Lancelot- Her Story

by Carol Anne Douglas

  Could he blame Lot for everything? Gawaine was the oldest in the family. Could he have led Agravaine better?

  There was little he could do to change Agravaine now. He pulled his horse beside Bors's so he could ask the pious warrior to accept a new charge.

  The sun was shining, but it seemed to be a merciless light glaring on a cruel world.

  Lancelot still rode with the others and fought, but she spoke only when she had to, replying to questions. The sight of the bodies of the Saxon women and children was always before her. Every field was filled with them, every standing tree seemed to hold a body.

  The food she ate was shared with the men who had murdered them. She no longer wanted to eat it.

  For all she knew, she might be looking into the faces of the men who had taken part in the massacre. The men whose lives she saved might have been among the murderers, but she continued saving any soldier she could rescue.

  The men Lancelot had counted as friends, each in his own way, seemed to be trying to reach her, but she did not want to be reached.

  Bors often rode beside Lancelot and prayed aloud, but even prayers did not touch her soul. She felt that she was just a thing for killing, no longer within the reach of God.

  Aglovale would come up to her and speak of homely things, such as repairing villas and teaching children how to talk and walk. "Percy could tell stories before he was three years old. When I began a story, he would finish it for me. It's amazing how children think. You should spend some time around them."

  These things seemed to her to come from some world too far away to imagine. She saw only little dead children, not live ones.

  Arthur spoke about his vision for a safe, united Britain, as he always had, but this dream seemed a mockery in the midst of the great blood-letting.

  Gawaine also rode with Lancelot and described the mountains in Lothian, what animals lived there and what flowers grew there, and what the Orkney Isles were like with their thousands of sea birds perching on cliffs and flying up in great clouds. This talk irritated Lancelot because it almost made her want to live.

  "Sea birds are all black and white, or gray or brown. They don't have much color. Why would that be?" Gawaine asked, and Lancelot was almost interested enough to try to think of an answer, which annoyed her.

  Gawaine or Aglovale would sit next to her and insist that she eat. She could no longer dream about Camelot. It was too far away now. She believed that she should join the other ghosts, and she tried to. She took every impossible risk she could, but still she could not die.

  She saw a British foot soldier cut off from the troops, with Saxons surrounding him. She drove her horse wildly among the Saxons, slashed with her sword, and let the soldier climb up behind her. Saxons spears and throwing axes spun past her, but she rode off, untouched.

  The soldier, who was young, mumbled, "Thanks, thanks," as she left him with his companions, but she felt thankful only for his sake, not for her own.

  Guinevere sat in Cai's office studying the accounts and worrying whether the taxes were enough to keep the army well supplied. Did Arthur have enough horses yet? Enough weapons? Enough food?

  Sunlight streamed in the window, but it brought her no pleasure. There were roses in the garden, but they did not matter.

  Cai appeared in the doorway.

  "Lady Guinevere, one of the harpers from the king's troops is here with news of the battles."

  Dropping the wax tablet she had been holding, Guinevere rose from the table. Her heart beat faster.

  The man who stood before her was no longer young, and his tunic was worn and tattered. There was no great sorrow in his face, so perhaps the news was not bad.

  "Please speak," she said.

  "The battles go well." The man's voice was sonorous, as a harper's should be. "The High King charges, ever in the lead, and the dragon banner stirs the men to victory. The Saxons have no such great leader. We cut them down like summer wheat. Their numbers dwindle."

  "No doubt our numbers are diminishing also," Guinevere said, annoyed by his rhetorical flourishes.

  "Brave men give their lives every day." The harper nodded, moving his hand as if he stroked a harp.

  Guinevere shuddered. "What of Lancelot?" She could not hold back the question any longer.

  A smile lit the harper's solemn face. "He is the greatest of heroes. Lancelot goes ever in the thick of battle. Never have I seen one warrior save so many of his companions. Whenever the Saxons have surrounded a man, there is Lancelot, standing between him and death."

