Lancelot- Her Story

by Carol Anne Douglas

  Rhiannon dragged herself painfully across her room and slumped in a chair as far from the brazier as possible, though it was late autumn and Guinevere almost shivered from the cold. Guinevere winced at seeing her mother's evident discomfort.

  "Are you well, Mother?" Guinevere asked anxiously. Her mother never looked well when she was great with child, and now her face was pale. Guinevere scarcely thought about what it would be like to have a brother or a sister because her mother so often bore dead ones.

  "Well enough." Rhiannon tried to smile.

  The hanging on the wall showed the Virgin Mary holding a plump baby Jesus, no doubt inspiring her mother to go through another childbed. Guinevere frowned at it.

  No one else was near, so Guinevere burst out with the question she had held back for so long. "Why must you have another baby? It makes you so weak." And they never live anyway, she thought but did not say.

  "It is important for your father to have a son to rule Powys after him," Rhiannon said, as if that should be obvious. She did not hold back a sigh.

  "Why can't I rule Powys?" Guinevere made bold to say, though she wouldn't have dared to ask her father.

  "You might have to." Sighing again, her mother took off her shawl. No one else would leave off a shawl on such a day. "But I shouldn't say that. This time I may have a fine brother for you." She patted her stomach.

  Guinevere did not think it so fine that a newborn child would be seen as more important than she was, but she did not bother her mother by saying so. She hoped for a sister.

  The thought of a sister reminded her of Gwynhwyfach. Did her father have more children by other women? Did her mother love him?

  "Are you happy, Mother?" she asked, because she could not ask about love.

  Rhiannon started in her chair as if wakened from sleep. "What strange questions you ask. Happy, indeed! I'm married to a king and have all that I want, and I'm a Christian woman with a hope of salvation. That's more than enough for anyone."

  She wasn't happy, then. Guinevere's heart constricted. She was embarrassed at knowing so much about her mother. She turned back to the cloak she was mending.

  She wanted to be happy, not just a queen and a Christian.

  Leodegran burst into the room. "When will my new tunic be ready? I need it for the ceremony next week."

  Rhiannon's wan face looked up at him. She reached for the red tunic that she was trimming with embroidered gold wildcats, Leodegran's symbol.

  "Yes, Leodegran. It will be ready." She picked up her embroidery hoop.

  "Good.”

  He left the room as unceremoniously as he had entered.

  Guinevere almost jumped off her stool. "Can't someone else finish it? You're so tired."

  "No one else can do fine work as well as I can. You certainly can't." Rhiannon's brow creased. Guinevere's lack of skill at the womanly arts did not please her. "Leodegran likes me to make the finishing touches on all his better clothes, as you well know." She took her needle and began to make couching stitches, laying down the first thread over which others would be laid.

  Guinevere stirred restlessly. Why must her mother always say "Yes, Leodegran," so meekly? Guinevere had no intention of learning fine work. She could not even do chain stitching well. She would never wait on a husband as her mother did — never.

  Screams woke Guinevere in the middle of the night. At first she thought it was a nightmare, but she pinched herself and knew that she was awake. Those must be her mother's screams! Her mother must be giving birth. Guinevere jumped out of bed and, still wearing her woolen bedgown, ran to her mother's room. The room was full of women, Macha among them, crowded around the bed. At first Guinevere could barely see Rhiannon. Then she saw her mother, legs open, sweating and twisting.

  Guinevere wanted to cry out and tell her mother not to have babies if it hurt her so.

  Macha caught a glimpse of Guinevere and said, "Go back to your room. You're too young for this sight."

  "No! I want to stay with my mother!" Guinevere hated the sight of her mother in pain, but leaving would be even worse than staying.

  Rhiannon's agonized eyes focused on her. "Let my daughter stay," she gasped.

  Guinevere prayed much more fervently than she ever had before. "Let my mother be well. Mother Mary, please let my mother be well."

  The room smelled of blood, sweat, and excrement. The windows were open, but Guinevere felt as if she would never breathe clean air again.

