"You are beautiful beyond belief," she told the lady. She touched the damp cheek and found it the softest she had ever felt. "Why are you so sad?"
Lancelot withdrew her hand, and the lady's right hand enfolded it.
"I'm not sad anymore."
The dark-haired lady looked at her in a way that encompassed her whole being. Her hand made Lancelot's feel warm — and the rest of her felt warm also. Her heart raced. Somehow this lady was different from any other.
For a while, they simply looked at each other.
"Who are you?" the lady asked.
"I am Lancelot of the Lake, from Lesser Britain. I have come to fight for King Arthur because I have heard that he is the best and most just king there is. And what is your name, my lady?"
The lady dropped Lancelot's hand. "You will see me every day at Camelot. I am sure the High King will accept you into his service."
Lancelot's heart raced even faster at the thought that the lady lived at Camelot. "Let me ride there with you, my lady. It's not safe for you to ride alone."
The lady raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips.
"I know you did not mean to be discourteous, but that is not a pleasant thing to say to a lady. Please never say that to me again."
Lancelot nearly stumbled over a log. "Pardon me, my lady. I am rough and ill-mannered. I meant no discourtesy. I shall never say such a thing again." The lady smiled the most wonderful smile that Lancelot had ever beheld.
Neither of them spoke. Finally, Lancelot shook herself like one awakening from a dream and pulled back. The lady would think she was rude for standing so close.
"I suppose we must go to Camelot." The lady sighed.
Lancelot helped the lady onto her horse. The touch of her hand was enough to make Lancelot's face hot. She realized that she must be blushing. As they started off, Lancelot said, "Pardon me, my lady, but I still do not know your name."
"I like to hear you call me your lady. That suits me very well." The lady smiled again. "I am the lady from Powys."
Lancelot was full of joy at the marvel that she would see this lady every day, and perhaps talk with her. She might even touch her hand again.
"It seems that you are fond of the forest. Tell me what you like about it," the lady requested. She looked much in command of her horse, more so than any woman Lancelot had seen except herself. Perhaps the riding breeches the lady wore made that easier than a skirt would.
Lancelot was glad she had changed out of her mud-splattered clothes and wore her best breeches and a crimson tunic under her chain mail.
"The forest is the grandest place in the world, my lady," Lancelot began. "Moss is finer than marble, and flowers are far lovelier than jewels. At every turn, there is something unexpected. When you wake in the morning, you never know what you will see, whether it might be a red deer, or, if you are lucky, a fox or a badger."
She went on in this way, and forgot her shyness. Too soon they came out of the forest and approached the caer on a hill, but the lady asked her to tell about other hills that she had seen, and so she did. They rode to the outer wall of the town and the guards let them enter without asking who they were. To Lancelot's surprise, the guards saluted and many townspeople bowed. The town smelled rank from the ditches that ran through it, and Lancelot shuddered at the thought of living with that smell. Then they went through the second wall, to what must be the king's own dwelling place. A great number of warriors and serving men crowded up to them in the courtyard, and the men jostled each other to get to the lady's horse and help her.
The crowd drew back as a tall man with red-gold hair, one of the handsomest men Lancelot had ever seen, approached the lady's horse. He was perhaps not as tall as Gawaine, but he walked as if he were the only person in the courtyard. Around his neck was a golden torque that was finer than Gawaine's, and his tunic was embroidered with designs in gold. The nobly dressed man offered his hand to the lady, and she took it.
"Here is a new warrior who wants to serve you. He kindly escorted me through the forest. Thank you, Lancelot," the lady said, turning her head briefly towards Lancelot.
"Did you ride off alone, my dear? You know you shouldn't. It isn't safe for a queen to ride alone."
King Arthur pressed the lady close and kissed her cheek.
The king and queen were a very attractive couple.
Lancelot felt her stomach muscles clenching. Her heart was a lump of clay. She felt unable to speak. She almost wanted to turn away and leave Camelot forever.