  Guinevere swayed and blackness spread over her. She fell into a chair, unable to speak. "Enough news. The queen is not used to the details of battle," Cai said, showing the harper out.

  What would life be like if there were no Lancelot? Hope would be gone. Guinevere prayed even more fervently than before.

  One dreary, drizzling morning, not long after defeating a Saxon ambush, the British warriors were resting. Lancelot and Gawaine were checking the area to be sure that no Saxons yet lingered.

  A detail was off burying the British dead, and the physicians were busy with the wounded, some of whom waited patiently while others screamed.

  When the war had begun, Lancelot had been horrified that the British fighting men finished off the badly wounded Saxons lying on the battlefields, but now it mattered no more than anything else. She did not kill the Saxon wounded herself, but she felt no great agonies when the British foot soldiers did, as was their assigned task. Nor did the rain that dripped over her bother her overmuch; she was too numb.

  She and Gawaine passed a bush, and its branches moved, hinting that something large was behind it. The area had been so hunted out by both armies that there was little chance that it was a deer or a boar.

  Lancelot slashed into the bush with her sword. She felt the familiar impact as her sword cut into a human body. There was a quick exclamation, and a collapse. She parted the branches, and the body of girl of about thirteen years, black-haired and therefore British, fell at their feet. She had apparently hidden from the soldiers.

  The warriors both stood frozen, staring at the girl's body with a gaping wound in her side. Then Lancelot turned her bloody sword to her own chest.

  "No!" Grabbing her arm, Gawaine held her back.

  The sword was evil. She must hide it. Lancelot thrust it back into its sheath. She felt that, in killing the girl, she had somehow killed herself. Then Arthur strode across the muddy field to them and saw the girl lying at their feet.

  The king began to yell, "What have you done? This is a girl, a British girl!"

  Gawaine answered him.

  "We saw branches moving. It looked like another ambush, so I slashed out. It was only afterwards that we saw it was a girl. It's horrible. Forgive me."

  Lancelot remained frozen and silent. Her voice had gone away. She was dead, so how could she speak?

  Arthur shouted at Gawaine. "You fool, why in hell didn't you find out who you were striking? What will her family think? Her whole village will hate the king's army forever."

  Lancelot wandered off in a daze. The words had no meaning.

  "I regret her death greatly," Gawaine said. Beyond Arthur's angry face, he saw Bedwyr, Peredur, and Bors hurrying over to them. Bedwyr's left arm was bandaged – the physicians saw to the senior fighters' injuries first – but the others had only minor cuts.

  "I killed a girl accidentally," Gawaine told his comrades. His stomach churned at the sight of the pathetic body. "I thought it was another Saxon ambush. It's awful."

  "It's worse than that," the king yelled, trembling with rage. "I said that I would execute any man who killed a woman, but of course I can't do that to you, so it will look as if my orders are meaningless."

  "But it was an accident," Bedwyr said, trying to calm him. "Surely you'd treat an accident differently than a murder."

  Arthur's anger was not appeased. "It will look as if I favor my cousin." He glared at Gawaine.

  "Therefore, you will ha
ve to wear her head around your neck for a day to show your repentance."

  Gawaine shuddered, but said nothing.

  He almost retched at the thought of wearing the girl's head. And who would have the gruesome task of cutting it off? He knew men who cut off their enemies' heads, but he had never done so. How could Arthur think of such a hideous punishment?

  The king stalked off.

  "Don't worry, Gawaine," Bedwyr said. "It was Lancelot who did this, wasn't it? You're protecting him because he's half out of his mind."

  Gawaine nodded, relieved that at least some of his friends would realize that he hadn't killed the girl. "Lancelot turned his sword on himself. I fear that he'll kill himself."

  "We'll talk Arthur out of this punishment," Bedwyr promised.

  "Don't tell him it was Lancelot," Gawaine begged. When had he ever begged for anything? He couldn't remember such a time. "Lancelot couldn't bear anyone knowing that he'd killed a girl. He probably only half realizes it himself, and this horrible punishment would drive him completely mad. I can hardly bear the thought of it myself."

