Lancelot- Her Story

by Carol Anne Douglas

  Lancelot quickly turned away.

  As the celebration progressed, Lancelot felt more alone than ever. She stayed with the wounded and tried to be of use.

  Aglovale did the same, while others were rejoicing with song, drink, kisses, or some combination.

  "The killing has come to an end, and now we can try to recover ourselves," Aglovale told Lancelot, when they had turned away from a young man they had comforted over his newly lost leg. "As for me, I'm going home to my family tomorrow and I'm never fighting again. Perhaps you might want to do the same. There are other lives besides being a warrior at Camelot."

  But Lancelot shook her head. Her voice was pained. "There is no other life for me. This is my work. This is how I can help."

  "There are other ways to help people besides fighting!" Aglovale insisted.

  "Get a home of your own, with a wife and children, and you'll be too busy to go off and fight other people's battles."

  Lancelot shook her head again. "This is the way that is open to me. I have learned this skill and I must use it. What if women died because I was not there to rescue them?"

  "But does fighting all the time make you happy?" Aglovale asked, his eyes full of concern.

  "Why should I be happy?" Lancelot replied. "I scarcely think that is possible. All I can do is be useful." The mere thought of happiness was too painful to bear. No matter what Aglovale said to persuade Lancelot, the response was always the same.

  "I cannot leave Camelot because I am sworn to King Arthur," she insisted. And because it was the only place where she could see Queen Guinevere.

  20 The Queen’s Move

  The warriors were more raucous than ever at the feast on the night of their return, Guinevere thought, watching as they fell on the meats and cakes that Cai had ordered the cooks to prepare as soon as the word of victory had come. Some men could not keep their eyes off the ladies, while others could not keep their hands off the serving women. Every warrior who could drag himself to the table did so, but some stared off as if they could not believe they had returned. The mead jars went around again and again.

  To man after man Guinevere said, "I am glad that you have returned." It was true that she might not like them all greatly, but she surely did not want them dead. Even Gawaine she greeted cordially, and he smiled in return.

  Merlin's hair had turned white. He spoke with Guinevere more gently than he had before, but generally he seemed even more removed from all that passed around him.

  Arthur's face had new creases that made him look more dignified yet somehow more human, less like a Greek god. A scar on his hand snaked up under his sleeve and doubtless further up his arm. It was good to see him safe in his familiar chair, Guinevere thought. If only she could keep that distance between them. If only she could be one of his friends, not his wife. She feared that after the war he would be anxious for her to bear him a son.

  When the men could eat no more, Arthur rose from the table and took Guinevere by the arm. "Come along, my dear. It's been too long since I've been alone with you," he said in a voice that was audible to the warriors sitting closest to them.

  Guinevere glanced at Lancelot and saw the handsome face contorted with a look of pain that made her feel like a betrayer. The hall, lit with a hundred rushlights, dimmed. Guinevere could barely refrain from shaking off Arthur's hand. Her lips could still feel the sweetness of Lancelot's kiss though several days had passed.

  Guinevere realized that she not only would have to win Lancelot to her bed, but also would have to leave off lying with Arthur. If Lancelot became her lover, she was too sensitive to endure Guinevere's lying with her husband, too. Guinevere shuddered at the fear of being finally put aside. She did not want to be sent to a convent while Lancelot was at Camelot. Nor was Guinevere eager to lose what power she had.

  Guinevere thought of Lancelot's worn face and realized that she loved her enough for the risk, but she must plan as carefully as possible. Perhaps she need not leave off being queen if she plotted well enough. Whatever schemes she might devise, she dared not fail to let Arthur embrace her when he had just returned from the war.

  Lancelot lay in her bed and sobbed. She wept because, miraculously, all of her closer friends had survived the war. But the tears turned bitter at the thought of Guinevere with Arthur. Choking, Lancelot tried to think on other things. Guinevere was not for her, never would be for her. She buried her head in her pillow and cried herself to sleep.

