Lancelot- Her Story

by Carol Anne Douglas

  "Poor Gawaine," she said. "He has twice the listening, because no one would take his troubles to Agravaine."

  "You could help him," Aglovale noted, but she shook her head.

  "Could but won't. He makes a good mother." And they laughed.

  Lancelot learned that being a leader of soldiers was indeed like being a mother – a mother who led her young to death and saw them wrenched, limb from limb, every day.

  She could not save many. Even if she saved one young soldier's life, she turned to find another butchered not far from her.

  As for herself, she woke every day wondering if it would be her last. She had aches and pains, callouses and blisters, it seemed by the hundreds, and her body felt sometimes like one giant bruise, but she had no wounds. Although she risked her life as much as anyone, and more, she had a terror of wounds that might require a physician to see her body. She fought the harder therefore. She must strike at the Saxons before they could strike her. It might be better to die than to be wounded and have her sex discovered. And it would be far better to die than be captured by the Saxons.

  In the evening after a battle, when they had looked after all the men in their regiment, Aglovale sank down by the fire that an orderly had made in front of Lancelot's tent.

  "I hope my sons never fight in such battles. My oldest, Percy, already has his head full of stories about warriors. He believes that fighting is glorious. May he never learn the truth." He groaned and splashed water on his face from a tin basin that the orderly had placed there. The water streaked through the dirt on his cheeks.

  Lancelot splashed some on her face also, no doubt producing similar streaks, then rubbed a towel over them.

  "Perhaps he'll never have to see it for himself, if you tell him."

  Aglovale shook his head. "He doesn't listen to me, just to his own strange fancies. When Peredur and some other warriors came riding up to tell me that we must go to fight the Saxons, Percy insisted they were angels. He pretended not to recognize his own uncle, whom he's named after. His name, Percival, is a combination of my brother's and mine.

  "My other son, Illtud, is clever, but he is of this world, not odd like Percy."

  "Why shouldn't Percy dream?" Lancelot smiled. "Don't worry about it."

  Aglovale poured himself some ale, and offered some to Lancelot, who accepted it. "But he's always getting into trouble, going off further than he should on his horse, and pretending that the horse sprouted wings and he couldn't stop it.

  "When the war's over, why don't you come and visit us? My sons would be wild with excitement and my wife, Olwen, is always glad for company."

  "Thank you, perhaps I shall."

  Children she had thought of not at all, but perhaps it might be interesting to visit Aglovale's family. Putting more sticks on the fire, she felt as if she were hearing tales of some strange land.

  What must it be like to have someone at home who thought of you and longed for you to return? Lancelot wondered. Did Guinevere think of her? But even if Guinevere did, and even if Lancelot returned, Guinevere was someone else's. Still, it would be wonderful, even though painful, to see Guinevere's face again and hear her voice.

  As Guinevere walked across the courtyard one morning, she heard a commotion at the gates. Cai, who had been talking with some guards, saw her and beckoned her. She hurried to him, and he to her.

  "People who fear the Saxons are seeking shelter here," Cai told her. "A few are nobles and merchants, but many are farmers."

  "We must give them shelter," Guinevere said, imagining what it would be like to flee.

  Cai sighed. "To some, but we cannot take in the whole kingdom. Those nobles who can must protect their own homes and their own people. And Britain cannot hold out if all the merchants, smiths, and farmers cease their work. We must talk with these people to learn whether they have been driven from their homes, and whether they can stay near Camelot rather than within our walls."

  Guinevere also sighed. "That is true, but we must err on the side of generosity. How can farmers tend their fields or shepherds herd their flocks if they live in terror? How can merchants go from town to town if the Saxons might attack them?"

  She went with him to speak with the people, and ordered that the great hall be opened to those who needed to stay there.

  The fear on their faces unnerved her more than had the sight of the soldiers riding out. Women in finely tinted wool and those in undyed homespun clutched their children. Though the wind chilled Camelot, merchants' faces dripped sweat as if they had labored in the sun.

