"Guinevere cares about likes and dislikes, and perhaps I do, too," Gawaine said, pulling away from him. "It would be dishonorable to lie with a woman who detests me."
Arthur frowned. "Why must you balk? Perhaps you don't care whether I have a son because you know my secret will names you as my heir if I die childless."
Gawaine jumped up from his chair and yelled, "How dare you accuse me of disloyalty! I've saved your life many times, and this suspicion is the thanks I get! I don't lust after your throne, or after your wife, either!" He shook with anger.
"Be calm, Gawaine. Sit down," his cousin said, maintaining his royal composure.
Gawaine remained standing. He wished Merlin would speak up, but Merlin said nothing.
"Poor Guinevere must be longing for a child," Arthur said in a coaxing tone. "Would you deny a child to a woman who is desperate to have one?"
Gawaine groaned. "If she's truly so desperate that she wants to lie with me so she might have a child, I suppose I'd agree, but I doubt that she is. Please don't mention it to her. She'd think I schemed to seduce her, playing on your weakness."
"What weakness?" Arthur demanded. "I don't have any."
"Your weakness is that you care about nothing but ruling. Don't bother to deny it. You have just shown that it's true." Gawaine had thought that Arthur cared about Guinevere, but now he doubted it.
"Of course I think of my people. Would you want a king who didn't?" Arthur twisted his ring.
"Let's just leave the question of an heir to history," Merlin suggested, speaking up none too soon.
Gawaine left and went out in rain. He thought of his first wife, Keri. He would have died rather than ask another man to lie with her so he could have an heir to the throne of Lothian. Perhaps he was not ruthless enough to be a king. The rain splashing on him soothed him.
Guinevere heard her door open. Arthur was the only person who ever failed to knock. The time was earlier than usual; he must not have spent much time after supper drinking with his men.
A small gray kitten sat in Guinevere's lap. She put the kitten on the floor.
"My dear, I need to speak with you," her husband said, his voice more formal than usual for his evening visit.
Guinevere rose. "Yes, my lord?" She brushed cat hair off her skirt as if that were the only thing on her mind.
"I regret that we have no child...” He hesitated.
Steeling herself to hear that he wanted her to try again, which she had no intention of doing, Guinevere merely said, "Indeed?"
Arthur gave her a benign smile. "It does worry me that there is no heir. But we could fool people into believing that a child was mine. Gawaine is my closest male kin."
Guinevere shrieked and backed away. "No!" she shouted. She stared at Arthur as if he had just turned into the dragon for which his family was named. She had never imagined that her failing to bear a child would lead to his asking her to lie with another man. One man was bad enough, but two seemed beyond endurance. The thought of lying with Gawaine made her stomach heave. She shuddered.
"My dear, I understand that you are a good and loyal wife." Arthur's voice was soothing. "Of course I don't like the thought of that bedding either. But think of Britain. An orderly succession is the greatest gift I can leave my people. And I believe that your bearing a child by another man would avoid the possibility that my own son would kill me. I have no bastards, so far as I know."
"My lord, I cannot." Her voice shook as she tried to keep rage out of it.
"It's no sin, my dear. St. Paul said a wife has no authority over her body but her husband."
"Surely St. Paul did not mean that adultery was permissible." She knew that St. Paul had also said that a husband had no authority over his body but his wife, but she did not say so because she did not dare anger Arthur.
"Just a few times, my dear. That would probably be sufficient." Giving her the smile that he believed no one could resist, he spoke in a paternal tone. "Many women like Gawaine very well, I believe."
Guinevere crossed her arms over her chest. "My Lord Arthur, if you insist that I lie with any man but you, I shall have to kill myself, or enter a convent if you permit it."
Arthur stared at her, then swept her into his arms. "I had no idea you loved me so much. Never mind, you don't have to lie with any other man. Gawaine told me you wouldn't agree, but I understand that only now."