The king looked up at her. "That was a good start, protecting the queen." Then Gawaine strode up beside the king and bowed his head briefly to the queen.
"You'd better accept Lancelot before one of the lesser kings does, Arthur," he said in a loud voice. "He's a formidable fighter. He bested me in a match earlier today."
"Did he indeed?" The king smiled at Lancelot. "I hope you will join us at the fighting contest tomorrow, and we'll see how you do then. But of course you must dine with us tonight first, and my seneschal, Cai, will find you a place to stay."
Queen Guinevere touched her husband's arm. "What about the house that Casnar left when he went back to Dyfed to take over his father's property? No one lives there now, and surely a fine warrior like this Lancelot should have a place of his own."
"A good idea." Arthur nodded. "We have a few small houses. Not all the men have them. But if you do well enough at the contest, perhaps the others won't object to your getting a house."
"Thank you, my lord," Lancelot managed to say. She remembered she should bow deeply, and inclined her head as far as she could. But Lancelot was reeling as if a great spear had hit her shield. She got down from her horse and surrendered Arrow to a stablehand because there was nothing else that she could do. She now noticed that Queen Guinevere wore a ring of twisted strands of gold. She looked away from the queen, but felt vaguely betrayed, or at least much aggrieved, though she was not sure why. She resolved never to look into the queen's beautiful blue eyes again, and certainly not to touch her.
Guinevere saw the misery in Lancelot's eyes and tried to give her a reassuring smile. But it was too late. The woman warrior averted her gaze, and Guinevere regretted withholding the truth about her identity. She went off to change her clothes.
14 A Warrior among Warriors
"Come to my great hall," the king said, gesturing towards the largest building, a round stone structure. Overwhelmed at being invited by a king, Lancelot followed Arthur and Gawaine.
When she entered the stone building, she saw that warriors were standing about, chatting or lounging against the walls. Gawaine went to speak with another red-headed man.
There were hundreds of men, and the hall was far larger than Lancelot had imagined a room could be. Perhaps as many as fifty torches blazed from the walls. She felt like a wild animal that had wandered into the hall by mistake and did not know how to find its way out.
"So many warriors!" she exclaimed.
"Most are mine, but some of the lesser kings have brought their men to show their skill in tomorrow's fighting contest," Arthur said.
A gray-bearded man wearing white robes that showed the marks of time approached them.
"Here is Lord Merlin, the sage, who has advised me all my life," Arthur said, touching the old man's arm. "This is Lancelot, who wants to become one of our warriors. Gawaine says he is a fine fighter."
Merlin peered at Lancelot and nodded. "You will do great things. But still, I wish you had never come." He looked at Lancelot sorrowfully, as if he could see into her soul and discover sins that were unknown even to her. She shivered.
Arthur spoke in a mock scolding tone. "Well, Merlin. That is a poor welcome."
"Lancelot is to be pitied. And so are you, Arthur," Merlin said, with tears forming in his eyes. He then hurried off, not waiting for the meal.
Lancelot was so unnerved that she had to restrain herself from shaking. Her jaws were clenched tight and her hand gripped the hilt of her sword, but she
relaxed it. How much did this Lord Merlin see?
Arthur frowned. "Let us hope that Merlin does not see that you will be wounded in battle. I can't believe that even Merlin can see the whole future. Don't let him disturb you."
The king bade her admire his great table, which had spokes like a wheel. "I have a round table to lessen the jostling for position," Arthur said proudly. "At a round table, all are equal."
Lancelot had heard of the table and was a bit disappointed to see that it was a series of trestles placed like spokes, rather than the single huge table she had imagined.
Lancelot stood quietly by a wall and watched the gathering. She noticed that many of the other warriors wore jeweled rings and gold, silver, or bronze armrings. She had never wanted jewels, but now she wondered whether she looked odd, being so plain at court. Her crimson tunic, at least, was a good quality and color.
