And why did Arthur tolerate far worse violence from Gawaine? Guinevere bit her lips.
Lancelot winced slightly at the boastful songs a harper sang in the great hall. After the victory over the Saxons, bards came to sing the praises of Arthur, even more than they had before. Some made it sound as if he had won the victory single-handed, or with a handful of warriors, rather than with thousands of men, a good number of whom had died. "Arthur the Saxon-Slayer," sang the harper, adding that name to his title of Arthur the Just.
"Arthur the Saxon-Slayer!" yelled the warriors in response. The select group of warriors who went to drink in Arthur’s room after listening to the harper sing about him began to jest.
"Did you know that Arthur discovered Britain?" Dinadan asked. "It was an unpopulated island before."
"No, but it was he, not the Romans, who brought Christianity to Britain," Bedwyr replied, swilling his wine.
"No one knew how to write until Arthur discovered writing," Gawaine said.
"People wore only skins before Arthur discovered clothing," Dinadan countered.
"People did not know how to cook food until Arthur discovered cooking," Cai contributed. He drank his wine slowly, as if savoring it.
"Did you know that Arthur defeated Julius Caesar?" Gawaine asked, thudding his wine cup on the table for emphasis.
"First, he defeated Alexander," said Cai.
"The pharaohs feared him too much to fight him," Dinadan contributed, clinking his winecup against Cai's.
Lancelot told no such jests, but she smiled a little.
She saw that Arthur laughed merrily at the jests, and she thought it showed how little vanity he had that he could do so.
But all of these men would die for him. If jests of this nature had been composed by a bard and told around Britain, it would have been a devastating attack, and a great shame. The warriors kept the teasing at home, and she approved of that.
The warriors sparred in the practice room, as they generally did on a cold day. When most of the men had finished and gone off to drink hot ale in the great hall, Gawaine motioned Lancelot to stay.
Having little desire to drink at midday, Lancelot remained. She leaned against the cold wall, which felt good when she was sweating.
"I can hardly believe we are back at Camelot fighting only in practice," Lancelot said, shaking her head. "It's like a dream."
Gawaine grinned, as he used to before the war. "It's real enough. I still feel the hit you gave my shoulder a little while ago." He rubbed it, as if the blow had been hard, which it had not. "In past times, you used both hands to fight. Do you want to practice using your left hand again? I think you could still find a way to hold a knife."
Lancelot stared at her damaged hand. The wound had healed, although she sometimes thought she felt pain in the missing fingers, impossible though that was. "I could try," she said hesitantly. "I've never seen anyone fight holding a knife with three fingers."
"But you are Lancelot, so you could do it." He spoke her name as if he were a bard singing her praises. "Want to get your knife?"
"Indeed I do." She smiled, which she rarely did now.
Lancelot had never felt so clumsy. Holding her knife seemed so awkward, and of course it hurt. Sometimes she dropped it, and cursed when she did. But she practiced often with Gawaine, and in time she could fight left-handed with her knife and even hold her sword two-handed for sweeping blows.
One evening Arthur summoned Guinevere to his room. Old Merlin already sat there. The king had a faraway look in his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder whether we should carry our peace and justice to the continent, now that we have defeated the Saxons. No doubt the empire would welcome a good ruler."
Guinevere held back a gasp. Scowling, Merlin spoke sharply. "What do you want with a lot of foreign subjects to plot against you? Here are your people, here you are loved and needed."
Guinevere made her voice softer. "The people love you because you have brought peace. Surely the spirit of King Arthur's reign is the spirit of peace and moderation. You have already shown that you are the greatest war leader in the world. There is no need to show it again."
Arthur smiled and patted her hand. "Thank you, my dear. ‘The spirit of King Arthur' – I like that."
Merlin's voice was not sweet, but his words were. "In centuries to come, no one will even remember whether there was an emperor at Rome in the Age of Arthur. That is what this time will be called, the Arthurian Age."
Arthur repeated the words caressingly. "The Age of Arthur. The Arthurian Age. Too good to be true, of course. You flatter me."
