Lancelot- Her Story

by Carol Anne Douglas

  "But..." Lancelot began, stunned at the thought of leaving so soon.

  "You have done well today, but the fighting is over," the king said firmly. "Tomorrow morning, when you've had a rest and some food, get a fresh horse and go. Everyone at Camelot will be anxious to know what has happened."

  After giving his order, he rode off.

  Lancelot bent over Sawyl. The young man had a chest wound, but she had seen men with similar wounds survive. "Help me," he moaned.

  "I'll see that you get to a surgeon," she promised.

  As she held Sawyl’s hand and looked for someone to help him, she soon found Aglovale, who exchanged a weary smile with her. They joined every man who was able in carrying off the wounded –although there were far too many of them for the surgeons to care for anytime soon – and seeing that the dead were buried.

  Night came, and she still was trying to estimate how many of her men had survived. Some of the badly wounded had died before anyone could take care of them. Lancelot demanded that a surgeon attend to one of her men whose leg was nearly severed.

  Turning away from the tents for the wounded, she closed her eyes for a moment. She heard a voice calling "Lancelot!"

  She opened her eyes and saw Gawaine, who threw his arms around her. "Lance! We've won!"

  His voice was elated, and she knew it was because he was glad to see her still standing. She returned the embrace, then pulled back to look at his face, which had a new cut that would give him another scar. "It's good to see you."

  "And you. Have a drink." He held out his flask of northern liquor, and she accepted it.

  Pouring the liquor down her throat, she hoped it would numb her. It occurred to Lancelot that she had never hugged anyone, but she was sure Gawaine was as exhausted as she was, much too weary to notice anything.

  "I've been seeing to the wounded," she told him.

  "So have I," Gawaine said, not surprisingly. He took back the flask and drank.

  They exchanged the flask back and forth a few times, and, inexplicably, they both laughed, perhaps in astonishment that they still lived.

  "You should go get some rest." Gawaine grinned. "I hear you have a long ride tomorrow."

  "I'd rather stay with the rest of you." She wiped drops of liquor from her chin.

  "We'll follow you soon. Arthur couldn't send me back first, or all the others would be worried that I'd be celebrating with their wives or sweethearts." He guzzled a final drink, extended the flask to her, and put it away when she declined.

  "Of course I wouldn't, Lance. Don't get solemn. You don't want to be sober."

  "No," she agreed. "I don't." She staggered back to her tent and found oblivion for the night.

  19 Return to Camelot

  With every movement of her horse's hooves in the direction of Camelot, Lancelot felt more and more like a soul in Purgatory being forced from death back to life. She felt no gratitude. She was raw, going back skinless into the world. Knowing that every sight and every word would bruise her, she feigned indifference.

  The fields she passed bloomed with meadowsweet and pink knapweed. Goldfinches pecked eagerly at thistles. The contrast with the scenes of battle was too great. She could still see the meadows littered with the bodies of men and horses, and smell the rotting corpses.

  There, again, was the familiar hill, and there the caer. The farmers in the fields at the bottom of the hill called out greetings, and she yelled "Victory!" to them. They dropped their scythes and yelled back, echoing her.

  "Victory!" she called out with a bravado she did not feel to the guards opening the gates for her, and they cheered.

  When she dismounted, they crowded around her to hear tales of battles, but she shook her head. "We have won," she said to them. "King Arthur is triumphant. You must wait for others to tell you the story." Men clapped her on the back, but she moved away from them as soon as she could.

  How strange it was to see people who had never dwelt in the Otherworld of battle. Some of the guards and warriors seemed real, because they had fought for a time, and returned as she had.

  But she did not want to look at the ladies. They were too innocent; they would despise her if they knew the terrible things she had done.

  They ran up to her. Clearly, they cared more about whether their own menfolk survived than about the general victory.

  Lionors, with a boy of about three running in her wake, was the first to reach Lancelot.

  "Greetings, Lancelot. How is Bors?" she cried, panting.

  "He has a few new scars, but he is well." Lancelot wished she were with him, not in the courtyard.