  "Your highness, pray shelter my family!" cried more than one man who wore a well-made robe and rode a good horse.

  "And my children, too! We can't go home," exclaimed a woman whose face and hands were wrinkled from labor.

  Guinevere smiled at frightened children and promised them sweets. She assured merchants who needed to travel that their wives could remain at Camelot. Together with Cai, she also decided that some of those who could not return home could stay for a time in the houses of men who did not have wives, such as Lancelot and Gawaine.

  "Why don't you speak with Lancelot's serving man while I arrange matters with Gawaine's?" Cai said.

  Guinevere marveled at his cleverness in guessing that she would want to see Lancelot's house, and his discreet manner of giving her the opportunity.

  She went to the house and spoke with Catwal, who assured her that he would have no difficulty in learning to assist people who needed shelter. The plainness of Lancelot's furnishings touched Guinevere's heart.

  When Lancelot woke bleeding, she cursed her lot. How could she find ways to hide her rags when camping with an army? She decided to bury them in the ground under her tent.

  That evening, Lancelot joined the warriors gathered by the king's tent, where harpers played. She hoped to be carried away by the music to some different land. Though the songs often told of war, they clothed it in beauty, hiding the stench of death that enveloped the warriors. Would the harpers soon be singing of her death in battle?

  Some of the warriors played the harp themselves, and those from the North played pipes. Faces glowed in the campfire as Dinadan took up a harp and sang about the warriors of their own company.

  There was a familiar tune telling of Lancelot's noble deeds, of fair ladies without number saved, then turning their beseeching eyes on the handsome warrior, who smiled at them but rode away. The song hinted that someday there would be a lady from whom Lancelot would not turn away.

  She held back a sigh. If only that were true.

  Then Dinadan sang of the ancient Irish hero Cuchulain, but he changed some words to say that Cuchulain had been reborn among them, as Gawaine, for who else fought so many battles and embraced so many women? Arthur and the other men, not least Gawaine, laughed at this comparison.

  "Not so," Gawaine said, drinking his barley beer. "For if I had been Cuchulain, I'd not have fought Queen Maeve but would have found a better way to win her over."

  Bedwyr wrinkled his face and spat. "Even you might not want some sword-wielding bitch. Besides, she was bleeding at the time of the great battle. All men know that's why she was defeated."

  Gawaine chuckled. "What's the matter with bleeding women? We're all covered with gore in battle anyway. Almost any man here would be glad to have a woman, bleeding or not. Sometimes they're hotter then."

  Bors gasped. "You wouldn't really lie with a bleeding woman, would you, Gawaine? Who knows what terrible things could happen? Some say that if a bleeding woman conceives, the baby will have leprosy."

  "Or that it will have red hair," Gawaine retorted, touching his red-bearded chin.

  "What a terrible thing to say about your mother!" Bors exclaimed.

  "That she lay with my father? I always thought she had." Gawaine swilled more beer.

  "Even the great Pliny said that women's blood is like a poison, and wine will turn sour if a bleeding woman pours it," said Lucius, showing off his knowledge as usual.

  "
That's a good excuse for having bad wine." Gawaine chortled. "According to the legends, all of those old Irish heroes were taught to fight by the woman warrior Scathach. I wouldn't mind having one of those women warriors around right now. The tales say that they have voracious appetites for men."

  "You shouldn't believe everything you hear," Lancelot observed, trying to keep her irritation out of her voice. None of her companions looked even faintly appealing.

  "I have a treat for all of you – good wine," Arthur said. Though he sat on the ground with only a rug to rest on, he bore himself as if he were on a throne. "Who will pour it?"

  "I shall," Lancelot said graciously. She poured the wine and asked how everyone liked it. They all said it was very good.

  The troops were camped by a river, and the commanders had allowed the men to bathe. Lancelot volunteered for guard duty, but she could hear the shouts and splashes in the background. How she wished she could swim! Her body felt so grime-covered that it seemed like someone else's.