Guinevere silently agreed, thinking this praise a little fulsome even for a king. But she was glad that someone else also tried to curb Arthur's ambitions. The thought of another war, an unnecessary one, made her want to scream.
Guinevere pondered how she could stop lying with her husband without angering him. She wondered through the long nights. She tried to plan while she was sewing, while she sat through endless meals at the table, while she was walking from room to room, while she was riding through forest and field – and even when she was working on the tax documents, which made her all the more severe with those who failed to pay.
Lancelot's pale face and the sad, sometimes even vacant look in Lancelot's eyes nearly drove Guinevere mad. The hollow tone in Lancelot's voice haunted Guinevere. She must act, she must save Lancelot. The need was no less urgent than when Gryffyd had his spell of madness and nearly struck down Lancelot.
On a chill winter afternoon, Guinevere asked Arthur's body servant, Tewdar, to tell her when the king was alone.
When the man brought her that information, she thanked him and went to the king's private chamber.
She wore a pearl gray gown of the finest material.
"My Lord Arthur, may I have a word with you?" she asked, entering the room.
Arthur sat reading a report that she had written on tax records. "Of course, my dear," he said, putting down the report. "I am pleased that you came to speak with me. This is a fine report, but I am even more interested to learn what you observed about the lesser kings' tribute that you could not put in writing."
"Thank you for your confidence in me. As you know, Uriens of Rheged never pays all that he should. He always claims to have far fewer horses than he does. But there is another matter I would like to discuss." Her voice became quieter.
"Yes?" He clearly was listening to her.
"I do every service that I can for you, but like everyone else, I am better at some things than at others," she said. She paused.
"For once, I disagree. You are excellent at everything you undertake." He smiled at her in the same way that he smiled at his favorite warriors, or even as he smiled at Merlin.
She had always hoped that he would give her that smile. "It seems certain that we shall not have a child."
Arthur's smile changed, but he had enough control to prevent it from fading too much. "I cannot forget the prophecy..."
"I understand. I am glad that you are always kind to me." Guinevere smiled without any hint of flirtation. "But you must perceive that I am not skilled in the way of a woman with a man."
He stretched out a hand to her. "My dear, please..."
"Pray let me continue." She looked him in the eye. "I so appreciate your kindness in trying to be a good husband to a cool-tempered wife, but if there is no question of a child, surely you can find more pleasure with other women. It will not hurt me if you cease visiting my bed, as long as I can serve you in other ways."
Arthur said nothing. He twisted his ring of office. Then he returned her look. "I prize you highly, my dear. You are indeed a queen. I am glad that I married you. No other woman could help me as much as you have, or could be so understanding." He took her hand and clasped it. "Please let me know if you want me to resume my duties to you as a husband. You are still beautiful, and I would deem it a pleasure. I don't want you to feel lonely or neglected."
"I know you will always do your duty to
me, as you do to your kingdom." She accepted his hand and touched it lightly. "I am proud to be queen of the greatest kingdom in the world."
He rose, came over to her, and kissed her cheek. She kissed his and left the room.
Her heart beat wildly. She had been sure that he was so clever that telling as much of the truth as she could would be the best tactic.
Part III The Queen’s Warrior
21 The Queen
Lancelot tried out new horses, but none suited her. Perhaps she was too particular, too unwilling to replace Arrow, she told herself. One morning she rode Whirlwind, a brown stallion that the grooms said was skittish. When Lancelot saddled him, he tried to bite her, but she gave him a dried apple to calm him.
The first buds were starting to form on the trees, but Lancelot paid them little heed. Her mind turned to the day she first saw Guinevere. Perhaps it would have been better if they had never met. How full of anticipation she had been when she first came to Camelot, how full of hopes!
She crossed a swollen stream, spilling over with silt, twigs, and dead leaves, dulled but turbulent, like her soul. Spring frogs were piping. No doubt their chances of mating were far better than hers. She came out upon a ridge overlooking a large meadow. A single horse and rider galloped across the meadow. Guinevere! If only Lancelot could join her and be joined to her.
