Arthur entered Guinevere's room and smiled at her. Shafts of moonlight streamed through the bars on her window.
"I have not had the evil dream for months, my dear," he said. "Perhaps we should try again to have a child. It is important for me to have an heir, and I am sure you would delight in having a child of your own."
Guinevere managed a smile. "Whatever you wish," she said, bowing her head. Never, never would she stop taking the potion.
Lying under her husband, Guinevere tried to think about her childhood, racing with Gwynhwyfach, learning to ride a horse, learning to read. She should be grateful to Arthur because her father had hired the tutor for his sake. She tried to imagine that she was a tree. Although she believed Arthur was trying to be gentle, she felt as if someone was hammering nails into her. She tried to think of anything but Lancelot.
Lancelot dragged her feet on the way to the practice field, for there was to be a public execution of thieves and murderers. She had never attended an execution in Lesser Britain, and she did not want to see one now. But how could she avoid it? She feared acting in any way that would make her look different from the other warriors. She might as well attend this execution, because there would be many others she could not avoid.
The sun was hot and flies buzzed around her head. She thought of what the flies might visit later, and her stomach heaved. Lancelot did not even notice that the queen had approached her until Guinevere was close. But Lancelot was too distracted to feel her usual distress at seeing the queen.
Guinevere was more plainly dressed than on most days and wore no jewels. "I have little liking for executions," she said.
"Nor have I, Lady Guinevere." Lancelot sighed. "I know it is just to execute murderers, but I do not see why everyone must watch. Why must the poor wretches pass their last moments on earth before a jeering mob?"
A scaffold with a noose hanging from it stood on the playing field. Surrounding the instrument of death was a crowd, eating meat pies and drinking from flasks. Lancelot winced. "It is true that I have killed several men, but only because they were attacking the helpless. I have no taste for butchery."
The queen nodded. "I appear only for a moment before the hanging. I bow my head to the public, then leave," Guinevere said. "I have told Arthur that it would not be fitting for the people to see the queen get sick. Will you escort me back to my rooms?"
"Willingly, my lady!" Lancelot sighed, this time with relief. She now felt no reluctance to be in the queen's company.
"You may escort me away in like manner whenever there is an execution. No one will think anything of it," Guinevere told her. There was no flirtation in the queen's voice or her face.
"Many thanks, my lady!" Lancelot smiled at her more gladly than she had in many a day. How good it was to be able to admit that she disliked executions and to have an excuse to avoid them.
But she was pleased that the queen said little when Lancelot led her back to her rooms.
"You have my leave to speak or not to speak," Guinevere said.
Lancelot chose the latter.
The king began sending Lancelot, like other warriors who were particularly good fighters, on missions to examine the defenses of the subject kings, try to estimate their loyalty to him, and, if they seemed loyal, to assist in training their men for war in case of a Saxon attack.
Arthur told Lancelot, "It is important to make the king's presence felt throughout the land. That is why my warriors cannot just stay and train at Camelot. You must travel, enforce my peace, and show what great fighters my men are. That is how I show how much I care about my people, and remind the subject kings that they have no chance of overthrowing me."
Guinevere, who was standing beside her husband, said, "And you can learn whether the people are hungry or treated badly by their lords, and report it to the king."
"Of course, my dear," Arthur said, smiling at Guinevere. "The queen always tells my emissaries that. Very thoughtful."
How much in accord the king and queen were, Lancelot thought with a pang.
They must be happy together, even if the queen was a little overly friendly to Lancelot.
Lancelot was glad when the king sent her to distant places or let her ride in the forest if she had no other duties. Truth to tell, she liked the journeys to and fro better than the destinations. In the forest, she was just another creature, being itself, like a badger or a marten. Having no desire to return to Lesser Britain, Lancelot felt that she had no home, other than Camelot or the wilds. She was learning many new kinds of terrain.
In some places, each tree was a forest, its every branch covered with mosses, like the beards of a thousand fairies. Here green ruled, allowing few other colors to share its realm. She was learning to appreciate the frequent rain because it had wrought this lush world.
She found bogs where she had to guide her horse carefully to prevent sinking, although startling orchids drew her to take her chances on foot. At times she was covered with peat when she sank while seeking out a tempting flower. If anyone had seen her then, wearing the bog, they might have thought her some weird creature haunting it. And during the season that the bog was most appealing, with many small flowers blooming, it appealed to many insects as well.
Just as alluring were sharp-cragged hills further north, with eagles flying near their summits, and snow on the higher reaches. Mountains with snow were far more magical than mountains that were bare. She felt they lured the traveler to climb, then struck with sudden storms those who dared. Encountering such a storm could be more difficult than fighting the fiercest warrior, she discovered. When Lancelot had the time, she climbed mountains, longing for the summit as if it were a lover, trying to know each stone of the mountain, each cliff, for she believed that there would be no other love for her. But no matter how far she climbed, she still thought of Guinevere.