  Lionors sighed with relief. "He lives, God be praised. Perhaps our many prayers have helped preserve him." She caught up the small boy in her arms. "Did you hear? Your father still lives. He'll be home soon."

  Then a girl named Meleas, who was young Sawyl's sweetheart, darted up. "Is Sawyl well?"

  Lancelot hesitated and the girl's eyes narrowed with fear.

  "He is wounded, but I think he'll heal," she told Meleas.

  Meleas gasped.

  "He'll be back soon, and you can tend him," Lancelot said, trying to reassure her. She did not think it necessary to say that the wound was in the young man's chest.

  Meleas bit her lips. Lionors patted her shoulder and muttered soothing phrases.

  Peredur's wife Claudia, being older and more dignified, approached at a slower pace, but no less anxiously.

  "And Peredur?" she asked.

  "He is well, and so is his brother," Lancelot told her.

  "Thank all the saints and angels," Claudia said, dabbing her eyes with a small cloth.

  But as Lancelot walked towards the hall she had to face Ailsa, a pretty young woman who had been Rhun's bride only a year before.

  Lancelot said quietly, "I'm sorry, Ailsa. Rhun died bravely."

  Ailsa collapsed in a faint, and Lancelot caught her in her arms. Wincing from the pain in her wounded hand, she ordered a guard to carry Ailsa to the house she had shared with Rhun.

  Despite the ladies' anxiety and grief, Lancelot felt that either they or she must be unreal, because they did not live in her nightmare, or she thought they did not. She almost envied them because they had never killed anyone. Even their grief was clean and innocent.

  Then she saw Guinevere, approaching across the cobblestones. The queen moved swiftly to Lancelot's side. She wore a russet gown, far less cheerful than her usual colors, but she was beautiful as ever.

  "My lady, we have won a great battle. Victory is ours," She tried to make her voice full of rejoicing.

  "Thanks be to heaven," Guinevere said simply, with relief but not delight. Though it was the end of summer and Lancelot had last seen her in winter, Guinevere's face was paler than it had been.

  "How are you?" the queen asked in a voice full of concern. Her gaze was even warmer than it had been the first day they met.

  Lancelot could not look the queen in the eye. How little she felt she deserved such warmth.

  "Look at your hand! What happened?"

  Guinevere stared at Lancelot's bandaged hand as if she had never seen a wounded warrior before.

  "I lost two fingers when a horse stepped on it. It's nothing." Lancelot held her hand back, for the queen looked as if she wanted to take hold of it. Lancelot tried to keep her voice steady and not weep at the tenderness in the queen's face.

  "That is not nothing! You must be in pain." Guinevere seemed to be forcing herself not to touch Lancelot.

  "Not so much, Lady Guinevere." She tried not to see that the queen was almost in tears. "The king is well, thank God," she added, noticing that Guinevere had not asked about him.

  "Good. I knew you would not be shouting about victory if he were injured." Guinevere's voice dropped so low that Lancelot could barely hear her. The queen looked at Lancelot's face as if it did not look the same as it had, and likely it did not. Lancelot wanted to cover her face with her hands.

  "I'm glad you have returned."

>   "Have I?" Lancelot asked. Feeling that she would begin screaming if she said any more, Lancelot turned away. She was not the same Lancelot. She never would be the same again.

  "I must speak with Cai." For Cai was approaching at speed much faster than his usual measured pace. He waved and beamed at Lancelot.

  She was glad not to face Guinevere further. It was impossible that the queen could return her love. She must be very foolish to love another woman. No doubt she was the only woman who had ever felt this way. And even if it were not for that, Guinevere was married to the great king. Moreover, even if there had been no other obstacles, surely Guinevere could not love the killer that Lancelot had become.

  Cai embraced her. "I am glad you are home. We have housed a merchant and his family who fled the Saxons in your home, but I shall find other quarters for them. And can I now tell them that it is safe to return?"

  Lancelot nodded. "I believe it should be safe. You did well to take in these people." She hoped that the people would leave soon, so she could be alone, but she knew that was selfish.

  Cai found another place for them that very day.

