I miss Arthur. One does not like to admit this about one's foster brother, but he really was a great man, although he did some wrong as well, as I suppose most great men do.
The people are afraid without Arthur. Some of them are so afraid that they have asked me to protect them. I am in command of Camelot and will do what I can for the people around here, but I certainly shall not compete with the lords in other parts of Britain. Let them fight it out.
In his last will and testament, which he wrote just before he went out to battle Mordred, Arthur divided all of his personal wealth (which was not that great, because he was always building) among "my good sister, Morgan of Cornwall, my good foster brother, Caius, and my good cousin, Gawaine of Lothian and Orkney. I proclaim that my wife, Guinevere, was not guilty of the charges falsely brought against her by the traitor Mordred." Thus he tried to place the blame for nearly burning her on Mordred, absolving himself.
Gawaine also made a will before the battle. He left half of what he had to Lancelot, and the other half, I am not sure why, to Galahad. (I hope that Galahad will return from his quest. If some other warrior had left so much to a young man, I would be suspicious, but surely Gawaine was interested only in women.) I assume that you do not want property in Lothian, and I shall correspond with people there about it for you if you wish. I see that you told him your name, because he asked me to help him write two wills, one saying Lancelot and the other saying Anna.
He told me to use the one that was most fitting at the time.
Anna is a pleasant name, though not as elegant as Lancelot.
I suggest that we use the will saying Anna, because Queen Morgause might find it less strange that her son would leave an inheritance to a woman she never heard of than to the warrior who she must have heard killed two of his brothers.
No one knows that you are a woman. All of those who heard it must have died in the battle, except for Dinadan and me, who saw it all along but never told you we knew. I have said that you entered a monastery in Lesser Britain, and everyone believes it.
Catwal has recovered and is my serving man now. I should have stolen him from you years ago.
I wish you and Guinevere both well.
The thought of Lancelot in a convent amuses me. Do the nuns swoon over you?
I have changed my name to Constantine, because it has a more royal sound, and people think of Cai only as the seneschal. Dinadan calls himself my empress but says that he will leave me if I start seeing visions of crosses in the sky.
Caius now Constantine,
Lord of the kitchen and now of Camelot
Glad he had survived, they smiled at his signature.
Then the messenger told them that he had also brought Guinevere's favorite horse, and Guinevere exclaimed with joy and dashed out of the convent door to welcome the mare.
Anna wrote thanking Cai for his assistance, and sending her warmest regards and what money she had to Catwal. She said that all of her share of Gawaine's estate should be used to help destitute women. And Guinevere wrote that all of her jewels should be sold to provide for the widows of the battle of Camlann, Lionors first among them. She grieved at the thought of Bors's widow raising their large flock alone.
Anna sat at the long refectory table, at the left hand of Guinevere, who was placed at the left hand of the abbess. The oldest nun, Ninian, sat at the abbess's right.
A new tapestry of the Last Supper, with the Blessed Virgin and Magdalene included, hung on the wall across from the old hanging depicting the miracle of the loaves and the fishes.
Anna watched everything with great interest. The food was simpler than it had been at the round table, but the table manners were certainly better. There was no shouting or throwing of food.
The conversation was also better. The nuns talked about books, both Christian and not. They said that there were women who wrote, that a library in distant Alexandria had held books by women, but the Romans had destroyed it.
Anna thought she should read more so she could understand the conversations better, but she was not much inclined to do so. To Anna's amazement, women who were Christian and a few women who still had a belief in the old religion, or at least parts of it, lived together and seemed for the most part to respect each other. A few others, like Guinevere, appeared to care more about books than prayers.
Some nuns were quieter and spent more time in chapel. Some fasted often. Anna remembered that at one time she would have found those nuns the most congenial. Guinevere found them the least congenial.
It was true that some nuns became a little testy about theology, for some worried about heretics within Christianity as well as old believers.
"It's almost Samhein," Ninian proclaimed, as if that were still a feast she celebrated.