She had to let Arthur believe she was motivated by great love. Her reward was that he spent the night with her as usual. She felt greater repugnance than ever because he had made such a disgusting suggestion. She lay still as the dead, but he didn't seem to notice.
The next morning she saw Gawaine in the courtyard and gave him such a look of hatred that he turned red, perhaps from embarrassment, and walked away.
She knew from Arthur's words that the idea had been his, not Gawaine's, but she could not show her anger to her husband. Gawaine might well be king one day, if Arthur died childless and she was not allowed to succeed him. But she trusted that despite her obvious dislike, Gawaine would do no worse than send her to a convent, and she knew which convent she would choose.
13 A Strangely-made Warrior
Sea birds shrieked like devils, while waves far greater than any Lancelot had ever seen lapped at the ship that carried her to Britain. She did not want to get out of sight of land. The ship was old and she had no way to know whether it was seaworthy. At least the leather sails looked to be in good shape.
Was it worth this terror to go to Britain? This water was called the Narrow Sea, so surely the journey could not be too long. She stayed with her horse in the hold, patting Arrow down, trying to be calm so he would be reassured. Lancelot's stomach lurched with every motion of the waves. She tried to eat a bit of wheaten bread, but that proved to be a mistake. The salt breath of the sea permeated it and everything else. Salt she smelled, salt she tasted. The sea was no doubt a place like the forest, like the lakes, that existed in a world beyond time. She felt that she should appreciate it, but it was too vast for her.
She wished she could escape from the sounds and smells of the crew and the other passengers, who yelled and cursed when the ship pitched. Better get used to curses now that she was going to live among warriors. Yet surely good King Arthur's warriors would be different, rather like fighting monks?
But warriors are not monks. Was she doing the right thing by dedicating her life to fighting, to killing? She had the gift for fighting. It seemed that she had no others. She intended to kill only in just causes, but would she always know what cause was just? She prayed for guidance, but no revelations came to her.
"Land ho!" the men shouted, but she could not see any land. All she could see was a fog so thick that she could almost believe that she had left the world and was journeying to heaven or hell, not Britain. The pelting rain was real enough, though.
The ship pulled in to a fog-bound shore, and it was all she could do to keep from jumping off before it had landed properly.
After landing at Llongborth in the south, to the west of the Saxon-held territories, she decided to ride north on Arrow, though the ship's captain assured her that the sea came close to her destination on the west, if she would only stay on board for the rest of the journey around the island. But she had had enough of the sea. Her feet embraced the land, and she bade the captain unload her horse, who whinnied when he touched earth. Stopping only to visit a mud-daub church and eat a meat pastry at a tavern, Lancelot set forth for the king's caer, Camelot.
Would Camelot be a place different from any other? She wondered. Would the warriors' voices, full of devotion, be softer than other men's? Would the very birds sing sweeter at King Arthur's command?
Britain seemed to be full of morning fog and later drizzle. Lancelot rode through marshes, where harriers looking for prey sailed low over the reeds. In the evening, they were replaced by short-eared owls on similar missions. She came to forests of oak and beech, which also were damp. It rained every day, although not for l
ong, and it was always moist. She worried that her chain mail would soon rust. Warriors in Britain must continually need new mail.
She rode past fields yellow with buttercups, then through the woods of Britain, trying to learn their ways. New leaves covered the trees in a yellow-green haze. "Look at the leaves, child. You can tell a tree by its leaves," she could remember her mother saying. "Look up to the sky and down at the moss. Don't miss anything. The works of the Lord are meant to be enjoyed." Her mother would have wanted her to feel happy at memories of her, but Lancelot could not feel entirely tranquil. She still saw the poor broken neck and the blood on the pine needles.
She tried singing hymns to keep her mind clear. She believed that her mother's soul had entered the forest when it left her body and stayed there instead of moving to the special crypt her father had built. Of course her mother must be in heaven, but part of her was in the forest, too. Not just in that forest in Lesser Britain, but here in Britain, too, as Creiddlyed had said.
