Lancelot- Her Story

by Carol Anne Douglas

  Arthur reached for her and groaned. "I don't want to marry, but I must. You know that you are my true love."

  He attempted to kiss her, but she playfully resisted. "Do you understand why I would choose Guinevere?" he asked, seizing Morgan's hand. "She seems dignified, clever, even thoughtful, and has been raised to be a queen. And yes, I admit that she's pretty, too. Her father's a wily old cattle-thief, but he's a good ally."

  "I am not quarreling with you. The girl would make a good choice." That was true enough, Morgan thought, kissing him. Guinevere had seemed much taken with her, and would be a good sister-in-law, who might listen more to her than to Arthur.

  "You're so kind. You forgive me everything," he said, as if he had not just shown how lacking in forgiveness he would be if she displeased him. "I shall always be glad that you do not hate me because my father killed yours and took your mother for his own."

  Strange that he seemed to feel more guilt over that than over anything he himself did. She settled into the curve of his arm.

  "I was only a small child then. I never knew my father."

  "I'm glad I came looking for my sister. You're the fairest woman in the world, and the best lover." She smiled because she remembered how disconcerted he had been that she had been with other men before him.

  "Only at Beltane and Midsummer," she had told him, which was not quite the truth. But no doubt he often lied to her, also.

  He unlaced the front of her gown and fondled her breasts. Morgan sighed with pleasure.

  Arthur suddenly pulled back. "Lace up your gown. We can't act this way in a tent. Someone might discover us."

  Morgan glared at him. "Are you a coward? You're a king! You can do as you please."

  "Do not dare to call me a coward. Do you know how many kings I have vanquished?" Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Lace up your gown," he repeated. "I won't be caught up in scandal."

  "If you want it laced up, lace it up yourself!"

  "Arthur, may I enter?" The voice belonged to Bedwyr, one of Arthur's warriors.

  "In a moment." Arthur's voice was full of displeasure.

  Morgan laced up her gown. After a pause, Bedwyr entered. He was an unattractive man, older than Arthur, an ordinary warrior with little to recommend him except his loyalty to Arthur.

  "Pardon me, Arthur, but your voices could be heard outside the tent. I had to let you know." Bedwyr looked only at the king. "There is already too much gossip."

  "Is there indeed?" Arthur's voice was steady, but he twisted the amethyst ring that was his seal of office. "And what is the nature of this gossip?"

  "That you and your sister are lovers." Bedwyr's voice was unflinching. "I wouldn't bet on keeping it secret much longer."

  Since Bedwyr bet on anything and everything, that was a damning phrase, Morgan knew.

  "Petty people will always gossip about the great," Morgan said, her voice dripping with disdain.

  Arthur ignored her. "And what more are they saying?" he asked Bedwyr.

  "That she is a witch who has bewitched you. I've heard that these rumors have reached the ears of the priests. This could be dangerous, Arthur."

  "Indeed." Arthur poured himself a cup of mead and drained it.

  "Nonsense." Morgan felt her pulse quicken. She pulled herself up to her full height. "How dare you bother the king with such trivia? No one has the right to question him or spread rumors about him. Whoever does should be punished."

  "I need to know everything that is said about me." Arthur spoke in his state voice. "Thank you, Bedwyr. You may go now."

  "Yes, Lord Arthur." Bedwyr bowed to him. He left, still having said or done nothing to acknowledge Morgan.

  "How insolent!" she said.

  Arthur looked at the mead jar and poured another cup. "This is serious."

  "No one can challenge you!"

  He put his hand to his forehead. "Can they not? Haven't I had to fight years of battles for the throne? I can't throw all that away now."

  "You are the greatest fighter in the world. Nothing can change that." She could scarcely believe that he needed her to remind him of his power.

  "Perhaps I am tired of fighting."

  He seemed to be looking through the tent cloth, far beyond her. "Perhaps there are battles that I cannot win. We still face the Saxons, who will attack us again someday. I must think of the future."

