Lancelot- Her Story

by Carol Anne Douglas

  Knowing that what he said was only a little exaggerated, Guinevere said, "Just one day only. I promise to take care. I value your lives as well as my own."

  She rode down the hill and out of sight as quickly as possible. She enjoyed the feeling of being alone. Somehow she felt free, as if she could travel to Rome or Constantinoplis if she wished. Or if she could wander as Lancelot did. She especially liked seeing the leaves, which shone with spring green, but she wished that Lancelot were there to see them with her. Spring smelled fresher as she put distance between herself and the caer.

  All manner of birds were singing. Lancelot would have been able to identify every song, but Guinevere knew only the most common ones. Sparrows flew up as her horse passed by.

  Coming to a field where new grasses shot up among the brown sedges of winter, she let her horse gallop. As soon as she did, she heard another horse behind her. Turning her head, she saw a warrior in chain mail on a brown horse – an ordinary enough sight – but although he was far away, he seemed to be pursuing her.

  Nonsense, Guinevere told herself, there is no danger. There's likely some good explanation for his behavior. But she headed into the nearest woods.

  When she looked again, the man was gone. Probably he hadn't been pursuing her after all.

  Or perhaps Lancelot really had seen someone that day a year earlier? No, that thought was foolish, Guinevere chided herself. Why would someone pursue her one day, and then not again for more than a year? She wouldn't mention the incident to anyone, for perhaps there was no incident at all. And of course she should not have been riding alone. She knew that it was a foolish risk for a queen to take.

  Lancelot and Gawaine came to a small mountain town and had all the bannock and yellow cheese, and also trout, that they could eat, and were content. They thanked the old peasant woman who had cooked for them, and went outside to sit, watching children and dogs play in the dust. White blossoms grew on the hawthorne trees and scented the air.

  "The people are kind here. I would be well pleased to rest here tonight," Lancelot said. She wondered whether it would be better to ask to stay in one of the thatched huts, which smelled strongly of the animals that lived there, with only a few lathes between them and the people, or to sleep in the open.

  Gawaine smirked. "Ah, yes, we should stay here, but rest is not on my mind. It's Beltane tonight."

  Lancelot groaned. "I never remember it. Very well, go off to your pagan fires. I'll get a good rest and stay with the horses. I don't want mine driven between flames."

  "If we tell them that our horses are too high-strung and we don't want them driven through the fires, they may think we're odd, but they'll let them be." Gawaine slapped Lancelot's shoulder.

  "But they'll never forgive you if you stay away, a handsome man like you. You would be insulting them. These mountain girls are pleasant and sweet. They weave flowers in their hair and sing like angels."

  "Chanting pagan prayers."

  "Chanting the tunes their people have sung for centuries, dancing in the firelight. You don't dance much at Camelot, but perhaps you would like it better under the stars."

  "If it were only a matter of dancing," she said, and sighed. She would like to try dancing in a place where no ladies had matrimonial designs on her. She avoided the feast day reels at Camelot as much as possible.

  "Don't be a fool, Lance, you won't live forever. Just come and dance if you want to do no more." He grinned as if he could see that Lancelot was weakening. "But you likely will want to do more."

  Lancelot shook her head. "I cannot. I am vowed to Guinevere."

  “What, never to kiss another woman? Only you would make such a vow to a married woman.” Gawaine rolled his eyes. “But you know such vows are made to be broken."

  "Mine are not," Lancelot insisted. "Still, I did not vow never to dance."

  As twilight came, a procession of villagers formed, young women and men, and older ones, too. The young women, who were more numerous than the young men, had woven flowers in their hair. All were singing.

  Lancelot blotted out the words to the songs. Going to a Beltane celebration was quite against her principles, but the evening was mild and full of the scent of the first grasses. Little frogs were piping like woodland sprites.

  She went along with the procession, though she did not sing. Men lit the fires and drove the cattle between them. The cows lowed, but they were unhurt. It was the same with the sturdy mountain ponies – they were frightened but not injured. Lancelot watched to see that her horse was not among them. The men drank heather beer. Lancelot did not. She felt intoxicated already.

