Lancelot- Her Story

by Carol Anne Douglas

  "My lady, I will not help you." Lancelot trembled with anger, not unmixed with a touch of fear of discovery. "How do you know I won't tell him about your plan?"

  "If you do, he would learn more quickly that you are a woman."

  Morgan grabbed another shell and tossed it after the other one. "I shall give you until next autumn to decide. If you do not help me, perhaps Arthur will learn the truth about you. You would never know when the message would come or who would bring it, but your life would be changed forever."

  The gulls' shrieks seemed louder, as if the birds might descend and tear at Lancelot's flesh.

  "I have done you no harm, so you have no reason to do me harm," Lancelot said. "You may give me time, but I will not change my mind. I thank you for healing me, my lady, but I must leave now."

  Morgan nodded with queenly grace. "Yes, you may leave, strange woman. Don't tell my brother that you saw me, or you may discover the limits of his friendship. He is jealous of anyone who comes near me. You will find your horse in the stable, and my armorer will give you a sword. Farewell."

  Lancelot bowed slightly to her, retrieved her horse from the stable, accepted the sword, and rode over the steep causeway back to the cliffs of the mainland.

  The waves lashing at the black rocks below confirmed her belief that Tintagel was a dangerous place. She knew that Morgan spoke truly that Arthur would not be pleased to hear that Lancelot had been healed by his sister. She would tell only Guinevere that Morgan had healed her.

  Her heart was heavy with the fear that Morgan would reveal the truth about her sex.

  What would Arthur do if he knew? Would the knowledge that he had relied on a woman to lead troops anger him? Would he be enraged at her deception, and never trust her again? Would he send her off so no one would ever learn that his famous warrior had been a woman?

  If she had to leave, would Guinevere run away with her?

  Would Arthur say Lancelot could stay, but demand that she give up fighting? What would she do if she could not fight, or even train others to fight? Would the king want her to dress in different clothes, change her walk and her speech? Would he order her to give up her very name?

  She would not. She would go somewhere, anywhere, where she did not have to dress in skirts and gaze away modestly when men looked at her.

  How many of men's beliefs had she shared? How often had she thought that a woman who looked her in the eye was too bold? She regretted those judgments now.

  Would Guinevere still love her if she wore women's clothes?

  Lancelot's heart constricted with the thought that Guinevere might not.

  Guinevere had difficulty concentrating on her reading.

  Lancelot had been gone so long. Arthur should not let his great warrior face risks so often.

  Guinevere heard a sound at the door hidden behind her tapestry. Her heart beat faster. The tapestry waved, and Lancelot entered the room. This was the first time she had ever come to visit Guinevere before returning more formally to Arthur.

  Lancelot's face was pale in the candlelight. Guinevere rose to greet her but was struck by the pain in Lancelot's brown eyes.

  "You look much worn from your journey."

  "I was wounded by brigands and left for dead, but the Lady Morgan found me and saved me."

  Guinevere felt a pain in her chest as if she had been wounded herself. She kissed Lancelot ardently and held her.

  "I almost lost you! Thank the Virgin that Morgan saved you! Let me see where you were wounded." She pulled at the tunic, not waiting for Lancelot to take it off. A moan escaped from Lancelot's lips. A large bandage covered her shoulder. The sight tore at Guinevere's heart.

  "It must pain you a great deal. How did you ever manage to ride here?"

  "It doesn't hurt so much."

  "Oh, don't talk so much like a man. Of course it does."

  "Not enough to keep me from kissing you." Lancelot kissed her lips and nuzzled her neck.

  Guinevere sighed with contentment.

  Pressing her close, Lancelot said, "Morgan has no good will toward Arthur."

  "How could she?" asked Guinevere sharply.

  "If a man you trusted let you be called a witch and sent you to a remote place of exile, would you have much love for him?"

  "No, but she seemed to think that because I love you I might betray him," Lancelot replied. "I cannot be pleased by that."

  "No doubt she was just trying to learn what you truly think," Guinevere said, nuzzling her in return. She had no desire to talk about Arthur or Morgan or to do anything but kiss Lancelot. "Sit down and rest. You must be tired."

  Lancelot sunk into a chair. "I am."

  Guinevere poured wine for her and cut a slice from a cheese that stood on the table.

  "You are so good and sweet," she said. "There is nothing in you but gentleness. It's true what they say, that you're the best and kindest warrior in the world."

  Lancelot pulled away. She ignored the wine and cheese.

