Lancelot- Her Story

by Carol Anne Douglas

  Lancelot took a step backward. "Surely she would prefer that her husband rescue her, Lady Guinevere," she said. "I would never do anything that would put a woman at risk of going there."

  She bowed her head to Guinevere and moved to leave.

  "How thoughtful you are," the queen said, with an edge to her voice. "Would you kindly take me riding tomorrow? Bors has caught the ague from one of his children, and there's no one else I can abide."

  "Of course, your highness. It will be very cold."

  She wanted to tell the queen that being alone with her was like a visit to hell, a place of longing and no hope.

  "I have no fear of possible snow," Guinevere said. "Other coldness disturbs me more."

  Lancelot wondered whether her own love sickness was so strong that Guinevere had caught it. Lancelot prayed that she could resist the folly of believing that the queen could love her as she was.

  They rode through the forest. Lancelot was silent, and Guinevere talked almost as little. Wind cut Lancelot's cheeks like a blade. The sight of bare trees did little to cheer her.

  When they came to a dell that was sheltered from the wind, Guinevere stopped her mare, so Lancelot halted also.

  "Must you shy away from me?" Guinevere said. She brought her mare close to Lancelot's and touched Lancelot's hand. "You must know that there are rumors that the Sea Wolves will sail again to attack us next spring. Life is short. I am longing for you, and I believe you feel the same about me."

  Lancelot pulled away her hand. She held back tears.

  "My lady, how could I touch a woman who is wedded to my sworn lord? Please be kind and cease to tempt me."

  "Do you see me only as a temptation? I thought you of all people could understand a woman's heart. Is the king so much more important to you than I am?" Guinevere's stance was dignified, but there was pleading in her tone.

  "Vows are more important than wishes." Lancelot shook her head.

  "I do not just wish for you. I vow that I love you." The queen spoke formally, as if she were standing in front of the court.

  Lancelot almost reeled, but she forced her voice to be unyielding. "My lady, you are already vowed to another."

  "I leave myself open to you, but you keep up your shield. Perhaps your heart is as cold as this wind." Guinevere turned her mare back in the direction of Camelot.

  "Do not follow me unless you wish to comfort me."

  Lancelot covered her face with her hands. She was alone. She would always be alone. Now the woman she loved despised her.

  How much more would Guinevere despise her if she knew that Lancelot was a woman? She clutched the bag around her neck that held Guinevere's pearl.

  Lancelot remembered the words that her nurse had said many years ago. Rathtyen had spoken truly when she told young Antonius that if she pretended to be male, she would always have to sleep alone. Now Lancelot could understand how terrible that knowledge was.

  Guinevere came down with the ague, but she did not care. She was relieved that she could retreat into a daze and sleep alone.

  Part II War with the Saxons

  17 A New Kind of Fighting

  Guinevere's ague had lasted longer than she expected. She slept through more than a week. One morning, she woke to hear many warriors in the courtyard. Horses neighed, men shouted. Arthur stood beside her bed. He wore chain mail, which was most unusual.

  "A great force of Saxons and Jutes has landed and combined with the West Saxons and the South Saxons. We're leaving to fight them, my dear. I hope that you will be well soon." His eyes had a distant look, as if he were half on his way already.

  "This early in the year?" Guinevere felt a cold wind blow through her. Although she had known that a fight with the Saxons was imminent, she had not realized how soon it would be. The season for battles generally started in late spring, but spring had not yet begun. Ships usually did not cross the seas so early.

  "They think they're putting us at a disadvantage by fighting before there's enough grass for our horses, but I have been storing up oats and hay for just such a chance," Arthur said. "We'll travel with wagonloads, and we have more grain and hay stored at places along several routes. Cai will take care of things here while we're gone, and of course I depend on you to help him."

  "When are you going?" Shaking, she rose from the bed. She could hardly keep the distress out of her voice. Arthur and all of the men she knew would risk their lives, and so would Lancelot.