  The most soothing presence at Camelot was Catwal, who said little, but having been blinded, must know something of the kind of suffering that Lancelot now was used to seeing every day. When Lancelot did not want her finer tunics put out and insisted on continuing to don her much worn clothes from the battlefield, Catwal did not remark on it but tried to clean them as much as possible. Despite his best efforts, they were pungent and smeared with stains that were better left unexplained.

  Lancelot could hardly remember that she had once thought Camelot stank because of its ditches full of wastes. The smell was mild compared with the stench of a battlefield. The scents wafting from the kitchens were so pleasant that breathing them in made her feel guilty.

  Lancelot spoke mostly to the few other warriors who were there and tried to avoid the queen. She attempted to speak with Gryffyd, who had been sent back to Camelot because he kept seeing Saxons where they were not, and sometimes had to be locked in his room so he would not injure anyone. But Gryffyd did not recognize Lancelot.

  Even Lancelot had to rest. She did not want to go off to her small house and sleep, because she feared dreaming of fields of rotting corpses. Or of the corpse of the girl she had killed.

  The next morning, Guinevere stopped by the great hall. She hoped to see Lancelot, who was there, clenching her right hand into a fist and unclenching it while she listened to a guard who looked at her as respectfully as if she were the king himself. Guinevere hardly dared to approach, for fear that Lancelot would be unable to talk to her.

  Gryffyd, sword raised in his hand, came rushing into the hall. His once handsome face was unshaven and contorted with rage.

  "Saxons! The filthy Saxons are here! I saw them in the courtyard just now!"

  "No, lord, those were our own men," said a guard, and Gryffyd smote him down with a blow that would have spilled his brains had he not been wearing a helmet.

  Lancelot hurried to Gryffyd, apparently to prevent him from slaughtering the guards. "No, Gryffyd, there are no Saxons here. Give me your sword," she said in a calm voice.

  "Filthy Sea Wolf! I'll send you to Woden!" he screamed.

  "No, Gryffyd, it's Lancelot!" Guinevere cried.

  Lancelot did not draw her sword. "I'm Lancelot. Put aside your weapon. You're at Camelot. There are no Saxons here." Lancelot moved towards him with her empty arms extended, but he lunged at her. Frenzied with a fear she had never known before, Guinevere rushed between them.

  Lancelot gasped. "Stay back, Lady Guinevere!"

  "Gryffyd, pray help me," Guinevere said, summoning her most womanly tones. "The Saxons are in the courtyard. Come out and fight them there."

  Though his sword was in the air, ready to strike Lancelot, Gryffyd halted. "In the courtyard?"

  Guinevere clutched his arm. "Yes. Please come, the ladies are much afraid. Make haste." She turned to the door that led to the courtyard, and gestured for Gryffyd to go before her. Lancelot quickly followed, as did several guards. A number of them grabbed Gryffyd from behind and took away his sword, subduing him without hurting him.

  He groaned. "My lady! I have failed you. The Saxons have captured me."

  Guinevere patted his arm. "Not so, brave Gryffyd. You have saved me, and all of us. Your display of valor frightened off the Saxons, and these good British guards will take you to rest and be given your supper, and the physician will attend you to make sure you are not wounded."

  He bowed to her. "Thank you, gracious lady. I hope that I have helped."

  There was a great clamor as the guards helped Gryffyd back to his room.

  But Lancelot, who was trembling, took hold of Guinevere's arm and pulled her into a nearby passageway.

  "My lady, you were very brave and very clever, but you should not have taken such a risk."

  Lancelot's touch thrilled Guinevere. "Why not? Your life is worth more than mine."

  "That is not so!" Lancelot exclaimed.

  She looked at Guinevere as if she were an angel descended from heaven. "I am only a warrior. You are queen of all Britain."

  "What of it? You are a better person than I am." Guinevere tried to express her love in her gaze and her tone, if not her words. For once, Lancelot had abandoned her reserve. Please kiss me, Guinevere prayed silently.

  "My lady, you are finer than anyone else in the world," Lancelot said fervently. She kissed Guinevere on the mouth. Guinevere was filled with joy at the touch of those soft lips, but Lancelot pulled away.