  "Push harder," one of the women told Rhiannon.

  "I am pushing," Rhiannon moaned. "Oh, Blessed Mother!"

  Rhiannon screamed, wept, and groaned, but the baby still would not come.

  "Are there knots tied somewhere in the caer?" an old midwife asked in a stern voice, staring around the room.

  "Of course not. Do you think we are fools, careless of our lady's life?" Macha demanded, glaring at her.

  Guinevere bit her lip so hard that it bled. She wanted to clench her hands into fists, but that would bind her mother. Instead, she dug her nails into her own arms.

  Finally, her mother gave a shriek, and the baby came, along with a great deal of blood. Guinevere saw a limp red bundle. One of the women cleaned it, slapped it, and tried to breathe into its mouth, but the baby was as limp as ever. The dead boy was the most wretched-looking thing Guinevere had ever seen.

  "She's gone, too," the midwife said, and Guinevere quickly turned her gaze to her mother.

  Rhiannon's eyes were staring, and Macha closed them.

  "No!" Guinevere shrieked. She grabbed Rhiannon's hand, but no pressure answered her own.

  Her mother was gone. One moment she was there, and the next moment she was not. Guinevere could not breathe. It was too terrible; it could not be true.

  Guinevere fled to her room. She flung herself on her bed, put her head under a pillow, and sobbed.

  Macha came after her. Guinevere saw tears flowing from the old woman's eyes.

  "Poor girl," she said softly to Guinevere. She tried to put her arms around Guinevere, but Guinevere shook off the touch.

  "Oh, my poor child," Macha moaned. "I pray that you won't die the same way as your mother. You are so much smaller and more delicately made that I fear you won't survive as many childbeds as my lady did."

  Guinevere sucked in her breath. So this terrible death that had claimed her mother threatened her, too! She could not make any reply to her nurse.

  Left alone, Guinevere vowed that she would never lie screaming like that. She would never bear a child. Why die to please a husband or bear him an heir? Tears streaming down her cheeks, Guinevere decided that she did not want a husband.

  "Let me become queen of Powys, never marry, and never bear a child," she prayed. "I will be kind to everyone." But she doubted that Mother Mary heard her prayers, or cared, if she did hear. If prayers could not save her mother, what good were they to her?

  "Father, won't you please teach me a little more Latin? I've learned some, but I don't know enough words to read well." She approached Leodegran in his office, where he was looking over his steward's accounts. The caer's few leather-bound books and scrolls were kept in this room. They had belonged to Guinevere's grandfather and had been neglected since his death.

  Leodegran looked up from his wax tablet. "You know all the Latin you need to know, and more. Your mother couldn't read. You should go off and spin with your ladies."

  "I have already been spinning for hours. It's always the same. You can't imagine how dull it is!" Guinevere dared to tell him. Her fingers were sore, but not as weary as her mind. She tried to make up stories while she spun, but then she broke the thread.

  "And is it dull to have clothes? You're a willful girl. I indulge you too much," he said, shaking his head.

  "Could I help you with the accounts, then?" she ventured.

  Leodegran chuckled. "Very well, but mind you don't make any mistakes." He handed her one of the tablets.

  She sat down, moderately content, for she liked figures better th
an spinning.

  Counting with the abacus, she pondered the numbers. "How much barley is enough to supply the caer for a year, Father? And how much wheat?"

  There was no answer. She looked up to see that Leodegran had gone. She could find the steward and ask him.

  Instead, her eyes strayed to the books, one in particular. She picked up the heavy volume and carried it to her table.

  The story of Aeneas was the only book in the caer that was not religious. The leather cover smelled good to her.

  Guinevere opened to the part to which she always felt drawn – about Dido, the African queen. "Perfide!" she whispered aloud, raging with Dido over her abandonment by Aeneas. It was magic that a story was on vellum. She wished for more of them, and she longed to know all the words.

  But there were other reasons to want to learn.