  Men put branches into the fire, then waved them around, sparks flying. Some of the men with branches drove the cattle and horses back to their byres. An old man played pipes.

  Men and women began to dance in lines, weaving back and forth. Lancelot grabbed an old farmer's rough hand and joined in. Then the dancers paired off. Gawaine danced with a pretty, giggling young woman who surely was too old to be unmarried. Lancelot was thinking about slipping away when a young woman of about eighteen or nineteen with violets woven into her thick, brown hair began to dance with her. Knowing but little of dancing, Lancelot let her set the pace and whirled around with her. Soon both were laughing.

  The girl threw her arms around Lancelot's neck. Lancelot drank in the perfume of her flowered hair.

  "Let's go off. All of the others are," Violet Hair said.

  Some of the couples were slipping off into the trees, and others were falling down without going too far.

  "Will you mind if I do no more than dance and walk with you, fair one?" Lancelot asked. "I will leave the dancing now, but if you want lovemaking, you should choose someone else." She was surprised at how reluctantly she said those words and thought of the woman going off with one of the men.

  Violet Hair's eyes widened. She laughed. "Let's go off, then. There's no one else here I want." Lancelot felt a surge of warmth toward her, and said, "Let's be off, down into the dell," and they whirled off like sparks from the fire, into the darkness.

  Lancelot caught her hand and they ran downhill until they were breathless, beyond the shouts and laughter by the fires, then collapsed by the side of a brook that laughed as much as they did. Violet Hair threw her arms around Lancelot's neck and kissed her mouth joyfully.

  Lancelot pulled back, lying on her side. She felt herself flush with shame for letting the girl come so close. "Please don't be disappointed. You are sweet, but I'll not lie with you tonight. I love another."

  "But this is Beltane." The girl laughed again. "She'd understand. She's probably at some Beltane fire herself."

  Lancelot shook her head. Surely that was the last place that Guinevere ever would be. "No, she's a pious Christian." She begged for forgiveness for that lie about Guinevere's piety. "And so should I be."

  "Holding back at such times goes against nature," Violet Hair said. "What's your name, Handsome? I'm Teleri."

  "I am Antonius." Lancelot rose from the ground. "Let's walk some more. Are you married?"

  Teleri shook her head. "My lad died fighting the Saxons."

  Lancelot sighed and thought how many men had lost their lives. She pressed Teleri's hand.

  They walked by the brook and saw the moon sparkling on the water and stars in the heavens. Lancelot wished that Guinevere was there, but she smiled at Teleri, who reached over and tousled Lancelot's hair. She ruffled Teleri's in return.

  They saw the fire on the hill above, and answering fires on much more distant hills. Lancelot took Teleri's hands and danced with her again, whirling over the fields, stumbling over rocks, and laughing giddily.

  They sank down exhausted, and Teleri tried to kiss Lancelot again. Lancelot pulled away.

  "You're sweet, Teleri," she said again. "Are you happy?"

  "Happy tonight." She smiled tenderly at Lancelot, who could see a little of her face in the bright moonlight. "Do you have trouble rising? I could help you."

  Holdi
ng back laughter, Lancelot said, "Thank you, no. I can make love, but I love someone dearly and have vowed never to lie with another, not even on Beltane. I hope I am not hurting you."

  "No, Handsome, you're not. You told me you wouldn't." She stroked Lancelot's hair. "You're very gentle. But I think you're a little shier than you say."

  "No, let's just look at the stars," Lancelot said, lying back on the ground and surveying the heavens.

  A moment later, Teleri leaned over her and pressed her body to Lancelot's. She pulled back slightly and, still leaning over her, asked, "Are you a woman?"

  "I am," Lancelot said gravely. She moved further away.

  "Is that why you don't want to kiss me? Have you been laughing at me? That was not how it seemed."

  Teleri put her hand on one of Lancelot's.

  "No." Lancelot shook her head. "What I said was true. I love another woman, and I am promised to her. I do like you."

  "Can women like each other so? Why, I think I can." She pressed Lancelot's hand.

  Lancelot returned the pressure. "Perhaps you can, with someone else."