Warriors and ladies began to seat themselves at the table, and Lancelot could see that the ladies, who were far fewer in number than the men, sat at the spokes more remote from the king, except the queen, who entered the hall and sat in a dragon-carved chair beside his.
Though the table was round, Lancelot saw that everyone watched who was close to the king. They must believe the seats near to him the best.
"Guinevere at times sits next to me rather than with the ladies. That way, I can hear everything she says," Arthur jested. "Sometimes I call the warriors here, and speak to them as if they were a council, and then of course no women are present."
After Guinevere had entered, it was difficult for Lancelot to notice anyone else. But turning her gaze from the queen, Lancelot wondered where she should sit. Of course everyone besides the king and queen sat on benches, as in any other caer.
"Come sit by me, Lancelot," said Gawaine.
Surprised, she moved to sit beside the tall warrior, who sat close to the king. Only the visiting lesser kings sat closer.
"I should warn you that some of the men play foolish pranks on those who are new to our company," Gawaine said in a low tone.
Lancelot's body went rigid. Some of those pranks might be ones that would reveal her sex. "Tell them that anyone who tries to play tricks on me will greatly regret it," she said in her harshest voice.
Gawaine nodded. "I thought as much. I'll tell them."
How fierce would she have to be — or seem to be? Lancelot wondered.
She felt that someone was observing her, and looked up to discover that it was the queen. Guinevere was wearing a blue
gown that matched the blue of her eyes. Ropes of pearls were threaded through her shining black braids, and a magnificent golden torque around her neck proclaimed her high station.
Guinevere's glance met hers, but Lancelot turned away.
Lancelot felt great embarrassment at having been so moved by a woman who had seemed to have a particular interest in her, but who was married – and married to such a great king.
The crowd at the contest field was greater than any Lancelot had ever seen. Never had she been near so many men in chain mail. Nor had she seen a contest with so many onlookers eating, drinking, cheering, and staring at the fighters. She had never had to fight in front of so many people. Nor had she seen so many horses in one place. How many of them were as fast as Arrow, or faster? She wished she had time to watch each of the horses, instead of the men who were riding them.
But her gaze was drawn to the royal stand, where the dragon banner, larger than all the other colorful pennants with various lords' insignias, floated in the air — and where the queen sat.
As Lancelot walked out on the field, the king called her over.
"Do well and I will swear you in as one of my warriors," Arthur told her. He wore a fine white tunic embroidered with golden dragons and a cloak of badger pelts, but his eyes were bright as a boy's, apparently with anticipation of the contests.
Then the king turned to speak with Merlin.
Guinevere looked at Lancelot as if she were the only warrior in the field, but Lancelot could barely meet her glance.
"All of my strength, such as it is, shall go with you, now and whenever you fight, Lancelot." Guinevere's voice was solemn. "Let me be like a rock to hold your feet, let me be a wind to speed your arm, let me be lightning to strengthen your blows to your opponents."
Lancelot was overwhelmed at these noble words, but perhaps ladies often said such things at fighting contests. The only response Lancelot could think of was "Thank you, Lady Guinevere." She vowed that even if she never again spoke alone with the queen, she would gain her admiration by fighting well.
It seemed that none of the men saw that Lancelot was a woman. True, no man in Lesser Britain had known, but she had wondered whether the great men at Camelot would be sharper-eyed. It was fortunate that she had defeated Gawaine the first time they met — everyone who met her spoke of it. But she had better keep on winning, so the men wouldn't look at her too closely.
Her muscles tensed at the sight of all those loud, sweating warriors, many of whom, unlike herself, had fought in wars. But she drew into herself and made herself calm. She had trained all her life to face such men, and much worse.
Several warriors — men named Bedwyr, Gryffyd, and Sangremore — challenged Lancelot. They all proved to be good at fighting, but she was swifter than any of them. Her spear met their shields before theirs could touch hers. Her sword cut the air before they had drawn theirs. She fought courteously, not battering them or causing any unnecessary injuries, but she defeated each in turn.