  "Immediately." Arthur pressed her hand. "Don't worry, we are better armed and better fighters than the Saxons, and we will be joined by forces from Dumnonia, Rheged, Dyfed, Gwynedd, and Powys."

  Guinevere realized she would have no chance for a private farewell from Lancelot. She might never be able to speak with Lancelot again. "Oh, Arthur." Her hand clutched his. "There is so little time for parting."

  "Perhaps that's just as well," he said, putting his arm around her.

  "I want to wish Godspeed to all of our brave warriors."

  "They know you wish them well, my dear. But if you feel strong enough, you can come outside and wave."

  "I must ask a favor of you." She tried to make her voice sound less desperate than she felt. "The day I came down with the ague, I spoke to Lancelot harshly. Would you tell him that I regret it, and that he should please disregard what I said?" She hated using a messenger who could so little convey what she wanted, but she felt there was no choice. She could not risk a written message, or send Fencha to Lancelot, who was doubtless milling around with other warriors. She could hear their sounds in the courtyard.

  "You shouldn't worry." He smiled indulgently, as if her request were foolish. "Lancelot is fond of you and has been concerned about your illness. He has asked me about you every day. He surely won't hold whatever you said against you, but of course I'll tell him."

  "Thank you." She reached up to kiss him. She appreciated his lack of suspicion.

  Arthur kissed her, and tears came to her eyes. She wondered when she would see him again. He was often her friend as well as her husband, and she wished that he could be a friend all the time. The thought of his risking his life was terrible. What would Britain do without him? Had she been mad not to bear him an heir, despite his fears and her own?

  When Guinevere was dressed and her hair was braided, she went down to the courtyard, where warriors shouted for men to bring their horses, and ladies clutched their husbands in hasty farewells. Stablehands scurried about and horses whinnied. The serving men carried bundles of food and casks of ale to supply wagons.

  Guinevere saw Lancelot briefly in front of a hundred people and was able to smile only a regal smile. Lancelot bowed to her, but after the bow, the warrior looked up, and her eyes were so filled with longing that Guinevere felt a stabbing pain in her gut. She pressed her lips together in a gesture so small and brief that she thought no one but Lancelot could see it as a kiss.

  Lancelot made a similar gesture. Guinevere's eyes filled, but she refrained from weeping. She wished she could follow and protect Lancelot. But Guinevere knew she had not the skill to fight.

  Arthur mounted his white stallion and yelled to the assembled warriors to be quiet and listen to him. The crowd hushed.

  Standing by her horse, Lancelot watched him as if he were a priest speaking from the pulpit. Never had she so longed to hear his words. She hoped for reassurance, for words that would help her to have courage.

  "You are all that stands between your people and death and slavery. You must no longer be a warband, but an army, the greatest army in our land since the Romans left," the king cried out. "Do not think of yourselves merely as warriors, but as soldiers, the soldiers not just of the High King, but of all Britain! Together, we will save this land!"

  The men roared their approval.

  Lancelot choked on tears. Here was a leader who had the strength and the heart to lead his people to safety. She would follow him until the end of her days, whether that came soon or late.

  The troops mounted
their horses and rode out of the gates. Men blew the horns that would sound the call to battle. Lancelot wondered when – indeed, whether – she would return. She could not look back at the caer that had become her home. She had been accepted as one of the king's companions. Men, and women, praised her deeds. And Guinevere was there, even if untouchable.

  Lancelot rode her black horse near the king's white one, at the head of the troops. Never having ridden with such a great number of men before, she felt like one drop in a great river.

  They had gone only a short distance when Arthur turned to her and said, "By the way, Lance, Guinevere told me that she was testy when she was coming down with the ague, and she wanted you to know that she regrets it."

  Lancelot had to hold back to keep from weeping. She felt an unbearable mixture of relief that Guinevere was no longer angry at her and shame at receiving the message from Arthur. She thought that she had committed adultery in her heart, if not in the flesh.

  She made her voice as formal as possible. "The queen should not feel that she must apologize to me. She was feeling ill. Thank you, my Lord Arthur."