  One evening when he had been back for a few days, Arthur sat in Guinevere's room. Slowly savoring a cup of red wine, he said it was far better than any he had drunk while he pursued the Saxons.

  "Many terrible things happened in the war," Arthur told her. "Gawaine killed a British girl accidentally, and..."

  "He killed a girl! And you let him remain one of your warriors; you honor him for his fighting!" Guinevere did not try to contain her anger as she usually did. She trembled with rage.

  "I told you it was an accident, and of course I was very angry," Arthur tried to explain.

  But Guinevere said, "An accident, of course. How easy it would be to mistake a British girl for a Saxon warrior. Don't tell me any more. It's horrible. You may forgive him, but I never shall." When Gawaine was away at war, without the caer's women vying for his attention, he became a brute.

  She dug her nails into her hands at the memory that Arthur had once wanted her to lie with that savage. And she must still speak with him, knowing he was a murderer.

  Had Gawaine thought she was cool before? Now her face and her voice would show the true depths of her hatred, though her words must not.

  Arthur just shook his head and observed, "It's war."

  War was hard on women, Guinevere thought. She would never want to wear the gold she had been given, for she feared that it had been taken from Saxon women's bodies rather than their jewel boxes.

  Arthur patted her hand.

  "I can't expect you to understand how much men go through in war. I think Lancelot might have suffered the most. We really should find a wife for him. Can you think of anyone suitable?"

  Guinevere stared out of the window and tried to control the tone of her voice. "No. He'll have to find one himself. He's very particular."

  "But so many young women have lost husbands and sweethearts that there should be many to choose from," Arthur said.

  Perhaps Lancelot would find someone else to love. The thought made Guinevere want to scream.

  The woman bent over a fire and stirred the stew she was cooking for the Saxons. She had added just a tiny bit, not enough so they would notice, of the contents of their slop jar.

  She averted her eyes from the drunken Saxon men, boasting as if they had won the war instead of losing it.

  The smoke from the fire and the sweat on her face concealed her angry tears. Her rage was almost great enough to prompt her to burn the wooden, thatch-roofed house with herself in it.

  Why didn't the thrice-cursed king send his army to every Saxon town to free all the British thralls? Why hadn't his men come to burn the wretched settlement where she was forced to live? She had hoped every day to hear their horses. She had longed to see the log lodges in flames.

  Now she would always be a slave, always have to open her legs for the stinking Saxon brutes. She had strangled her first baby so he wouldn't become one of them. Now, when she gave birth, they took the babies away.

  She didn't know what became of them, except that they were Saxons. She would have given herself to any British warriors who saved her and cut off the iron collar that made her neck and shoulders ache. She now walked with a stoop, although she was not old.

  No one would ever help her. If King Arthur's men had ridden into her settlement, they would have seen whose face she had.

  She cursed her sister. Even as a slave of the Saxons, she had heard that spoiled, petted Guinevere had become High Queen! Why should Guinevere have such luck? Guinevere always got what she wanted. If only they had been changed at birth, so she co
uld have been Guinevere and Guinevere could have been Gwynhwyfach. It was Guinevere's fault that their father, the vile Leodegran, had sent her to that farm the Saxons had attacked. If only they had killed her, as they had her mother, instead of making her a thrall. Gwynhwfach tried to dismiss the memory of her mother's mutilated body.

  A Saxon woman yelled at her. The woman hit Gwynhwyfach sometimes because her filthy husband forced Gwynhwyfach to lie with him. Gwynhwyfach hated the sight of him, but not as much as his touch.

  Gwynhwyfach lifted the heavy pot off the fire and carried it to the table. She imagined ordering Guinevere to carry it.

  With the king and the other warriors back at Camelot, Lancelot resumed wearing her finer clothes, as they did. The ladies also put on their better gowns, and Camelot was once again a garden of bright colors.

  Lancelot no longer felt discomfort when she sat with the other warriors at the table. They were her sword-brothers now. Remembering how each of them had fought beside her, she was pleased by their familiar presence. However, the prolonged drinking still made her weary. She crossed the courtyard to get away from the drinking and to cool her head by climbing the outer wall to watch the stars.