But why did Guinevere ride so fast? Another rider was pursuing her! All thoughts of herself forgotten, Lancelot kicked Whirlwind into a gallop and rushed into a mad pursuit. Let the horse's name be true! Lancelot's heart pounded and her blood rushed through her veins as it had not in many a day. She directed her horse to go between Guinevere and the pursuer.
She could see Guinevere's horse enter the woods, but she no longer saw the pursuer. Did he want to capture the queen and hold her for ransom? Did he even recognize Guinevere as the queen, or did he simply intend the rape of a beautiful woman?
Lancelot raced into the woods, though the path was tangled. Before she could change Whirlwind's course, he dashed so close to a tree that a branch struck her chest and knocked her off.
As she fell, Lancelot thought, God protect Guinevere. Perhaps I'll die now, not suicide, so maybe not damnation.
Her foot caught in the stirrup, and the horse ran, dragging Lancelot along. Her body thudded against the ground; her head hit stones. She prayed for a quick death.
Lancelot was barely conscious, but she heard another horse gallop up to Whirlwind. Its rider somehow stopped the runaway horse. One of her fellow warriors must have seen her. But he should instead have ridden to rescue the queen.
Lancelot felt too weak to open her eyes, which were filled with dust. Someone took her foot out of the stirrup. She felt kisses on her lips – Guinevere's. The queen knelt beside her, sobbing and calling, "Lancelot, Lancelot." For a moment, all Lancelot could think was how good the kisses felt, though her head and much of her body ached.
Lancelot forced her eyes to open.
"You're alive! Thanks be to Heaven," Guinevere cried. She put her hands on Lancelot's cheeks. Guinevere's face was contorted and her eyes were wild. "Say you're all right!"
"Yes," Lancelot said, disturbed that her own voice sounded so weak. Guinevere looked at her as if Lancelot were an angel bringing a divine message. She stroked Lancelot's forehead.
"Are you the one who stopped Whirlwind? I had no idea you could stop a runaway horse."
"I've always been good with horses, thank Saint Hippolytus," Guinevere said, invoking those beasts' patron saint. "Of course I've never done anything like that before, but this time I had to." Her voice trembled.
Lancelot could barely open her eyes wide enough to see that Guinevere had tethered both horses to a nearby tree.
Lancelot recalled how she had fallen. "Where is the man who was pursuing you?"
Guinevere's eyes widened, though they had seemed as wide open as possible. "No one was pursuing me, except you. I was just letting my horse run. Then you frightened me because I didn't recognize the horse you rode. But when you fell, I looked back and saw you. I had to save you."
"But a man was pursuing you," Lancelot mumbled, taxing her aching brain.
Guinevere shook her head. "There was no one. Your eyes deceived you."
Lancelot felt a chill. Was she mad? Hadn't she seen another horse and rider? Was it perhaps a shadow? Did she fear so much for Guinevere's safety that she imagined danger where none existed?
"My horse startled a deer that ran across the meadow. That must have been what you saw." Guinevere touched Lancelot's cheek.
"Perhaps it was. Why were you riding alone?"
"I was hoping I might meet you."
Those words were sweet to hear. But Lancelot felt her face flush. "I wanted to save you, but you saved me."
The queen smiled. "It doesn't matter who saved whom, dearest. Try to raise your head. Not too fast, though."
Not wanting to worry Guinevere, Lancelot raised her aching head and sat up.
"Did that hurt? Are any bones broken?" Guinevere ran her hands over Lancelot's arms and legs.
"I'm not seriously hurt," Lancelot reassured her. The touch of Guinevere's hands made Lancelot's heart beat faster than ever.
Guinevere's mouth touched Lancelot's lips again. Lancelot thought she might pass out, this time from bliss.
"I love you." Guinevere's voice was so full of passion as to be almost unrecognizable. "I will love you now, I must. I won't be put off."
Lancelot wished she could die at that moment, before she had to say her next words. "You don't understand. I am a woman."