Lancelot passed shrines, stones where people had left cloths tied to nearby bushes to worship some local god. But surely in whatever form, their prayers also went to heaven, she hoped.
Each new sight pleased her — patches of primrose and bluebells, a woodcock flying up suddenly, a darting stoat, or a red fox crossing the path. Thrushes sang from the trees, cheering her. Then the notes of a wren's song filled the forest, and she decided she liked that song even better than the thrush's because it was the last song she had heard with her mother.
The damp earth smelled of new life. She filled her lungs with spring air. On the first morning with only a little drizzle, she saw a doe nursing its fawn and was flooded with tenderness. Did the fawn feel the same sense of safety that she had in her mother's arms? If so, it was no doubt as much an illusion.
She heard whistling, a haunting tune she had not heard before. As she followed a bend in the path, she came upon a red-bearded warrior who was as tall as any man she had ever seen and broad-shouldered as well. He rode a massive gray horse with bronze harness trappings. His shield was enameled, with a hawk depicted on it. The many colors in the man's plaid cloak and the gold torque around his neck showed that he was high-born. It was he who whistled, but he stopped when he saw her.
"God grant you good morning," she said.
"God grant you the same," he replied in a friendly voice. His merry blue eyes showed no hostility. "Want to fight?" He put his hand on the hilt of his sword.
"Whatever for?" Lancelot asked, startled by the incongruity between his tone and his words. "Are you a brigand who accosts all travelers?"
"Of course not," he replied, seeming to scold her. He rubbed his beard. "It's just the thing to do when men meet, to keep us in shape for real dangers. I'm Gawaine ap Lot, a warrior pledged to King Arthur."
Must she test her skill so soon against the most famous warrior in Britain? "I also want to serve King Arthur," Lancelot told him.
"Very good," Gawaine said. "We can drink afterwards. You need not be afraid. I'll hold back my strength so you won't get hurt."
She bristled and reached for her spear. "I am not afraid. Let's joust, then, as friends. No wounds."
"Never fear, no wounds," he replied, grinning and moving his horse into position.
They rode at each other, spears raised. Knowing that she would meet a forceful blow, Lancelot tried to calculate how to strike so as to use his weight against him.
They struck each other's shields with a great impact and both were knocked off their horses.
Shaking herself from the blow, Lancelot jumped up and pulled her sword from its scabbard.
The red-bearded warrior leapt up and drew his sword also, attacking sooner than seemed possible for one who had just fallen. She had never before encountered a man who could rise from a fall as quickly as she could.
She parried the blow, though it was powerful. The passion she generally felt in fighting came back to her. The man who had raped and killed her mother had been large, too. She must win; there was no other choice.
They fought for a long time, neither gaining much advantage over the other. She moved faster, but Gawaine had great strength behind his blows.
"Your sword dances like lightning," he said with apparent admiration.
The earth was wet from the rain, so they sometimes slid in the mud. Though her opponent was large, he moved well and did not trip. No doubt he was used to fighting in mud.
Finally, she saw an opening, and moved her sword past his shield to show that she could have slashed into him, but did not, for she remembered that he was not a murderer after all.
"Good move!" Gawaine cried out with enthusiasm. "You're a fine fighter. I never saw anyone so fast."
"Can we end this foolishness, then?" she asked, with considerably less warmth. The fighting passion ebbed out of her.
"Surely. I'm glad to meet you." He sheathed his sword. "I seldom meet a man who can stand against me. What is your name?"
Also sheathing her sword, she inclined her head. Gawaine of the Matchless Strength was strong indeed, but she had done well against him. She was a fine fighter after all. Her heart beat faster with pride.
But what name should she give for herself? In Lesser Britain, she had called herself ap Gaius, son of her father's brother who had died fighting the Franks for King Ban when she was a child. Should she give the name Lancelot ap Marcus? But even in Britain, someone might know of her family and remember that her father had no son. Her mother had told her to remember that she was "of the Lake," so perhaps she should use a name that honored her mother. "I am Lancelot of the Lake," she said, listening to herself to see how it sounded.
