'll be bound to lose. But it will be an honorable fight, not like a murder."

  "Could it be true that she might love me? She would scarcely look at me. She just patted my hand, and said, 'Go off and heal, Accolon, there's a good boy.'" But Accolon's face showed that he was longing to be convinced.

  Mordred slapped Accolon on the shoulder. "Why, she only wanted to fire you to love her more. That's why some women resist at first. And it worked, didn't it? You're mad for her, and will do this to show your love, won't you?"

  Accolon did not immediately accept this cajoling, but Mordred wore him down easily enough.

  "But the king still has the magic scabbard that keeps him from bleeding to death," Accolon objected. "It appears that you didn't steal that."

  "There's no magic in the scabbard," Mordred assured him. Amazing how his father had convinced so many fools that he had magical powers. If only he, Mordred, could lay claim to some!

  Lancelot was riding in the forest with Arthur and a few of his warriors, including Mordred, who always made her uneasy. Unlike anyone else, he gave her looks that suggested she was beneath contempt. The sun was hot, but forest trees shaded the party from Camelot. Lancelot wished she was alone. The men made so much noise that she could scarcely hear the birdsong.