  Lancelot could not forget the touch of Guinevere's lips. The sweet memory nearly crowded out thoughts about the war. But she must banish the memory – the kiss surely could never be repeated. She sinned not only against Arthur, but also against Guinevere, who likely would be repulsed if she knew that a woman had kissed her with passion.

  Lancelot looked out at the bright sparks in the sky and wondered whether she was truly forgiven for her sins in the war, as Father Donatus had said. Perhaps it was a sin to doubt that a priest could give absolution, but she did. The moon was in the darkening part of its cycle, and she felt forever caught in a dark part of her soul. She no longer saw the corpses of fighting men, but the memory still festered in her heart.

  Her life was filled with deception. No one knew what she really was. Her stomach heaved. She had drunk too much wine after all.

  The thought of the other warriors finding out she was a woman was worse than ever now, but not because she feared they would attack her. Now they were her friends, and she would miss them if they turned away from her. She pictured them, disgust on their faces, refusing to speak with her. How could she bear to see such a look on Bors's face? And what would life be like without Gawaine? Now that she knew what friendship was, she would be sad to lose it. Truly, she was doomed to be lonelier than a soldier separated from his companions in the thick of combat. She groaned and covered her face with her hands.

  Guinevere could not dismiss the thought that Gawaine had killed a girl. It was wrong to do nothing about it. One morning she told Fencha, "Tell Gawaine that he should come to my room today."

  "The Lord Gawaine, Lady Guinevere?" Fencha raised her eyebrows, for she knew that Guinevere liked him little.

  "That's what I said." Guinevere was more curt than usual, but she was too agitated to be gentle, even with her dear old serving woman.

  Guinevere looked at the courtyard, where trees were beginning to shed their leaves. A misty rain drizzled on the cobblestones.

  In a short while, she saw Gawaine cross the courtyard, his glance straying towards her window.

  There was a knock at the door. "You may enter," she said, not softly.

  Gawaine walked into her room, where he had never been before, and bowed to her. Droplets of rain clung to his red hair. He glanced about the room as if to see which of her women were there. When he saw that they were alone, his eyes widened with surprise. He bowed to her. "Good day, Lady Guinevere. I came as soon as I received your message. Is there any way that I can assist you?"

  She was seated, but she did not ask him to take a chair. She looked at him as if he were a criminal on trial. “Arthur told me that you killed a girl in the war.”

  Gawaine pulled back like a man who had been struck. After a moment's pause, he said, "That's true, Lady Guinevere."

  "I shall always hate and despise you for that." Her voice was level, but showed her contempt.

  He turned pale. "So be it." His voice sounded hollow.

  His meekness moved her not at all. "If you ever plan to marry, I shall tell the girl beforehand, so she will know what manner of man she marries. It is not right that she should never hear of what you have done."

  Gawaine sucked in his breath. "Please don't do that, Lady Guinevere." His brow furrowed.

  "If a girl has been killed, everyone should know who has done it." The blood in her veins surged with anger.

  "I should tell all of the women at Camelot the truth about you, so they might treat you accordingly."

  "No!" he cried out, putting out a hand as if he would dare to stop her. "You must not let this tale be told. You don't understand the consequences."

  "I understand the consequences for you well enough." He dared to protest against even a slight measure of justice. "I don't think the women who flirt with a man should be kept ignorant of the fact that he is a murderer."

  "I am not a murderer," Gawaine said in a voice that was apparently striving for calm, but his hands had clenched into fists, though he kept his arms hanging by his sides. "It was an accident. I saw the branches of a bush move, and I thought there was a Saxon behind it. I struck out. But sadly, it was a girl."

  "Was anyone with you when you did that?" Guinevere asked, doubting that anyone had been.

  "No. I was alone." His voice had deadened.

  "So I must believe you? I do not. But perhaps other women will find your account more persuasive."