  "Of course a king must think of the future." Morgan touched his hand. "We have often spoken of the future."

  Arthur slowly moved his hand away from hers. "We have no future together. I regret that deeply. I have tried to hide our love, but it is impossible. You must go back to Tintagel and never come to Camelot again."

  Her heart seemed to stop beating. "You cannot mean that."

  His voice was dead serious. His face lacked any trace of warmth. "I do. Believe me, I do."

  "Traitor!" She slapped him.

  "Never do that again." He was colder than winter.

  Morgan trembled, too angry to shout. She looked at Arthur as if he were a creature to be trod under her foot. "You have betrayed love. My curse is upon you. May you never again know happiness in love." She swept out of the tent.

  She was determined not to weep. All of her sorrow would be anger.

  Morgan could not keep herself from screaming. Her screams blended with the shrieks of the gulls outside her caer by the sea. Pain, more pain than she had imagined possible, wracked her body. Finally, she took one great shove and the child came out. She sank back onto the pillows. "Bring me the child!" she demanded. At last she had a son who would avenge the wrongs done to her.

  One of her woman carried the red, squirming thing to her. It was a girl, a frail girl. Morgan groaned and closed her eyes. Her child would never grow up to overthrow Arthur. Never would she have her revenge. This girl was only a daughter of incest, the daughter of a witch, a girl the Christians would despise.

  "Give her to me." She took the poor thing to her breast. She must find a better life for the child. Her daughter must not grow up to be hated, to be scorned and discarded as she had been.

  She felt the small lips fumble at her nipple, then pull, although she had no milk yet. The pulling pained her, but she ached so much already that a little more did not matter. She knew that her breasts would ache far more when the child was gone. Her cousin Elaine, niece to her father Gorlois and therefore no kin of Arthur's, wanted a daughter and did not have one. She lived with her husband, Bagdemagus, only one day's journey from Tintagel. This girl she would name Elaine, like her cousin, and give to her. "If I love you, I must give you up," she whispered to her child.

  Gawaine bounded surefooted from rock to slippery rock. "Your Tintagel reminds me of Orkney," he called out to Morgan. "I'm glad to smell the sea again."

  She laughed and followed him, scrambling easily on the rocks she had known since childhood. Sea spray splashed in their faces.

  "You know the sea well, don't you, seal girl," he teased her. Gulls screeched over their heads and sandpipers flew up when they approached too close.

  "Of course. This is my home." She smiled at him. Fool that he was, he thought that she had sent for him out of great desire, when it was because he might give her a son she could claim was Arthur's. As Gawaine was a close relation to both of them, it would not seem strange if the child resembled him. And when the child was grown, no one could tell that the age was short by a year.

  "You are clever, like my mother," he said. "You resemble her a little, too."

  Laughing, he touched her red-gold braid. "She would be fond of you, no doubt."

  Morgan did not echo his laughter. She had no wish to meet her aunt. Morgause might be shrewd enough to guess her plan. "It's not likely that we shall meet."

  "We have much in common, cousin." He gave her a foolishly fond look.

  "Much," she said sharply. "I have lost Arthur, and you lost your young wife. Did you love her?" Morgan had heard that in the year she had been gone from Camelot, he had married a girl in Lothian, who nine
months later had died in childbed. How much could he have cared about a girl he had barely known?

  Gawaine winced. His smile faded, and he sat down on a rock. "Yes, I loved her." His voice cracked. "She laughed more than anyone else I have ever met."

  A little fool then, Morgan thought with disdain. Despite his thick, red beard, Gawaine looked young to her, which he was, being not yet twenty summers old. "You were fortunate. Your love did not betray you, as mine did me. Many women die in childbed. You'll find another wife soon enough." She had no great belief in the love of men.

  "No doubt." He rose again, turned from her, and, heedless of the waves crashing around the rocks, jumped further out, away from her.

  It was just as well for him not to become too fond of her, because his stay with her would be brief, and she did not want him to return and learn that she was bearing his child.