When Lancelot came up to the royal stand after her victory in the jousts, Guinevere smiled and said, "You have done well."
Lancelot replied only, "Thank you, Lady Guinevere."
"I shall be proud if you take the oath to be one of my warriors," the king said, beaming at Lancelot.
Lancelot bowed to him. "Thank you, Lord Arthur. I appreciate the honor, and I will serve you all of my life."
That evening when the warriors and the guests gathered for supper, Lancelot longed to speak with the queen, but avoided her. When Lancelot was leaving the hall, Guinevere walked over to join her. "Did you enjoy the contest, Lord Lancelot?"
Lancelot shook her head. "Not very much, Lady Guinevere. It was strange fighting with men I must live among."
"I hope you will like it here and not miss Lesser Britain." The queen’s voice was friendly, but Lancelot warned herself not to make too much of that. Of course, Guinevere was gracious to everyone at court.
"I am grateful that the king will allow me to stay at Camelot, Lady Guinevere. I have pledged him my service until the skies fall and water swallows up the earth." Lancelot looked down at her boots like a shy child, and the queen nodded, giving her leave to move away.
Guinevere watched Lancelot's departing back until the warrior was gone. Lancelot's walk was just slightly different from a man's, not enough so that anyone who believed she was a man would notice.
Lancelot's cheeks did not really look like a man's cheeks, but fortunately no one else appeared to see that. No doubt it was unthinkable that a woman could defeat three of Arthur's warriors, one after another — much less that she had defeated Gawaine.
The men literally would not be able to think it, and Guinevere prayed that they never would.
That night the duty of lying with her husband seemed much more hateful to her. She could not keep herself from imagining what it might be like with Lancelot.
Guinevere was certain now, beyond any doubts that she might have entertained before, that she would never bear Arthur's child, even if Arthur decided he wanted one. She could not endure the thought of Lancelot seeing her with child and knowing that it was Arthur's. Guinevere longed for the woman warrior to love her. That must be her destiny. She could have only one love, and she knew whom she would choose. A child would drive her even farther from Lancelot than she already was.
If Lancelot never came to love Guinevere, then at least she would have someone to cherish in her heart, someone for whom she would
do what little she could do to help.
Sleep eluded Lancelot as she lay on the straw-filled mattress on the bed in her new stone house, which had just one room. She was shaken at having had to fight so many men — and when there was no cause for it, too! Her muscles ached from the contests, but she was used to that.
Try as she might, she could not keep Guinevere's face out of her mind. Every word that Guinevere said, no matter how inconsequential, ran through her head again and again. She remembered the thrill of touching Guinevere's hand, and longed to touch it again. She wondered what it would be like to kiss her soft cheeks. The queen had been close enough so Lancelot could catch her scent, which was like an orchard. Not like perfume, but like fresh apples.
Lancelot tried praying to banish these thoughts, but the prayers had little effect. How could it be that she felt this way about a woman? Did pretending to be a man give her the feelings of one? Should she go off to a convent? She shuddered at the thought of being shut within walls. No, surely her skill at fighting was God-given – being a warrior was her mission.
She had never wanted to have a man's body, just to be slim enough to pass for one. Now she thought it might be a good thing indeed to be a man, for it meant that one could kiss women, and not just in a sisterly way. As a pretended man, she could not even kiss women in that manner. But even if she were a man, she could not kiss a married woman, much less one wedded to her king.
She remembered Guinevere's sobs in the forest. What might a queen have to weep about? Perhaps she had lost a family member not long ago?
Lancelot knew of course that coveting a man's wife was a sin, but was it a sin that she could confess? She had already decided that she would not tell any new priests who shrove her that she was a woman.
She went to the leading priest at Camelot, Father Donatus, who was plump and balding but looked to be no more than thirty. His voice was gentle, but Lancelot put a sort of chain mail on her soul. She confessed only to having impure thoughts, vague enough words to cover a great many sins.
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