  "I knew you wouldn't mind, Lance, so that's what I told her." He smiled.

  As they rode through forests and across fields to meet the Saxons, Lancelot's mind was full of Guinevere. Perhaps it was no great sin to dream of Guinevere if Lancelot might never see her again. She thought of Guinevere's shining black braids, her smooth hands, the way those blue eyes flashed just before the queen said something particularly clever. She wished she had kissed Guinevere, just once. She might have missed her last chance. It would be sad to die without ever having kissed the one she loved.

  Pulling her crimson cloak around her, Lancelot rode through the cold rain. Looking to make sure that none of the army's carts were stuck in the mud, she saw that some carried fairly poor-looking young women. She rode up to speak with Gawaine.

  "Why are women in carts following us? Are their husbands foot soldiers? Isn't it dangerous for them to follow an army? Shouldn't Arthur send them home?"

  Rain dripped from Gawaine's red beard. He stared at her. "Great Dagdha's cauldron, don't you know? They're camp followers, what else? A few may be attached to particular men, but most aren't. Even you must have heard of them. They'll cook, and nurse the wounded, and minister to the men in other ways."

  Lancelot felt the blood drain out of her face. "I had heard the term, of course, but I hadn't realized... They really do follow the troops? Even a good king like Arthur lets such things go on?"

  "Of course." Gawaine rolled his eyes. "The men are risking their lives, so why not? They'd bother the local women more if the camp followers didn't come."

  Lancelot did not brush the rain out of her face. Her voice was not so pleasant, but neither was the subject. "If they don't have some women to use, they'll use others? What a way to live!"

  "Can't you be human for a change?" Gawaine's voice showed more irritation. "Maybe you should visit them yourself. You've been looking a little pale. You need a woman."

  "Do you think women exist only for men to use?" Lancelot retorted, clenching her fists. "How can men need the body of someone they don't even know? Why can't they wait until they are with a woman they are fond of, and who is fond of them?"

  Gawaine gave Lancelot a disgusted look. "No doubt that's pleasanter, but why must a man wait for that, especially if he might die fighting?"

  "He will die more at peace with himself if he has just used someone?"

  "No one forces the whores to follow us!" Gawaine shouted.

  "Then why do they?" She realized that she had no idea of the answer.

  "Because they'll have no way to support themselves, now that the men have left their towns." His tone showed that he thought Lancelot a complete simpleton.

  "Is that what you'd do, if you needed money?" She glared at him.

  "No doubt, if I were a poor woman," he said, shrugging. "But I'm not one."

  "As you still believe in the old gods, and in many lives, I hope you'll be born so in your next life," Lancelot snapped. "May all of the men who so console themselves at their deaths be so reborn."

  "May you long for a woman and find not one who will satisfy you," Gawaine retorted, pulling his plaid cloak tighter around him.

  She turned her horse away, for this curse seemed too close to the truth. What woman would ever want her? None, if they knew she was a woman, and certainly not the one she wanted. She rode on cheerlessly through the mud.

  The next morning, when they were camped in a field, Lancelot forced herself to walk over to the camp followers' wagons. She did so early in the day, when not many men were likely to be about their tents. Her boots sloshed through the mud and were covered with it.

  "It's Lancelot! At last!" a pretty redhead in a mud-splattered dress called out. "Come to me, handsome one." She held out her arms in invitation.

  "No, to me! I'm much nicer," cried a dark-haired girl, wiggling her hips.

  "Ladies, I have not come for that," Lancelot said quickly, feeling herself blushing. "I only wondered how you were faring, and whether any of you wanted to leave this place."

  "With you, anywhere!" jested the redhead, jumping up as if to leave.

  "No, I mean do any of you want to be rescued?" Lancelot asked.

  An older-looking woman – perhaps about thirty – with greasy brown hair looked wearily at Lancelot. "Rescued to where? Where do you think we can go and find a living? If there were anyplace else, we wouldn't be here."