  Living in an army camp, she was now as used to seeing naked men as naked dogs or horses, and it mattered just as little to her. That is, seeing men she scarcely knew mattered little. Seeing her friends' bodies still embarrassed her, but it would look too odd if she obviously averted her gaze.

  Why must it make so much difference who was male and who was female? She didn’t understand why people had to be obsessed with thoughts about mating. Why couldn't they all just swim together?

  The men sounded innocent as they splashed and dunked each other. It was strange that these were the same men who went to camp followers, much less the same who slew many in battle. Why must people lose their innocence? Lancelot wondered.

  Guinevere comforted the young girls because there would be no gathering of hawthorne blossoms this spring. "You can make flowers out of scraps of cloth too small to use for the soldiers," she told the few who sniffled.

  No one could leave Camelot for playful reasons. Guinevere longed to ride in the forest, but it was not safe, not even with a guard, and she could not take men away from guarding Camelot. She was confined to riding Shining Star around the pasture, and letting one of the men ride the mare further for exercise.

  The great hall looked so strange, filled with people who had fled to Camelot. As she walked among them, she wondered whether it would ever be full of Arthur's men again. The sight of the unoccupied throne unnerved her. She could picture Lancelot walking across the courtyard, riding off from the stable, sitting at the table. Whenever someone mentioned Lancelot, the name sounded like music to Guinevere.

  One evening when they were sitting by Lancelot's campfire, Gawaine pointed out fires on nearby hills. "See those?"

  Lancelot jumped up and peered out anxiously. "Are we so close to the enemy's camp? I had not thought so. Does Arthur know?"

  Gawaine hooted. "That's no enemy. Those are Beltane fires in the nearby villages."

  Lancelot relaxed and sank back to the ground, but she wrinkled her nose with disdain. "I suppose it's that time of year. I hadn't thought of it. No doubt people still will keep their pagan customs for some years."

  "Why don't you go?" Gawaine suggested, gesturing to the nearest hill where a fire burned.

  "I certainly will not!" She spat out the words. Surely even if she were a man, she would never go where pagans threw themselves on each other on the ground.

  "Why not? I mean it, Lance. A fine night like this in the midst of the war is a gift from the gods. If you're shy of women, what could be better? It's pleasanter than going to camp followers. All of the women will be there because they want some fun." He warmed his hands at the fire.

  "Will they?" she asked suspiciously. What Gawaine thought was fun the women might not.

  "Of course, it's a great time for women. Such celebrations are the only time that a woman can lie with a man other than her husband, and he has no right to protest." He shook with laughter.

  "How could there be days when a sin is no sin? Adultery is always wrong," Lancelot insisted. Even if she were a man, she would never do anything so wicked with Guinevere and imperil the lovely queen's soul.

  Gawaine poured himself some barley beer, and offered some to Lancelot, who turned it down. "Then find a maiden at the Beltane ceremony if you object so much to adultery. It's nothing to be afraid of. It's just a lot of people lying together in the dark."

  "With no walls between them! How disgusting. No wonder the Church condemns it," Lancelot exclaimed, making a face.

  This time Gawaine's laugh was a guffaw. He slapped his knee. "It's no Roman orgy. Our ancestors weren't decadents."

  "Some of my ancestors were Roman, but they weren't decadents," Lancelot protested.

  "Oh, of course, your ancestors weren't," Gawaine said in a teasing voice. "At a Beltane celebration you might hear sounds from someone else, but no one pays attention to what anyone else is doing. It's no less private than peasants' huts, or many a noble's holding. Only the richest can afford to care so much about walls." He poked at the fire with a stick. The sparks shot up, shining in the dark like red reflections of the stars.

  "I suppose you'll go," she said with some disgust.

  He shook his head and groaned. "If only I could! Not this year. Arthur doesn't want the soldiers to go. There are too many of us. We would take all of the local women, and anger the local men, and that wouldn't help us win the war. Of course some soldiers will slip off to the fires anyway, but the officers should set an example. Everyone would understand if they found out that you went, though. You have to lose your virginity sometime."

  "No, in fact I don't," Lancelot replied with some sarcasm.