  "Pardon me," she gasped.

  "I pardon you for kissing, but not for ceasing to kiss."

  Cai rushed up, calling out, "Lady Guinevere! Are you well?"

  Lancelot moved back several steps. Had Cai witnessed their kiss? Surely not, for Guinevere saw nothing but concern in his face. Other warriors and ladies followed him, all of them exclaiming over Guinevere. Over and over, she assured them that she was unhurt. While Guinevere was thus surrounded, Lancelot slipped away.

  It had been too good to be true. Lancelot might never kiss her again. Guinevere realized that, although the fear of dying had kept her from wanting a child, her own life was less important to her than Lancelot's. She had never imagined she could care more about someone else than she did about herself.

  Lancelot hurried off to the walls to watch for the troops' return. What a reckless fool she had been! Should she ask again for Guinevere’s forgiveness? No, it was better to say nothing, for she might say too much, and so might the queen.

  What incredible sweetness there was in Guinevere's mouth! Brief as the kiss was, it was softer and warmer than Lancelot could have imagined. Her lips felt miraculously – no, sinfully – good. She knew she would cherish the memory – or be haunted by it – forever.

  Lancelot stayed by the outer walls, peering into the distance for the first sight of the victorious army, although she knew it would take days for the men to arrive. She was the first to spot the troops, bearing the Pendragon banner, tattered but still held high.

  Lancelot rode out to meet the men. In the forefront she saw Arthur, his face as proud as Julius Caesar's must have been. She rejoiced at the sight of him. The king's gaze was not on any person, but was fixed on his high caer.

  Riding through the waves of warriors, she called out greetings to Bedwyr, Peredur, Gawaine, and Bors. Every face delighted her, as much as she could be delighted. Even though she had known that her comrades survived Badon, she had had lingering fears that something could have befallen them meantime.

  Then she saw Aglovale on a cart with the wounded. He held a man who seemed half dead. She recognized all too well the dying young warrior. "Greetings, Sawyl," she said, trying to look just at his face, not the wound in his chest. He was covered with sweat. Aglovale mouthed the words, "Wound sickness."

  Sawyl seemed to recognize Lancelot. "I'll never see Meleas again," he choked. "Tell her..." His eyes closed and he breathed his
last.

  "Oh God's angels." Lancelot reeled. "She's just a mile away at the caer. Is there no mercy?" she asked bitterly.

  Aglovale shook his head.

  Her eyes full of tears, Lancelot rode back with them and helped unload the wounded and do what was possible to ease their pain. Meleas was making her way among the returning men. Her brow was wrinkled, showing she was not seeing the face she sought. Lancelot went up to her. "I'm sorry, Meleas. Sawyl just died on his way here."

  "No!" she cried out. "No, it can't be." Leaning forward as if she might fall, Meleas grabbed Lancelot's shoulder.

  "I'm afraid it's true. Let me take you to him."

  Lancelot took her by the hand to where she and Aglovale had carried Sawyl's body. Meleas threw her arms around the lifeless young man and sobbed.

  Camelot was filled with wild outbursts of joy, people dancing in courtyards, ladies throwing themselves into the arms of returning warriors, and wine, beer, and mead flowing like water.

  Many rejoiced over those who had come home, and some wept for those who had not.

  Cai clasped his fine warrior, Dinadan, in his arms, more tightly than men generally embraced other men.

  Lancelot watched them wistfully. Some men loved other men. Perhaps she was not the only woman who loved another woman? No, everyone knew about men like Cai, but she had never heard such a thing about women.

  Lancelot also saw ladies exclaim with delight as the warriors opened their bags of plunder and began giving gifts of Saxon gold ornaments and cloaks.

  The finest of the ornaments the king brought to the queen.

  Lancelot was near when Arthur pulled some ornaments of Saxon gold from a leather bag and presented them to Guinevere.

  "Surely these belong to Britain rather than to me," Guinevere said, scarcely looking at the plunder. "I care only about your safe return."

  Her husband grabbed her in his arms.