Guinevere looked in her eyes. “Of course, I know that. I always have."
Lancelot reeled as she had when falling off the horse. "But you love me despite that?"
"I love you not in spite of your being a woman, but because you are a woman." Guinevere covered her face with kisses. "You foolish dear, I've hinted so many times that I knew your secret. How could you not understand me?"
Lancelot pulled back. "Arthur..."
"I never loved him, I never wanted to marry him. Don't reject me for doing what I most hated! I have never loved anyone but you. Don't be uneasy. I have stopped lying with him; I never will again. I know you love me. Please say you do." The proud queen's eyes, like her voice, actually begged Lancelot to respond.
Lancelot choked. "You know I do." She herself was no doubt damned already, but Guinevere was not. "But how can I endanger your soul..."
"I am a grown woman. Let me be the keeper of my own soul. Surely coming near to hating my husband because I had to lie with him was a greater sin than loving you could be."
Lancelot gasped. How could anyone hate Arthur? But she too would hate if she were forced to lie with someone she did not love. Guinevere kissed her mouth again, and Lancelot returned the kiss. What Guinevere said was true. Nothing mattered but loving each other.
Guinevere's hands slipped under Lancelot's tunic, and helped her take it off. As if she were finally taking off a lifetime of chain mail, Lancelot yielded.
Guinevere unwound the cloth that flattened Lancelot's breasts. Guinevere's soft hands covered her with caresses.
Lancelot could scarcely believe that Guinevere wanted to touch her thin, hard-muscled body.
To Lancelot's astonishment, Guinevere's mouth followed her hands. Despite all the years of binding, Lancelot's breasts could feel the touch.
"Don't be afraid," Guinevere soothed her.
When Guinevere's mouth touched the parts that she had covered most carefully, Lancelot was stunned. She could scarcely believe that anyone would do such a thing. It was frighteningly good. She had heard that newborn bear cubs had no shape until they were licked, and that was how she felt, started into the world.
Lancelot began to touch Guinevere. At first, she used her right hand only because she feared her mutilated left hand might disgust the queen.
Guinevere took both of Lancelot's hands in hers. "Touch me with both your hands, dearest. I love your hands because they
are yours, as I love every part of you."
Lancelot stroked Guinevere as Guinevere had stroked her, finding all the places that were far lovelier than any gown that had ever covered them. She tasted Guinevere. When Guinevere cried out, Lancelot was overwhelmed with delight. Soon Lancelot saw the dear eyes closed, and she believed that Guinevere slept.
Am I completely mad? Lancelot wondered, lying beside Guinevere. I must be under some spell or in some other world. Nothing could be this good. It will not last. When Guinevere wakes and sees me beside her, she might scream. She cannot possibly want me as much as I want her. She will spurn me, and it will be unbearable. I'll have to run off deep into the forest and become a hermit, if I don't go entirely mad.
Guinevere opened her eyes and looked into Lancelot's. "This is the only joy I have ever known. I have never loved anyone but you. You are the dearest person on earth, dearer to me than my own self. I fear that you will shrink from me as a wicked woman who drove you to sin, and I cannot bear it." Guinevere's eyes were full of tears. Her face glowed like a Madonna's.
Or perhaps, Lancelot thought irreverently, Madonnas were made to have the look of a woman whose face was contemplating the one she loved. The look was enough to live for. Lancelot tried to return it, and knew from Guinevere's eyes that she had succeeded.
She had been wrong to turn away from Guinevere's look these past years.
"You are my love and my joy," Lancelot murmured. "There really is such a thing as joy. I had scarcely believed it before."
She kissed Guinevere's lips. For the first time since Lancelot's childhood, happiness seemed possible. She held Guinevere close for a long time, but it seemed only a moment before Guinevere said, "We must dress and return to Camelot."
She began pulling bits of leaves out of her hair.
Sighing, Lancelot rebound her breasts and put on her tunic, which seemed like returning to armor.
Lancelot- Her Story Page 30