  "It's disgusting. We should bury the girl at once and pray for her soul," Bors said, making the sign of the cross over her body.

  "No, we should find her family," said Peredur, bending to close the girl's eyes.

  "Arthur never would have given Lancelot this punishment, so he shouldn't give it to you," Bedwyr added.

  "Of course we won't say that it was Lancelot," Peredur reassured Gawaine. "Everyone thinks of Lancelot as the best of us, so it would reflect on us all if people knew he had killed a girl, even by accident."

  So Bedwyr, Bors, and Peredur went with Gawaine to the king's tent and asked for a word with him. Gawaine doubted that their words would move the king.

  Arthur's voice and face were bitter, but after he had asked about Bedwyr's wound, he grumblingly agreed to listen to them.

  "You shouldn't give Gawaine such a horrible punishment," said Bedwyr, whom they had chosen to speak first because the king could hardly fail to be sympathetic to a man who had just been wounded in his service. Bedwyr's face was drawn and pale from pain and loss of blood. "It will undermine his ability to command the men, and it will demoralize the troops to see one of their leaders treated so."

  "Rather, you mustn't do this because it badly uses the poor girl's body," Peredur argued. "As the father of a girl not much older, I would be as angry at you for doing that as I would be at the one who killed her. We must find her family and return her body to them as soon as possible."

  Bors nodded. "It is an ungodly way to treat her earthly remains. Besides, you should not prescribe strange and horrible punishments, because men may have strange and horrible reactions to them. It might give some men the idea of cutting off women's heads."

  "Surely not," Arthur said, grimacing. "But I shall listen to what you advise. Peredur, go and find the girl's family and return her body. I'll give Gawaine a different punishment."

  Arthur turned to Gawaine and spoke coldly to him. "Your companions think the punishment is not fitting, so it is lifted. Therefore, I shall only charge you with protecting and defending women for the rest of your life. Swear that you will do so."

  "I swear that I will," Gawaine agreed, anxious to leave and look for Lancelot.

  Lancelot had gone to the bank of the river near the camp and was about to throw herself into it. The churning waters were muddy brown from rains, and it seemed a fitting place after what she had done. But as she climbed down the bank, a woman called out to her, "Lancelot!"

  She looked up and saw one of the camp followers. The young, dark-haired woman, who had been one of the ones Lancelot had spoken with months earlier, might have been pretty except that her face was bruised, and a look of weariness seemed to be frozen into her features.

  She rushed up to Lancelot and grabbed her arm. "Were you goin’ to throw yourself into the river?"

  Lancelot looked at her and said nothing.

  "Life's hard, ain't it?" the young woman said. "I was goin' to do the same myself, but then I saw you. You shouldn't do it, you got everything to live for. Everybody thinks you're the greatest and kindest warrior in the world."

  "They're wrong," Lancelot groaned. "But what about you, my lady? I'm afraid I don't know your name." These were the first words, other than those necessary, that she had said in weeks. She did not see the Saxon ghosts, but only the camp follower.

  "I'm Maire. I can't stand it anymore. I just have to get away." She looked beyond Lancelot at the river. "I guess you'd be too worn out yourself to rescue me now."

  "No, you are rescuing me." Lancelot turned away from the river and looked into Maire's eyes. The pain she saw there was more compelling than the swirling water. She shuddered at the thought of Maire's body tossed by the currents. "If you want to get away from here, of course I'll take you." She saw that even if she had done something unchangeable and unpardonable, she still might be able to help someone else.

  Lancelot was, like all the soldiers, under orders to stay in the camp, but she got her horse, helped Maire up behind her, and rode west, away from the Saxons.

  "I don't know what I'll do," Maire said, "but thanks for gettin' me out of there."

  Uncertain where she might find a place for Maire, Lancelot rode off across fields and into a forest. Occasional rain drizzled on them.

  As they passed through an oak grove, an old nun on a rotund horse that was gray as the sky crossed their path.