"Glad to know you, Lancelot." He clasped her hand. "And I'm grateful that you didn't wound me. Many men would have, so they could boast that they had wounded Gawaine ap Lot."
"Why are you are you so eager to give them the chance, then?" Lancelot asked, puzzled.
"Why, indeed? Not very worldly, are you?" Gawaine grinned and took a wineskin from his saddlebags. "Let's rest a while and have a drink, Lancelot."
"It is not yet midday," she objected. "Am I close to Camelot? I am eager to go there."
"It's not many miles from here. Have a drink, and we can ride together."
"I have no wish to linger," Lancelot said, wanting to approach the sacred Camelot alone. She mounted her horse. "Godspeed."
Gawaine laughed and replied, "Godspeed. I'll see you this evening, then." He sat on a log and began to drink.
Lancelot rode on, shaking her head at how readily this warrior wasted his time in unnecessary fighting. No doubt she would have to fight many others to prove herself.
She soon went into the bushes to change her tunic and breeches, for the clothes she wore were much splattered with mud from her fight. She did not want to arrive at Camelot in such disarray. She thought the earth did not smell as fine on her clothes as it did in the forest.
Guinevere had had a thousand tasks that morning, a thousand ceremonies to attend to, a thousand sick ladies begging her leave to let them rest, a thousand servants asking questions, a thousand matters from Cai needing her approval. All she wanted was to escape somewhere, scream and sob out the bitterness that was inside her after Arthur's words the night before, suggesting that she lie with Gawaine.
She would not weep in the caer lest someone hear her. Finally, in the afternoon, she was able to put on her riding breeches and slip away to the stables. She took her favorite horse and, despite the surprised look on Cuall the stablemaster's sun-browned face, rode off alone.
"I shall ride alone for a while," she said in a haughty voice, as if it were quite usual for the queen to do so, and of course there was nothing that he could say.
She was married to a man who cared so little about her that he wanted her to lie with another man. She was married to a man who imagined killing his own child.
When she thought she was deep enough in the forest to be away from any passers-by from Camelot, she flung herself on a rock and
began to sob noisily.
After some time, she heard a voice saying, "My lady, why are you distressed? May I help you?" Guinevere looked up, annoyed at being interrupted, and grew even more irritated when she saw a warrior in chain mail. Was there nowhere she could go to escape men for a short time?
Then she saw the concern in the long, angular face. And what a face it was, handsome beyond anything in a bard's tale.
Those soft brown eyes – could it be that this was no man, but a woman? The warrior was taller than any woman she knew, and looked far stronger. Guinevere stared, taking in the glossy black hair, the slender but muscular build, the face that showed no beard or even stubble. The skin was a trifle weather-worn, but smoother than any man's, and this warrior was not young enough to be a boy.
Guinevere rose and took a few steps closer, moving so close that she could smell the warrior. Her heart leapt. Despite a kind of horsey odor, this warrior smelled like a woman – in fact, like a woman having her monthly flow.
There actually was a woman who had learned to fight! She marveled at the muscular arms that contrasted with the woman’s large, gentle brown eyes, with lashes longer than most men's. There was a hint of sorrow in those beautiful eyes.
How had this woman ever managed to live concealed as a man? She must be daring beyond all measure. Could Guinevere ask the woman why she pretended to be a man, and tell her how she admired her bravery? No, the woman would not be pleased that someone had seen through her disguise. She would be alarmed, and might go away.
Guinevere wished she could confide in this woman, tell why she was weeping, about the conversation with her husband.
Guinevere had thought she could never tell anything so terrible to anyone, not even Fencha. But there was so much sympathy in the woman warrior's eyes.
Then it occurred to Guinevere that she must look red-eyed and haggard. "Oh dear, I've never looked so ugly," she exclaimed.
Lancelot reached out a hand to wipe away the lady's tears. She was moved by the warmest expression she had seen on any face since her mother had died.
Lancelot- Her Story Page 15