  She might be a queen someday, and surely a queen should know more than any of her subjects. She did not want to depend on priests, or any other men, to tell her what books said.

  The sound of horses echoed on the cobbles, and Guinevere ran out of the hall to meet the warriors. Her father had been fighting for Arthur, the man who was trying to become High King of all Britain, and against Ryons of Norgales, who had entered into the war of succession to try to seize part of Leodegran's lands.

  Leodegran's horse was in the lead of the returning warband, and Guinevere sighed with relief. She had scarcely admitted to herself that she had feared he might never return. She ran to him, as she had not done in ages.

  Many other girls and women, both noble and common, were hurrying to see whether their fathers, brothers, husbands, sons, and sweethearts had returned.

  Leodegran looked weary and had a new scar on one hand, but he seemed handsomer than he ever had to Guinevere, though his black mustaches were turning gray. He smiled at the sight of her.

  Leodegran dismounted in a dignified manner. She flung her arms around him, as she used to, when she was little. He reeked of unwashed clothes, horses, and other smells that were strange to Guinevere, but she did not mind. Though he laughed at her fussing over him, he allowed it.

  Then she asked, "Where's Gwythr?"

  Leodegran's smile faded. "Dead. He was the best warrior I had, and he died a hero's death."

  Guinevere's stomach rebelled. A hero's death? What was that? Just a death. She would never again hear him tell tales, which he had done better than anyone else. She could not even attend his funeral, for he had been buried in some far-off battlefield.

  She looked around the warband to see who else was there, or was missing. She saw that other men had but one arm or leg, and their faces were grimmer than they had been. One young warrior who had been handsome now had only one eye.

  Guinevere bade the injured men come into the hall and be tended. It was only later that she realized that Sion the stableboy had not come back, either. So this was war. She shed tears for him and for Gwythr.

  That night Guinevere wanted comfort, so she asked Valeria, a fosterling and highborn orphan, to sleep with her. Guinevere asked that often because she liked the girl.

  Guinevere snuggled beside Valeria, not gossiping as they often did. She wept, and her friend held her. Valeria smelled sweet as a meadow. Guinevere fell asleep, her cheek resting on silken brown hair, her arm flung around Valeria.

  Guinevere made her way across the courtyard to the stables. Spring was in the air and she had no mind to stay inside and spin. She wanted to see the first wildflowers in bloom.

  Whecca, a plump, brown-haired girl who had been Guinevere's servant ever since Gywnhwyfach was sent away, trailed behind.

  "I'd rather have a good horse than a good gown any day," Guinevere declared. "A gown can take me nowhere, but a horse can take me anywhere."

  Whecca giggled. "But if a girl could have only one or the other, it's better to have a gown."

  Guinevere tossed her head and refused to concede. "I'd still rather have the horse. I could ride naked, if I had to." And she would do so with dignity, despite her growing breasts.

  Whecca choked with laughter. "You'd best not let your father hear you say that, my lady." They continued on to the stables.

  Clusters of Leodegran's men were readying their horses for returning to the war. Shining Star, her mare, whinnied when Guinevere came up to her and presented her with an apple. She patted the white star on the brown horse's forehead.

  Leodegran, wearing chain mail, strode up to his stable. He grumbled at the sight of Guinevere making ready to ride out.

  "What do you mean, trying to go riding when there's a war on? I've told you that you have to stay home." Though his voice was gruff, it was not unkind.

  "But Norgales' forces aren't still in our territory, are they? I thought King Arthur's warband had driven them out?" She tried to reason with him, though she knew that she could not convince him to let her leave the caer. The hepatica in the woods would bloom without her.

  "I think Norgales' men are gone, but the High King's men will be through here today to gather supplies. It's true that his warband is helping us, but any warband has men who might bother a girl. It's better for you to stay at home." Leodegran smiled a little and twisted his mustache ends in his fingers. "However," he added, "there is no harm in your walking outside for a moment and greeting the High King when he comes to water his horses. I would invite him to dine with us, but he is in pursuit of Ryons's warband and cannot take the time. Perhaps after the war he will do us the honor.