Not seldom she came across old stones in strange formations. Were standing stones giants who had frozen, and had flat stones once been altars for terrible sacrifices? She wondered. Had the divine hand shaped them thus to indicate a proper place for worship? Was any church truly as sacred? She mused and questioned, though she knew she was flirting with heresy.
She felt ill at ease when she rode past farmland, because the fields provided no cover, unless you were a hedgehog who could dive into bushes or a fox who could disappear in a hole. She liked better the wildness of the moors, but feared their openness as well, if there were no trees to hide her.
Lancelot was not so fond of traveling to cities. She found the Roman ruins of Londinium dreary, but liked its bustling markets a little better. She managed to avoid being sent to Aquae Sulis, because it would seem too strange to avoid the old public baths there. The hypocausts that heated them now often broke down, but the other warriors praised the pleasures of bathing.
Arthur came to Guinevere's chamber. She cast down her eyes. "My lord, it is my time of the month," she told him.
He sighed. "Perhaps next month. Or perhaps it is not meant to be." He departed, and she resumed reading about Antigone.
Lancelot struck at Gawaine, but his sword blocked hers as usual. "Must you wear that grim look, Lancelot?" he teased, pulling back and attacking with his wooden practice sword. "Is my face so ugly that you can't bear to see it?"
She spun away from him and attacked his left. It was impossible to get into a fighting trance when she fought with Gawaine because he always jested while he practiced. Her sword grazed his arm, but she had meant to get in a better hit than that.
"Ah, if I were a real opponent that would only anger me," Gawaine chided. "Come on, I long for you to defeat me." He moved forward.
Lancelot stepped backward, then lunged at his left again, which he wouldn't expect because she had just done it.
Laughing, he strove for balance.
At the end of the warriors' practice session, Lancelot gladly put down her wooden sword. She mopped the sweat from her brow.
She was not the only warrior who was sweating. Desp
ite an open window, the room was pungent from the men's exertions.
"You weren't quite up to form today, Gryffyd," Gawaine said, turning it into a jest by poking that comely warrior in the ribs.
"If you keep eating so much, you won't be in form either," Gryffyd replied with a responding poke.
"Gawaine is light on his feet for such a big man," Peredur said. "Not to mention the force in his blows. If he was as swift as Lancelot, he'd always best every one of us."
"But he isn't," Bors observed, flourishing his wooden practice sword. "No one moves a sword as fast as Lancelot. He'll win all the prizes again next Pentecost."
"Not so! Gawaine will win, I'm sure of it," Bedwyr countered, wiping his face with a towel. "All he has to do is weaken Lancelot in the jousting. Then Lance won't be as swift in his swordplay."
"No doubt that would be the way to defeat me," Lancelot agreed, for she was becoming used to the endless discussions about who was better than whom and who would win at the next fighting contest.
"Lance's moves are so unexpected," Gawaine said, either in complaint or praise. "I never know what he's going to do next. That's even more important than his speed." He reached for an earthenware jar of water and poured some into a cup.
"You're better at unhorsing other men with the spear, though, even if you aren't quite as good at footwork," Bedwyr said. "I'm betting on you, Gawaine."
"You should not place wagers on us," Lancelot chided. "Gawaine's moves are sometimes surprising, too," she added.
"Indeed," Gawaine said, splashing some water from the jar on Lancelot, and everyone laughed, Lancelot loudest.
"Would you show me how you knocked my sword out of my hand today, Lance?" Gryffyd asked.
"Of course," she replied, toweling her face. "For after all, we'll all be on the same side when we fight against the Saxons. That is more important than contests among ourselves."
She had shown them feints that were new to them, and they had shown her some that were new to her.
Bedwyr, who had also been splashed by the water that had showered Lancelot, grabbed one of Gawaine's arms and began to wrestle. Lancelot stood apart. One of her many eccentricities was that she refused to wrestle and said that it was undignified, Saxonish, and unworthy of the High King's warriors. The others laughed at that. Lancelot knew they believed that she was too accustomed to winning and didn't want to play at wrestling because a slim build made winning unlikely.
Gawaine's brother Agravaine, who was about the same size and looked rather like him but with a less pleasant expression, grumbled, "What's the matter, Lancelot, are you too good to wrestle? Or not good enough? You've bested me with your fancy footwork too often. You can't always avoid wrestling." He lunged at Lancelot and grabbed her.
Lancelot kicked him as hard as she could in the groin and broke away from him when he doubled over.
"You filthy cur!" Agravaine moaned.
Some other warriors laughed, but most retreated into silence.
Gawaine put an arm around his brother. "You're the most courteous warrior in the world with weapons, Lance, but you fight like a tavern brawler without them. What a temper you have! It would be wise to avoid angering you."
Lancelot just stalked away without saying anything. She had been coolly deliberate, not angry. She knew it was necessary to keep any others from trying to force her to wrestle.
Not for the first time, she wondered why men must live by fighting and whether it was worth it to keep proving herself again and again. What did these men have in life but their swords, their spears, and their horses? Though most of them had caers or villas at home, they stayed with Arthur because they feared the country would be weaker if they did not. And they clearly enjoyed each other's company. Or did they just love to fight, more than she did?