  "You said 'Antonius' as if it wasn't really your name. Now I know why." She touched Lancelot's cheek tentatively. "That man who travels with you, does he know?"

  Lancelot choked. "No, what a thought! Of course he doesn't."

  Teleri giggled, and the laugh spread to Lancelot. As they shook with laughter, Teleri put her arms around Lancelot. "Please show me."

  Lancelot shook her head and gently disentangled herself from Teleri's arms. "I'm sorry. If I were not pledged, I might. But I cannot. Can't we just look up at these stars and be happy?"

  The fires on the hills were burning lower.

  They talked about many things, and walked more, holding hands. As dawn came, Lancelot escorted Teleri back to the village. After they had parted, Lancelot went to look after her horse. She fed the mare, but was not hungry herself. Teleri had given Lancelot food to take with her, cheese and dried pork, which she packed in her saddlebags.

  Lancelot was feeding Gawaine's horse, so it should not suffer if he were delayed, when he strode whistling to the trees where the horses were tied.

  His voice showed no trace of the previous night's drink. "So, Lance, how are you?" he called out cheerfully.

  "Very well indeed. Are you ready to depart, or do you need to go off and sleep?"

  "No, let's go, it's time to leave. All good things must end."

  As their horses trod a winding mountain path, he said, "So Lancelot celebrated Beltane after all." He grinned broadly.

  Lancelot shook her head. "Not so. I celebrated no pagan feasts. I only danced. And a girl kissed me, I must admit."

  "Only a kiss? That's very foolish, if true. But I'm afraid it is." He gave a mock groan.

  "Yes, it is. But I enjoyed meeting her," she said, ignoring the groan. "I'm glad you persuaded me to go. You're very persuasive." She burst out laughing at the idea of Gawaine trying to persuade her to lie with women. Larks were singing in the nearby fields, adding to Lancelot's feeling of contentment.

  "How could I have lain with her? I'm such a good lover that she might have been spoiled for anything else," Lancelot said, choking with laughter.

  "No doubt." Gawaine chuckled. "You're certainly full of cheer from that kiss. But I suppose you don't want me to tell anyone that you went to the Beltane fires."

  She gasped and stared at him in horror. "Lancelot at the Beltane fires! No, please don't!"

  Even if her reputation for holiness was not entirely true, it pleased her a great deal and she didn't want to lose it.

  "Everyone at Camelot would laugh themselves sick," he said. But he added, "No, of course I won't tell, if you mind so much. Men can keep such secrets for each other."

  Lancelot said, "No doubt." St. Agnes's maidenhead, she was more a man than she had reckoned!

  A little later, as they were riding through a mountain pass, a few small rocks fell from a cliff, showing how inhospitable the terrain could be. Patting her mare's neck to calm her, Lancelot wondered what it would be like to live in a tiny place that was scarcely a village, cut off by the mountains from the rest of the world, for all of one's life.

  "What will her life be like? I'll never know."

  Gawaine shook his head. "Plenty of hard work and many children, most likely."

  Lancelot sighed. "I hope not."

  "Just remember how pleasant the night was. Don't wonder about what their lives will be like. That would spoil it all"

  "So that's the key to womanizing," Lancelot replied in a bitter tone. "Well, I cannot do that." Tears formed in her eyes. "I hope she'll be happy, though I doubt it."

  "You care too much, Lance," Gawaine told her.

  "That is far better than caring too little," she retorted, riding off ahead of him. Thoughts crowded her tired brain. Did she want to become more like a man? She answered herself with a resounding no.

  Guinevere smiled with pleasure when Lancelot came to her room the first night after she returned. Lancelot's presence made it seem that sunlight streamed into the room, although they had only the light of a few candles.

  But Lancelot hung down her head and blushed. "I must admit that I went to the Beltane fires with Gawaine."

  "What!" Guinevere grabbed the edge of her table. Unspeakable thoughts crowded her mind.

  "I did dance with a girl and walk off with her, but I did not kiss her though she kissed me. I know that I should not have danced with her so long, when you have no chance to do such things. But she discovered that I was a woman, and she did not mind. I hope she finds some happiness herself. Please forgive me. I'll never do such a thing again." Her head had been bowed the whole time and she had not looked at Guinevere's face.