  And put on your best gown," he added, looking with disfavor at her riding breeches. "See to it that all of your ladies stay inside, and only you stand by the well."

  Guinevere said, "Yes, Father," in a dutiful voice.

  She saw no great need to hide away because of the warriors. She was used to her father's warband, and none of the men had ever bothered her.

  Frowning at the cloudless sky because she could not ride under it, Guinevere made her way back to the women's quarters. Whecca, still trailing her, babbled with excitement,

  "The High King will ride this way today, my lady! I can't believe we'll see the High King!"

  “I suppose that's interesting," Guinevere acknowledged. She had never seen any king with a territory larger than her father's. "Help me dress in my green gown, and then go back to the courtyard and let me know when you hear that he's come. I suppose I have to see to the making of cloaks for the soldiers."

  After Whecca had helped her dress and braided green ribbons in her hair, Guinevere went off to join her attendant ladies and serving women, who were weaving woolen cloaks for Leodegran's fighting men. Even now, Guinevere had little patience with the weaving. She knew it was necessary, but couldn't she leave the task to others? She kept breaking her woolen thread and having to tie it.

  At midday, there was a great clamor in the courtyard, and Whecca ran up to her, calling, "He's coming!"

  The ladies rushed to hang out of the windows. It was odd that her father had said they all should stay inside. Guinevere shook her head over her father's peculiarities.

  She went to the well, where serving men were eagerly drawing water for the High King's party. A number of warriors rode up.

  The High King was dressed not much differently from the others, in chain mail, but he wore a gold torque around his neck. His white stallion was the finest of the horses, and the other men held back deferentially as he rode up.

  He was dusty, but had a handsome face, shaven in the Roman way, red-gold hair, and large shoulders. He rode well.

  The king dismounted and a stable boy took his horse to water.

  Arthur smiled at Guinevere as he accepted the dipper of water that she offered him. "You're Leodegran's daughter?"

  "Yes, Lord Arthur." She was displeased he had not called her "my lady," for she thought she was old enough to be addressed that way. She was as calm and cool as she might have been with any other stranger who visited.

  He drank deeply, then returned the dipper and declined her offer of another drink. His voice ass
umed a light tone.

  "Well, my lady, you have leave to ask the High King three questions, as in a fairy tale. What would you like to know?"

  This suggestion pleased Guinevere, for she wanted to learn what sort of High King he would be. She would have to decide whether to swear allegiance to him when she was queen of Powys, if he was indeed High King then.

  "When will you win the war?"

  He laughed. "I shall win it as soon as I can."

  She continued, rather fiercely. "How many people will die?"

  Arthur gave her an ironic look. "It will claim as many lives as it takes to win."

  Guinevere demanded, "Is there any way that you can keep down the numbers of the dead?"

  Running his fingers through his red-gold hair, the High King stared at her for a moment, then laughed again. "Such a clever young lady! The best way to keep down the numbers of the dead is with a show of might that will make my enemies give up."

  "Are High Kings always so evasive?" Guinevere asked, for she had not liked his answers.

  "That's a fourth question, and I must depart. But I trust that we shall meet again. I see that Leodegran did not exaggerate about his daughter's cleverness, or about her beauty." He inclined his head, smiled, then mounted his horse and rode off.

  Guinevere fretted at his answers. She was not sure whether she should follow her father's example in pledging the loyalty of Powys to him. But perhaps he would wage war against Powys if she did not.

  She scarcely noticed the other warriors riding by. Then her gaze was caught by a lady riding with the men. She did not ride up to the well.

  The lady was as dusty as the other riders, but to Guinevere that mattered little.

  The lady's roan horse matched the magnificent red of her hair. Guinevere had never seen such cheekbones, such a noble forehead, such a fine bearing, such long hands. The lady's eyes, green as the forest, regarded her, and the lady smiled a strange and wonderful smile.