Sister Branwen made the sign of the cross. "That is a pagan feast. Marking the seasons is a pagan practice. Only events in the gospels should be celebrated."
Ninian grinned. "Well, where do the gospels tell about the Trinity? And a strange Trinity it is, with a Father and Son and no mother."
Branwen and a number of other nuns gasped and crossed themselves.
"Enough of your jests, Ninian," said the abbess gently. "She is only testing your faith," she told the others.
"They have no sense of humor," Ninian grumbled.
Covering the awkward silence, old Sister Darerca told one of her stories about having known Saint Brigid of Kildare. "No doubt we'll always have a warm hearth here, for she told me that I would have the blessing of her holy fires for all the rest of my life."
Ninian stopped eating her salmon. "If you're making up stories, you might as well call the goddess Brighid by her true name, and not make her one of your saints. Goddess of the flames she is indeed, and what is Kildare but an oak grove?"
Darerca snapped back, "I should know my own mentor, shouldn't I? Sure, she was named after your pagan goddess, but she was so pure that she pulled her own eyes out of her head rather than marry."
"I find it more wonderful that she put them back in again," Ninian retorted, oblivious to the muttering of the many nuns who were indignant to hear her cast doubt on one of their favorite saints.
"It is a mystery. What would life be without mystery?" the abbess said, unshakable in her calm.
"Some convents have a rule of constant silence, and I have heard that Rome thinks that all convents should," said sweet-faced Sister Fidelia, looking around as if asking whether others thought such a rule likely to spread.
The abbess scoffed. "Surely men in far-off Rome could never tell us what to do."
"Perhaps we should spend more hours in prayer," one sister ventured.
"We should instead read more, for reading is prayer," another replied.
Of course there were also the usual disputes over Pelagius and Augustine and the rules of the Irish Church versus the British Church. The nuns even debated whether priests should have tonsures, though Anna could not see why the women should have any interest in that.
Anna went off to Guinevere's room to complain about the spats among the nuns. When she entered, Guinevere put down a scroll that she had been studying by the light of her candles. Even in the convent, she still had fine beeswax tapers.
"This place is like a cauldron," Anna told Guinevere. "I thought it would be peaceful, and in a way it is, but these women fight about theology as if their lives depended on it."
"Like a slur on one's honor?" Guinevere asked in a sarcastic tone.
"Well, yes. There is just as much gossip here as at Camelot, and there are just as many quarrels." Anna sighed. "The only difference is that there is no drunkenness, no one is pressing anyone to go to bed if they do not want to, and no one comes to blows."
"Yes, those are the only differences," said Guinevere, giving Anna a disgusted look.
Anna set out plates of food at Samhein for her friends who had died during the year (except for Bors, whose ghost would be scandalized by it), though she knew that only Branwen's fondness for her kep
t her from starting a great uproar about this pagan ritual. Anna smiled at the thought of Gawaine's shade visiting the convent, but she reckoned that if it went anywhere, it would more likely go to Lothian, where Queen Morgause no doubt had set out supper for all four of her dead sons.
After Anna had set the platters of wheaten bread and apples at the empty places, Branwen put an arm around her shoulder.
"No doubt all of your friends will be resurrected and will dwell in peace," she said.
Ninian smiled enigmatically, saying, "They will live on in some form, no doubt, because nothing is ever lost, and even the rains that dry go back to the heavens and fall again."
Anna noticed that Guinevere seemed to talk more familiarly with Sister Valeria than anyone else, although Valeria was clearly close to Sister Fidelia, who had the best voice both speaking and singing. But Valeria was entirely too pretty.
One day Anna saw Guinevere and Valeria laughing and chatting in the passageway with their arms around each other's shoulders. Anna bristled and glared at them.
Guinevere laughed at her. "What ails you?"
Valeria also laughed. "I have loved dear Gwen all my life. We used to sleep together when we were girls."
Anna stalked off and Guinevere followed her to her room.