  "Speak for yourself," said the redhead. "I did the same work at Camelot, so why not do it here? It's where the men are."

  "Who are you to try to make us feel ashamed?" asked the dark-haired girl, her glance no longer inviting but hostile.

  "I beg your pardon, I didn't mean to do that," Lancelot replied in a humble voice.

  "Go off, then, if you're too good for us," the girl told Lancelot.

  Lancelot bowed and went off, nearly slipping in the mud. It was only after she had left that she realized she hadn't asked them their names.

  That evening, as she passed the king's tent, she heard Arthur jesting with Peredur, as he didn't with Lancelot, "Why not visit the camp followers? Your wife will never know. Wives are sensible about such things. Guinevere never even mentions them."

  "She might not, but my wife does," Peredur said. "Claudia found out that I strayed during your war of succession, and I had to face a cold shoulder for nearly a year. I'm not chancing that again for some camp follower."

  Arthur chuckled. "True, the camp followers aren't all beauties, but what does it matter? Women are pretty much the same in the dark."

  Lancelot gasped. Of course, Arthur couldn't mean to include Guinevere in that remark.

  Peredur left the tent, and Lancelot pulled back, not wanting anyone to see that she had overheard.

  Gawaine's loud voice was impossible to miss. "Now you've scandalized Peredur. So, do you mean that Morgan was just like the others?"

  Arthur groaned. "Of course not. There's no one else like her. Don't remind me."

  "You were a fool to send away the only woman you ever loved," Gawaine chided him.

  "Silence! Even you can't talk to me that way!" Arthur yelled.

  Lancelot staggered away. The only woman he ever loved? Did Arthur care more about his sister than about Guinevere? No, that couldn't be true.

  One day soon after, when Lancelot rode next to Dinadan, a handsome dark-haired warrior whose eyes and wit both were known to sparkle, he said, "We're approaching the main Saxon forces. The poor camp followers will have more work than they can handle tonight. The men keep them busy when a battle is nigh."

  "Don't you go to them?" Lancelot asked. "I didn't know that you were so chaste. I thought that Bors, Peredur, and Peredur's brother Aglovale were the only others who didn't go."

  Dinadan laughed and folded his hands as if in prayer. "I am offended that you didn't see my shining virtue. I am deeply devoted to St. Caius and spend many long hours in such devoti
ons."

  Lancelot started to say that she had not heard much about that saint, then realized what he meant and smiled. "I never guessed. You are a much better fighter than Cai."

  Dinadan frowned at that comment about Cai's fighting skills. "It's well that one of us is. Although Arthur is good to us, many are not."

  "I know. That is very wrong," said Lancelot, patting his arm in sympathy.

  Strangely, Dinadan looked as if he were making an effort not to laugh. Rooks in the trees were calling, and Lancelot wondered whether they were doing his laughing for him.

  Such men were often very pleasant, Lancelot thought. She found that she missed Catwal, whom she hadn't brought to war for fear that he might not see a Saxon stealing up on him.

  She rode off to find a chance to relieve herself, safe from any eye. Constipation did not improve her humor. Finding a private place had been a problem before, but now that she was traveling with the army it was greatly magnified.

  When they saw the Saxons from a distance, Lancelot winced at attacking men who were on foot, while she was on horseback.

  Then the Saxons ran at them, shrieking battle cries, sticking close together, shield to shield. It was impossible not to feel fear, though she was on a horse and they were not, and only a few of the Saxon chiefs had chain mail, while most of their fighting men wore only leather and their helmets.

  With the other warriors, she charged them. The horses' ears flattened against their heads, their nostrils flared, their tails streamed behind them. She slashed all around her with spear and sword, as if these Saxons were not men but a host of stinging insects with small throwing axes buzzing past her head.

  There was no moment to pause after a death – the killing was endless. The stink of death was everywhere. The clatter of battle deafened her.

  Lancelot could see the men nearest her, but otherwise she had no idea how the battle was progressing. If hell was a confused mass of men trying to slaughter each other, this was hell. She had no idea who was winning.