  "You're not dry and monkish, nor are you like Cai and Dinadan. You seem like a man who's longing for a woman."

  Lancelot turned away from him and stared into the fire.

  "True, I am longing for a woman, one I can never have, and I want no other. Don't mock me."

  "I'm not mocking you. Are you sure she's so unreachable? Can I advise you on how to woo her?" Gawaine’s loud voice was much quieter than usual.

  She shook her head. "I want no advice. I know she can never be mine."

  "Then I hope you find another woman you could love. Most would be glad to love you, you're so handsome and kind. Life is short, and it feels shorter than usual at the moment." Gawaine sighed.

  Lancelot did not take her eyes from the fire. She was sure that her life was doomed to be nothing but ashes, with no flames. Even Gawaine would not sympathize about her love if he knew she was a woman.

  Gawaine took up his northern pipes and began to play. The sad sounds soothed Lancelot, for they echoed how she felt.

  Dawn streaked into the British soldiers' camp and cast its rosy light on tents. Stretching, Lancelot greeted the day. Aglovale asked if she wanted barley beer. There was a smell of porridge in the air, and that appealed to her more than the drink. But was there enough porridge for all the men? Unlikely. She should wait until the soldiers who served under her had eaten and then, if the porridge lasted, take her share.

  "Perhaps beer," she said, extending her hand for the jar Aglovale held.

  Throwing axes whirled into the camp, and one struck Aglovale in the shoulder. He dropped the jar and fell to the ground.

  "Saxon attack!" Lancelot shouted. Many others yelled with her. Aglovale was conscious. He held his bleeding shoulder.

  Lancelot pulled him into her tent for shelter.

  "I'll be all right," he choked. "Go after the Wolves."

  She rushed off to lead the men to fight. The camp was a flurry of running men and rearing horses.

  They soon discovered that it was only a handful of Saxons. It did not take long to kill them all, but with the element of surprise, the Saxon band had killed a dozen Britons.

  Arthur summoned his officers to join him outside his tent. He still held his sword, bloody from battle.

  "Our scouts say that there is a settlement a few miles away. The men must have come from it. We'll burn it to the grou
nd," the king said grimly.

  "Burn it!" Lancelot gasped. "What about their women and children?"

  "We'll let them flee, of course," Arthur told her. "Lancelot, Gawaine, take thirty men each. To your horses!"

  Lancelot quickly ordered thirty of her men to join her, and they rode off. But she was reeling inside. She did not want to burn a village. Where would its people go?

  They came to the settlement, some twenty huts. The soldiers rode into it, and women and children ran screaming from them.

  A British scout who spoke the Saxon language yelled out commands, and the people fled to the forest. Wailing women grabbed up babies and small children. Old women and one ancient man hobbled off. There were no young men.

  A soldier began to pursue one of the younger women.

  "If any of you touch the women, I'll see that your worthless hands are cut off!" Gawaine shouted. The man returned to his fellows. Lancelot longed to help the women and children, but she could not. Some British soldiers grabbed up sticks and ran to a cook fire to light them. Lancelot’s heart pounded.

  "Don't burn the huts yet!" she yelled. "There might still be someone in them. I'm going to check." She jumped off her horse and ran to the nearest dwelling. Burning people alive was an unimaginable horror.

  "Careful, Lance!" Gawaine called out. "There might be someone in there who'll try to kill you!"

  "I'll be careful. Hold back the men!" Lancelot darted into the hut. She rushed through its two tiny rooms, separated only by a blanket strung from the roof, then out again and over to the next house.

  "There's no one there. Let's burn the damn village now!" one of the soldiers yelled.

  "Let no man light a fire until Lancelot is done!" Gawaine ordered. Lancelot ran into one hut after another. In one room, she heard muffled sobs. She opened a large chest and found a boy of about three years hidden there. He screamed at the sight of her.

  "I won't hurt you," she said, reassuring him as much as possible, though of course he wouldn't know her language. She picked him up. He kicked and struggled, but she carried him out, set him on the ground, and pointed to the forest. "Go!" she cried.