"What is the matter?" Guinevere asked, still full of mirth. Her cheeks were rosy—could it be from blushing? But Guinevere never blushed. "Valeria has been my dear friend ever since childhood. She was the first woman I lay with, when I was on my way to Camelot to marry Arthur, but she has been with Fidelia ever since she joined the convent."
Anna's stomach muscles tightened. Arthur was no longer, but now she had to speak with a woman who had once been with Guinevere. She scrutinized Guinevere's face. "And how do you feel about her now? I'm jealous," she complained.
Guinevere scoffed. "I don't know whether to laugh or to yell at you. You have a great deal of gall. How many have flirted with you? I don't want anyone but you, fool that you are." She put her arms around Anna, who accepted her kiss in a chastened manner.
Anna found that she did not miss Camelot's dogs so much because the convent was full of cats, who ran about as they pleased. One white cat in particular liked to jump in her lap and go to sleep. And sometimes in the middle of a solemn reading at supper, when the nuns were listening to noble words, a cat would suddenly wake up, stare at some feline apparition, and run tearing across the refectory, much to the amusement of nearly, but not quite, everyone.
Anna went often to the chapel, where she could hear the old hymns her mother had loved without feeling that she was being untrue to Guinevere. She did not partake of the sacrament.
One evening in her room, Guinevere asked, "Why don't you take the sacrament, now that you no longer need to fear that we are committing adultery?"
Sighing, Anna shook her head. "So many doubts have been opened to me. I shall never know what to believe, so I shall not do what the believers do."
"I take the sacraments, as I have always done," Guinevere said, taking off her veil. "No doubt much of what the priests say is true, but I don't worry about the details."
Used to Guinevere's practical attitude toward religion, Anna did not chide her.
"You seem relaxed here, more so than at the court," Anna said, not adding that even at her most relaxed Guinevere had an air of authority.
Guinevere pressed her hand. "I thrive on the reading. I almost wish that I had gone to the convent much sooner, instead of marrying. But my father would have said the convent was for the younger daughters of large families, not for the only daughters of kings. Besides, then I never would have met you." She kissed Anna's lips, and Anna returned the kiss.
Guinevere pulled back and scrutinized Anna's face. "All the guilt you felt toward Arthur drove me mad." Her voice had an edge to it. "Why feel guilty, unless you really believed that he owned me, and I had no right to love anyone but the man my father chose for me?"
Anna thought she had more reasons for guilt than Guinevere realized, but she was not ready to talk about how Arthur had died. She did not want to think about him. The horror of his death obscured the memory of his life. She put a hand on Guinevere's shoulder. "That wasn't the reason for my guilt. Until he sentenced you to burn, I believed that he loved you as I did, and must be as heartbroken as I would be if you broke off with me. He sometimes spoke against you, but I thought that was from wounded love. How could anyone not love you?"
Making a sharp, disgusted sound, Guinevere wrinkled her nose. "He certainly never loved me. He liked me when he thought I was fond of him, but did not love in the way you mean. I don't think men can."
"No, he clearly didn't love you, but that doesn't mean that a man couldn't love. They are only human, after all, and can learn that as I could learn to fight. But I am very glad that I'm with you." Anna kissed her and stroked Guinevere's beautiful, thick, silver hair.
Anna walked or rode out in the woods every day, early and late, while the more prayerful nuns were on their knees. Whether she saw a mouse or a badger, an owl or a goldfinch, it delighted her. She was amazed that after seeing so much death she could still feel joy.
Sometimes Ninian rode with her, for she also enjoyed the woods. And of course, Guinevere also liked to ride, and did.
One day, as Anna and Ninian strolled to the pond to look for migrating geese and other waterfowl, the old woman asked how she liked nun's clothes.
Looking down at her black skirt, Anna spoke wistfully. "To tell the truth, I miss the chain mail. I know that I am wearing a great many robes, but I feel naked without it." She touched her skirt, which felt flimsy.