  "You must not let this story go any further." He wiped his forehead. "If you do, my mother will put a curse on you."

  Guinevere felt a cold wave sweep over her. "Your mother's curses have more to do with poison than with magic."

  Gawaine flinched, which seemed to confirm that his mother was a poisoner.

  "You threaten me?"

  Gawaine shook his head. "I do not threaten you, except to say that you will greatly regret what would happen if the story is made known. Heed what I say."

  "If I do not tell all the women, you may still be sure that I will tell the one you want to wed, if you ever do."

  "Very well." Without asking for permission to leave, he turned and left her room.

  Guinevere did not fear Gawaine, but she did fear Queen Morgause. Everyone believed that Morgause had poisoned her husband, and there were rumors of other poisonings as well. Was exposing Gawaine's deed worth risking her own life?

  Gawaine shivered as he walked through the rain, though it was not overly cold. He had not liked using his mother's name as a threat, and he would never tell Morgause about the girl's death or Guinevere's anger. But he could not tell Guinevere that Lancelot had killed the girl, for he believed that the queen was the last person Lancelot would want to know. He had seen how Lancelot now looked at Guinevere, and he suspected that Guinevere was the woman Lancelot longed for and could never have. If the whole court spoke of Gawaine as the girl's killer, one of his friends, probably Bedwyr, would insist on making the truth known, and poor Lancelot would commit suicide.

  Gawaine had long since accepted the fact that Guinevere would always dislike him, but he was unnerved by the thought of having to face every day a woman who thought of him and hated him as someone who could murder a girl.

  Guinevere sewed with the ladies who were making new clothes in celebration of the victory. A harper played discreetly in the corner of the room His songs were merrier than they had been during the war.

  Guinevere looked closely at Agatha, a lady of some twenty years who was wedded to the warrior Lucius. "Come to my room, Agatha," she said. "Please help me decide what fabric to choose for my new gown."

  Some of the ladies eyed Agatha as if they envied her for being chosen for that task. Guinevere knew that as soon as she left the room, the ladies would gossip about why Agatha was favored.

  But Agatha herself kept her eyes cast down as she walked reluctantly b
ehind Guinevere. When they were alone in the bedchamber, Guinevere turned to her.

  "You have seemed nervous of late, looking always at the floor. When your sleeves slip down, I can see that there are bruises on your arms. Your husband has beaten you, has he not?"

  Agatha gasped. "No, Lady Guinevere. I hurt myself. I am very clumsy. I fall and bump into the furniture."

  "But you were not so clumsy when he was away at war," Guinevere observed. "Please don't be afraid to tell me. I want to help you. I feel sure that Lucius is beating you."

  "He never did before the war, Lady Guinevere. He's been different since he came back."

  "Arthur will make him stop."

  Agatha wrung her hands. "Please don't tell the king, your highness. I know he doesn't want his men to do such things. I fear he'll send us away."

  Guinevere took hold of the woman's agitated hands. "And then you would be alone with your husband, without any protection. No, Arthur will tell him that he mustn’t never do it again, or risk being sent away. If Lucius were sent away, you wouldn't have to go with him. You could stay here always as one of my ladies."

  Agatha pulled away her hands and put them over her face. "Then everyone would look down on me and say I was a bad wife."

  "I would not allow anyone to mistreat you. I cannot let the beating continue. I must tell Arthur. I shall do all I can to help you." Guinevere tried to sound gentle.

  Agatha nodded, uncovering her face, but she still looked at the floor. Guinevere knew that Arthur would do as she said. He was not a bad man. It was perhaps a pity that she could not love him.

  As the days passed, Agatha's bruises healed, and her gaze was no longer on the floor. Sometimes she smiled at Guinevere.

  In the great hall, Lucius avoided looking directly at Guinevere. Lucius, so proud of his Latin, so sure that he was the most cultivated man at Camelot, must be ashamed at having his brutality found out.

  Women suffered not only during wars, but after them as well, Guinevere thought. Why did men need threats to keep them from injuring the women attached to them?