  "May I be of help?" she asked, nodding a friendly greeting. Lines made a web of her face, and her smile was almost warm enough to dry their clothing.

  "I need a place to stay and honest work," Maire blurted out.

  The nun nodded with satisfaction. "What good fortune for me!" she exclaimed. "Our convent needs a housekeeper, and I have gone looking for one. Would you be willing to do that work? I must confess that not all nuns are tidy. I'm dreadfully messy myself."

  Maire's eyes widened. Her hair was tangled and wet, her face was bruised, and her gaudy gown pretty clearly indicated what her work had been. "You'd let me do that?"

  "Of course, my dear, if you don't mind the quiet. The Convent of the Holy Mother is deep in the forest, a good many miles from here. Will you come?"

  "Yes, thanks," Maire said quickly, as if the old nun might disappear into the trees as suddenly as she had appeared before them.

  "What a blessing it is that you will help us. Then come down from Lancelot's horse and join me on mine. She's an old mare, but she's sturdy enough to carry us both."

  The whole encounter so astounded Lancelot that she only fleetingly wondered how the nun knew her name. She helped Maire descend from her horse and climb up behind the old woman.

  The nun then looked into Lancelot's face. "And what can I do to help you?" she asked.

  "Nothing," Lancelot said, almost too ashamed to return her look. "I am beyond help. Today I struck out blindly at a bush, for I imagined that a Saxon fighter was behind it, and I killed a girl. Nothing that I can do will ever make up for that."

  The wrinkled hand reached out and touched Lancelot's cheek. "No one is beyond help," the old nun said. "It is true that nothing can bring her back, but you still have a life that you must live. When we have done wrong, we must learn from it. Having done wrong does not take from us the task of living and caring for others, and your actions have shown that you know that. You must live as well as you can. You have seen that carelessness can be cruel. Do not be careless again, but caring."

  Tears mixed with rain touched the nun's hand, which lingered on Lancelot's cheek and then left it.

  "Thank you, Holy Lady, I shall do as you tell me," Lancelot replied.

  The old woman drew an ornament made of black feathers from her cloak. "Carry these raven feathers with you always," she said. Willing to do whatever the nun said, Lancelot nodded and put the feathers in the bag she wore around her neck. How strange that both this nun and old Creiddyled had given her such tokens.

  "I am Mother N
inian. You are welcome to visit our convent at any time," the nun told Lancelot.

  "Thank you," Lancelot said, thinking she would never dare to visit a holy place again.

  "Don't despair," Ninian said, wagging her finger at Lancelot. "For you are Lancelot, the one all men and women love most."

  Lancelot gaped at the nun, who must be wrong. Surely no one loved her.

  Then the old nun and Maire parted from Lancelot, and wished her Godspeed.

  Gawaine walked up to Peredur and his brother Aglovale while they were tying the girl's body on a horse. Gawaine thought that if he had truly been Christian, he would have made a sign of the cross, but instead he bowed his head.

  "Aglovale will go with me to look for the girl's family." Peredur's voice was solemn; the wrinkles in his brow stood out.

  "I hope you find them," Gawaine said.

  Aglovale, who had been adjusting the cord that bound the body, whirled around to face him. "I'll never speak to you again unless I must." He clenched his fists.

  Gawaine groaned.

  "Lancelot is the one who killed her. I am sworn not to tell of it, and you must not." Peredur spoke quietly.

  Aglovale's eyes widened. He steadied himself.

  "If Lancelot could do a thing like this, any of us could. When we've defeated the Saxons, I'll never fight again," he vowed.

  "I hope you don't have to," Gawaine told him. He wondered how many people would despise him for this act that he had not committed.

  When Lancelot rode back to the camp long after dark, several soldiers rushed up to her and she found that everyone had been searching for her.

  She discovered that she no longer felt like speaking when she was back with the warriors.

  Gawaine pulled her aside and said, "You terrified me. I thought you had jumped into the river. Don't go off without telling anyone," he lectured, as if to a child.

  "I was going to jump in the river," she said, her voice expressionless.