The old nun laughed and the wrinkles danced across her face. "My poor turtle has lost her shell. Truly, you are the only woman in the world who ever has felt or ever will feel naked in nun's garb. Perhaps sometimes you could wear chain mail under the black robes. It would show through just a little bit."
Anne laughed with her, then started sobbing. "Gawaine would have laughed so at that. I cannot laugh again with a light heart. Mordred has murdered laughter."
"That he has not," Ninian scolded, shaking a finger at her as if she were a child. "Murdered laughter! Who could ever do such a thing? Don't give him so much power. He was not a devil. Would Gawaine want you never to laugh? Wouldn't he pound you on the back and try to jest with you? How do you know his ghost isn't trying to get you to laugh even this very moment?"
Tears dripped down Anna's cheeks. Ninian's words only made her sadder. "You know he isn't doing anything of the kind. He's just dead."
A swan swam near the shore where they stood, but it did not cheer Anna.
"You have always prayed to your mother, as if you believed she heard you," Ninian said.
"I was so young, I had to believe that," Anna admitted, tossing a bit of bread to the swan. "And perhaps I still do. Besides, she seemed so saintly. I could hardly pray to Gawaine. Even praying to Elaine seems farfetched, though I often ask her to forgive me."
The nun grabbed her by the shoulders. "Well, speak to them, then, don't call it prayer. They are indeed living if you remember them, and think of what they would have said."
"Dead, all dead." Anne sobbed. "Nearly all of the court is dead."
"Guinevere is alive," Ninian replied, gently but firmly, rubbing Anna's cheeks with a white linen cloth. "You must be brave to live after Camelot. Mourn indeed, but to grasp life's joy, we must never be too solemn to be the fool. It's a good jest that the world's greatest warrior was a woman! It's an even better one that the world's greatest warrior has retired to a convent! You and Guinevere don't have to hide your love as much here as you did at Camelot. Do you hear me, it's hilarious. You can still jest about these things, as if your friends heard you, and you should."
A pair of mallards flew up quacking, circled the pond, and settled down on the water again.
"Thinking of Gawaine should bring you peace," the old nun said. "You don't believe that a just God would send Gawaine to hell, do you?"
&nb
sp; "No!" Anna gasped, tripping and nearly falling into the pond in her indignation. "I would never believe that he is in any such place."
"And was he any less of a sinner than you are?" Ninian asked.
"No," Anna admitted. Perhaps more of one, she thought but did not want to say.
Ninian grabbed hold of her hands. "Then you won't go to hell either, will you?"
Anna swayed, almost collapsing with a surge of relief. "I suppose not." She had worried so much about hell ever since she and Guinevere had first loved each other that she could scarcely believe that her fear could be gone.
"So Gawaine has given you hope?" Ninian smiled one of her smiles that brought summer to winter.
"Yes, the old sinner, he has." Anna smiled, then recoiled. "Don't tell me his death served a purpose because it took away my fear of hell. I don't want peace at that price. There was no excuse for his death."
Ninian looked deep into Anna's eyes. "You would not agree that anyone should die to save you or others?"
"To die to save a life, yes, that's acceptable, though I wouldn't want anyone to die to save mine. But to die to comfort or console someone else, no, of course I would never accept that."
Ninian raised her eyebrows. "Don't say that too loudly in the convent."
Understanding her meaning, Anna paused, then said, "But I don't accept it. I don't want anyone to suffer for me."
"I won't tell you that Gawaine's death was God's will, that it was just, or that it was his destiny, only that it is," Ninian said. "It has happened, and nothing can change that. I agree with you that it must be the life that matters, not the death. Remember the life."
Anna hugged her tightly. "I do. Then, if you would, please throw some food onto my plate at supper sometimes, in memory of Gawaine, who used to say I didn't eat enough."
That night at supper, Ninian tossed a trout onto Anna's plate. The other nuns stared speechless. Anna laughed and cried, as did Guinevere, recognizing the gesture and trying to sympathize with her.
Lancelot and Guinevere Page 49