After that day, none of the other warriors tried to force her to wrestle. Although Lancelot thought the men discussed fighting too much, she preferred such talk to some of their other conversations, which touched on women.
"So how many women have you had, Gawaine?" a new warrior asked one day as they drank barley beer after sword practice.
"How many trees are there in the forest?" Gawaine replied, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. "How can I possibly know?"
"Hundreds, no doubt," Bedwyr said, in a voice that indicated that there might indeed be room for doubt.
"You insult me," Gawaine reproached him and pretended to reach for his sword to fight over the supposed insult. "Thousands, of course."
"As for me, I like women with large breasts," Bedwyr said, leering.
"Women with big tits are the best lays," Lucius said, downing some beer.
"I have bedded some fine women with small tits," Gawaine objected, pouring himself more beer.
Lancelot wandered off. It was times like these that she felt least like a man and that she least wanted to be seen as one. And she was grateful beyond words that she had not been married to a man. Surely women would not love them if men spoke this way in front of them. She thought her father had been different, and Bors was much like her father.
How men could bear to talk about women in that manner, she wondered. She was sure that she could never discuss Guinevere so. True, they did not speak of their wives' bodies, but if they saw other women that way, they must see their wives through similar eyes. She felt relieved that her breasts were bound and hidden, though the passing years did not make the binding any more comfortable. The men's talk made her want to curl up like a hedgehog, sheltering her tender parts.
She walked to the walled garden near the chapel for a moment. Although its few trees were denuded of leaves until spring and its rosebushes were bare, the garden was the closest she could come to the forest without riding off.
But solitude was not so easy to find. A pretty young lady followed Lancelot into the garden and gazed at her wistfully.
Lancelot bowed to her and hurried off to the stables. It was too often that the unmarried girls pursued her, and the married ones, not seldom, did as well. She wished she could feel as little passion for the queen as she did for the other ladies.
Lancelot also wished that she could speak with them without giving them the idea that she was courting them. It might be good to learn what girls thought when they spoke with other girls, or women when they spoke with other women. Was all of their talk about men? But she could never learn what they were like. That saddened her. She could not know women without living lives like theirs, and that she refused to do.
The rain drizzled on Camelot, bringing with it the scent of early spring. Guinevere peered out of her window and drew a deep breath. She spied Lancelot heading to the stables. Pausing only to grab a shawl, Guinevere walked through her door and descended the staircase. She moved quickly, but still had to preserve her dignity. She nodded to the guards and covered her hair with a shawl. Once in the courtyard, she accelerated her pace, but could not run. A few of Arthur's dogs bounded past her and she did not stop to pat them.
Guinevere avoided the puddles between the cobblestones. She headed to the stables, only to see Lancelot leading her warhorse out, already saddled.
Guinevere looked at Lancelot but did not hail her.
Lancelot did not acknowledge seeing her, but Guinevere was sure that the warrior was aware of her presence. Lancelot was far enough away to escape outright rudeness. She swung onto her horse and urged it out of the stable yard.
Guinevere raised her hand in greeting. Lancelot nodded to her, but rode away.
Guinevere sucked in her breath. She watched Lancelot's horse race down the hill, towards the forest.
Guinevere bit her lip. She had endured such slights many times. Why must she torture herself? Lancelot would never reciprocate her love.
Guinevere proceeded to the stable, where she told the stablehands that she just wanted to visit her horse. She agreed with their assessment that it was too rainy for the queen to ride.
She pressed her cheek to her mare's face and drank in the horsey sme
ll.
Silently, she composed verses about longing, odes that no one would ever sing. She spun words describing Lancelot's hair, her eyes, her stance, her powerful grace. And her matchless courage.
Guinevere lay awake. She wished she could rise and read, but she could not while Arthur slept beside her.
He began to moan in his sleep.
After a time, she touched his arm to wake him.
He woke groaning.
"The dream again. The cursed dream again. The bloody boy. It is as well that you have not conceived. I am cursed with this dream."
"I am so sorry." Guinevere put her hand on his arm. Perhaps he was cursed, she thought, but whether he was or not, she was resolved not to bear him a child.
"We must stop trying to have a child," he said, taking her hand in his. "I regret denying you one."
"I am reconciled to that," she told him.
Lancelot rode through the woods not many miles from Camelot. It was midday, so there was but little birdsong. The day was so warm that she had not worn her chain mail. She thought it was foolish to wear armor when she rarely encountered danger.
But she heard a woman's voice. "No! Let me go!"
Lancelot turned a bend in the road and saw a man of some thirty years holding the reins of a horse carrying a girl of about fourteen or fifteen, who was thin as a beggar but dressed like a lady. "Let go my reins! Father, make him stop." The girl's voice was not strong, but her meaning was unmistakable. Her eyes were fixed on an older man who was turning his horse away from them.
"What's happening here?" Lancelot exclaimed.
"No business of yours." The man holding the reins, who wore a gold chain around his neck, moved away from Lancelot, thus forcing the girl's horse to move also.
Lancelot- Her Story Page 19