  Her blood had not come, so it was time for him to go. He was pleasant and attentive, especially in bed, and some might have thought him handsome, but he was not like Arthur, whose face had been shaped by a god. More important, she could not love a man who would gladly let another man rule over him. She longed for Arthur, who ate and drank power.

  It had occurred to her that Arthur might not be able to keep her in exile if she were Gawaine's wife. He had no wish to lose Gawaine's loyalty. It would drive Arthur mad to see her belong to another man, and she would enjoy that. But though it might be possible to cajole Gawaine into marrying her, his mother was reputed to be fierce. No doubt Queen Morgause would see that she did not love Gawaine. Morgan might sit down to supper one night and never rise from the table.

  No, raising a child to claim Arthur's throne was the best plan.

  Exhausted, Morgan lay back on her cushions. She let the new baby suckle, but she frowned at the child. Why did she have to be another girl? At least this one looked sturdier than the last one, and drank from her more greedily. This one she would send to a convent, but not to be raised by an ordinary nun. Ninian, who had been one of her teachers at Avalon, had gone to a convent, and she would raise this girl to be whatever it was she might become.

  Surrendering to the little blue-eyed creature, Morgan sang her a song of the sea and called her seal girl.

  5 The Future Queen

  "It's a boy!" Macha cried out.

  The circle of women surrounding Sarran, Leodegran's new wife who was only two years older than Guinevere, exclaimed with pleasure.

  Guinevere did not press to be closer. The crowded room with its smells of blood and sweat almost took her breath away. The birth reminded her too much of her mother's death. She caught a glimpse of her new half-brother, red-faced and crying lustily. She felt no surge of sisterly affection.

  Macha cleaned him off and handed him to Sarran, who looked weak but smiled.

  "Leodegran wanted a son to be called Cadwallon," Sarran said in a voice full of pride.

  Knowing she must congratulate Sarran, Guinevere came closer up to her. "He looks healthy. Father will be so pleased," she said, hoping her voice did not sound as insincere as she felt, now that she could never be queen of Powys. She was sure that she could be a fine ruler, just and compassionate. She choked back tears. Even though she could not be a queen, she must always have dignity, and never weep.

  Guinevere rushed about the caer, for Leodegran was holding a feast to which all of his lords and their wives were invited. It was early winter, but there was no snow and the guests were able to travel.

  She helped Sarran make arrangements for the feast. Little as she liked attending to the details, Guinevere made sure that all her father’s favorites were served. Beef, pork, and mutton made the table a farmyard, while venison provided a touch of the forest. There were also many varieties of honeycakes, which Guinevere much enjoyed, and she sampled them in the kitchen.

  Of course the guests also had to be housed. Everything that could be made into a bed was used, and every covering was needed for bedding for the women. The men would just sleep in the great hall.

  The household had not been so lively since Leodegran and Sarran’s marriage the year before. Guinevere wore her finest gown, which was made of green wool, and her best jewels, which were garnets. She must look like a king's daughter, even if not his heir. She wanted to the guests to admire her, not pity her.

  "You look beautiful, tonight, my daughter," Leodegran said, smiling at her. "Everyone will admire you, as well they should."

  Had her father already drunk too much? He seldom praised her looks, and his smile was wider than usual.

  The great hall was ablaze with many rushlights and a roaring fire in the firepit. Gliding among the trestle tables, Guinevere poured Leodegran's best wine, saw that all the guests were fed, and listened to reports of the latest marriages and childbirths.

  She savored the smell of venison and longed to sit down and enjoy the feast. Leodegran then called her over to the highest table. He put an arm around her shoulders.

  "Great honor has come to Powys," his voice boomed. "I am proud to announce the betrothal of my daughter, Guinevere, to the High King of all Britain, Arthur Pendragon." He beamed at her.

  Guinevere's head spun as if she would faint. She could hardly believe his words. Why had he not told her sooner? Her father kissed her cheek. "You will be a great queen, my girl," he proclaimed.