  "Of course I forgive you." Although Guinevere's muscles relaxed with relief, she did not touch Lancelot.

  "Perhaps the woman's life will be changed for the better, but it would be dangerous if she told your secret."

  "I didn't tell her my true name," Lancelot admitted.

  "No doubt that is not so unusual," Guinevere snapped. "Men probably do that all the time."

  Lancelot winced. "No doubt."

  Rage made Guinevere's head feel as if it would burst. She wanted to yell, "How can you bear to be around Gawaine? Do you condone his killing a girl in the war?" But fear, even stronger than the rage, gripped her. How could she bear it if Lancelot, like Arthur, just accepted this killing as some minor fault? No, she was not ready to hear the answer.

  Then Lancelot took her hand. "Would that we could dance in the fields and under the moon."

  Guinevere saw the love in her face, buried her qualms, and put her arms around her. "Would that we could."

  Guinevere clung to Lancelot and prayed with all her heart that Lancelot would never leave her for someone else, or for any other reason.

  24 The Fisher King

  One evening Lancelot sat at the small table in Arthur's room with the king, Gawaine, and Peredur. Though she felt honored to be one of those invited to come to this smaller table after supping at the great round one, she wondered how soon she could leave and go to Guinevere. No, she remembered, Guinevere was sitting up with Fencha, who had the ague. Guinevere's care for the old serving woman made Lancelot think even more highly of her beloved than she had before.

  Arthur's room was lit by bronze oil lamps adorned with dragons. Several braziers kept the room hot though it was summer and there was little chill. And the wine that his man, Tewdar, poured in the king's room was even finer than usual. Lancelot enjoyed the taste so much that she had difficulty keeping herself to her usual single goblet.

  The talk had drifted to the war, as it so often did. The men liked to discuss the details of battles, but Lancelot would have preferred to forget.

  "Aglovale served you well, did he not?" Arthur asked Lancelot.

  "Indeed," she said, smiling at the thought of her friend, whom she had not seen since the war. "He was not only brave, but wise as well."

&
nbsp; "A fine man," Gawaine added, downing his wine.

  "Such a man should be here at Camelot," the king suggested. Even when slouching slightly, Arthur had a regal air. "I want him in my service. Would you visit him and ask him to join us?"

  "Surely Peredur should be the one to ask," Lancelot replied, looking at that warrior, who did not slouch a little in his chair as the others did. His military bearing belied the social nature of the evening.

  Peredur shook his head. "Aglovale is not overly fond of advice from his older brother. I think he would listen more readily to you."

  "Very well. I surely would like to see him," Lancelot agreed. If only all missions the king sent her on could be as pleasant.

  Slumping in her chair from exhaustion, Guinevere could barely keep her eyes open, but of course she wanted to see Lancelot. She had spent the previous night watching over Fencha, who had had a high fever. Finally, at midday, the fever had broken. The worry that Fencha might die, as so many people did from fevers, left Guinevere drained, almost too tired to stand.

  Lancelot entered, and Guinevere summoned a smile. She looked forward to Lancelot's tender embraces and soothing voice.

  Lancelot's eyes sparkled. "Wonderful news. Arthur is sending me to call on my friend Aglovale and invite him to become one of the king's men. I'm so glad to have the chance to see him."

  Guinevere frowned. "Wonderful, indeed. You'll have a chance to get away from Camelot for a safe and pleasant journey, while I must wait here and long for you." Lancelot flinched, as if she had been slapped. She paused, then hurried to clasp Guinevere's hands. "Dearest, I wish you could come with me. Of course I'll miss you. I don't want you to be lonely."

  Guinevere tried to hold back her resentment. "Come with you? Oh yes, of course. Travel around the country with you. That can never be." Tears welled up in her eyes, and she could see that Lancelot also was on the verge of weeping.

  "I know it's not your fault, my love." Guinevere put her head on Lancelot's shoulder. Though she believed that Lancelot would take her along if she could, Guinevere knew that Lancelot would enjoy the journey anyway, even without her.