  Guinevere felt as if someone had died, and as if that someone was herself. Numb, she managed to be gracious through the long evening of toasts and congratulations. People smiled at her with more admiration than usual, but she did not feel complimented. Ladies oohed and aahed, girls giggled, and men asked her to recommend them to King Arthur.

  Guinevere's appetite was quite gone. She had difficulty forcing herself to eat a few bites. Her head ached from the wine, and from her father's news as well. A harper played a cheerful song often heard at weddings and she knew she would never like that tune again. She thought Sarran smirked at her and would not be sorry to see her go. Perhaps Sarran even envied her for marrying a man who was young and handsome, and a greater king than Leodegran.

  The guests consumed many jars of mead and reduced the meats to bones. The ladies finally went off to bed and the men began to lie down by the still-glowing firepits. At last Guinevere was able to go off to her room, which would be shared with other highborn ladies. Her father followed to speak with her privately outside her door.

  "You must put aside your girlish ways now, Gwen," he said, placing his hand on her shoulder. "The High King was much impressed when he met you, but he has been occupied with securing his kingdom and building his new caer. Now he has time to wed. I'm so proud of you, chosen over every other girl in Britain. That is why I had you learn Latin and a little Greek, to please him because he liked your cleverness. I thought he would want his wife to be the most learned girl in Britain, and I was right. Remember your duty and be a proper consort to him. But I know you will." He squeezed her shoulder.

  She longed to tell him how little she wanted this marriage, but she looked at the rushes on the floor and controlled herself. "You didn't even ask me whether I wanted to marry him." There was no expression in her voice.

  "How could you not? Of course you're overwhelmed, my girl. You might thank me a little more for getting you the finest husband in Britain."

  "Of course I thank you, Father," she said, because she must.

  He kissed her cheek and left her. His mustaches tickled and she thought that at least Arthur didn't have mustaches, or hadn't had them when she had seen him nearly three years before.

  No longer having the strength to stand, Guinevere slumped on her bed. Two ladies sharing it were already snoring. She could hardly believe what was happening to her. She knew such things happened to other highborn girls, but somehow she had imagined that she was exempt. She had meant to tell her father that she did not want to marry, but when he had never mentioned the subject she had guessed that he somehow understood or wanted to keep her at home. She had longed to become a queen, but in her own right, not
through marriage. She had never thought of the High King as a possible husband, nor did she want him now,no matter how handsome and powerful he was. She was not entirely sure why she didn't. She should be grateful that he wanted an educated wife. If the High King had wanted a wife with no learning, her father never would have hired a teacher for her, but instead would have told Arthur that she was the most ignorant girl in Britain.

  It was useless to protest. After such an announcement, her father would never change his mind. She had heard about Julius Caesar crossing the Rubicon, and it seemed that she had been carried across in a litter while she slept.

  If she had been the daughter of a farmer or a blacksmith, she would have been a free woman at fourteen, and never would have had to wed. There were disadvantages to being a king's daughter, she realized for the first time.

  But even if she did not much want to be Arthur's wife, she would be able to be near his wonderful sister at the court. The thought made her shiver with pleasure. Guinevere recalled that Morgan had told her she would be a queen. Had Morgan foreseen how that would come to be?

  Truth to tell, Guinevere thought she would not have minded seeing the High King's court and learning more about the world than she could at Powys, but she did not want to have to marry to do so, nor did she want to leave Powys forever. She buried her face in her pillow and tried not to sob at the thought of marrying Arthur and, still worse, the thought of bearing a child. Perhaps she had only another year to live. She was smaller than her mother, so she might not live through as many childbeds as Rhiannon had. Macha's warning about pregnancy still rang in her ears.

  Pain stabbed Guinevere below her stomach, pain worse than any cramps she had ever felt. The room was close, smelling of blood and sweat – her blood and sweat. Women she had never seen before surrounded her. Her legs were open. It was birth! She was giving birth! She thrashed. She screamed. She would die like her mother. She was passing out. She would never see the world again.