  "I'm not. But I'm not what Morgan thinks, either. She asked me to steal Arthur's sword and give it to Uriens of Rheged, and said she would tell Arthur I'm a woman if I did not."

  "No! I can't believe that Morgan would harm you!" Guinevere recoiled, feeling as if someone had hit her in the stomach. "I thought she was a friend. Surely she wouldn't tell."

  "She said she would if I did not steal the sword, and of course I cannot." Lancelot's face had new lines in it.

  "Of course you can't. Why would she want to promote old Uriens? He's just an ordinary chieftain who drinks too much when he comes here at Pentecost." Feeling weak, Guinevere sank down in a chair.

  "He's pagan, as she is," Lancelot explained, frowning. She rose and paced about the room. "She said she wanted just to weaken Arthur, not destroy him. Perhaps I should tell him all the truth, even that I am a woman, so that I need not fear what Morgan would say."

  "You cannot!" Putting out a hand to restrain Lancelot, Guinevere felt as if the breeze that blew into her room was a bitter wind. "Arthur would never understand. You could not be his warrior anymore, and we might be parted." She felt sure that Arthur would no longer stay away from her if he knew that her lover was not a man. Guinevere shuddered.

  "We will never be parted," Lancelot said, taking her hand. "I fear you are right that I cannot tell Arthur. Yet I worry that I betray him by not informing him of Morgan's plot."

  "It will never succeed. No one who is close to him would steal his sword. We must find some other evidence of this plot that does not implicate you." Guinevere's voice was grim. "Or me. She approached me a year or two ago with a suggestion for a plot, but I refused her."

  Lancelot gasped. Guinevere took a deep breath. "I was a fool not to realize that she would also approach others. But I never could have imagined that she would try to involve you, much less threaten you." She tightened her grip on Lancelot's hand.

  The beeswax candles still glowed on her table, but it seemed as if the room had darkened.

  "Would you still love me if I were forced to wear a woman's gown?" Lancelot asked.

  Guinevere’s eyes opened wide with astonishment. "You would be my beauty in any clothes, but we need to be as we are now. And I like you best in no clothes at all." She stroked Lancelot's hair, and the room began to lighten again.

  When Fencha brought wheaten bread for Guinevere's breakfast, Guinevere put it aside and took hold of the old woman's hands. "It is more urgent that I learn about Morgan's letters." She looked deep into Fencha's eyes. "I must know if she sends messages to King Uriens of Rheged. Indeed, I must see any such message. If not, harm may come to me."

  "Oh, my lady, she would never harm you!" Fencha exclaimed, her eyes widening.

  "She might harm Lancelot, which amounts to the same thing." Guinevere could hear the anxiety in her own voice. There was no need to feign queenly serenity with Fencha. "Please help me."

  "Of course, my lady." The old woman returned Guinevere's pressure on her hands.

  Lan
celot sat in Arthur's room, where she and Gawaine drank with the king after supper. As usual, she drank one cup of wine for every two or three of Arthur's and Gawaine's. Her eyes strayed to the sword hanging on the wall. The candlelight made the great amethyst on the pommel sparkle.

  Of course swords were not magical. Would it injure the king so much to lose it? He could easily have another made that was as good or better. She bit her lip. How could she even think such a thing? Perhaps she should tell him the truth. Guinevere might be wrong in her belief that he would not understand.

  "I have such a weakness for pretty women," Gawaine said, quaffing some of the king's best wine. "No doubt that will be my undoing."

  "If you don't watch out, it might be." Arthur chuckled. "Don't let them weaken you. You always have to keep the upper hand. Women are foolish and tricky unless they have a man to guide them."

  "Oh, I'll guide them — right to bed," Gawaine retorted, stretching.

  Lancelot sighed inwardly. No, neither her king nor her good friend could ever understand her. They would no longer be her friends if they knew the truth.

  She eyed the sword again. Was a blade worth more than her life, her happiness?

  Perhaps not, but her honor was worth more than her life. What honor would she have left if the king learned she was a woman? Would he simply laugh at her, see her as a little fool pretending to be a warrior? Would he tell Gawaine, and would Gawaine also laugh? Would they never respect her again?

  If Arthur didn't respect her, would Guinevere be able to love her? Why was Guinevere so distressed at the thought of Arthur knowing? Would Guinevere not let herself love a woman if her husband knew their love for what it was?

  Lancelot choked on her wine.

  "Isn't the wine good? Should I call for another jar?" Arthur asked.

  "No, it's very good," she managed to say. Indeed, she was tempted to drink until her worries were drowned. Why did Morgan leave her so many months to wait? Her fears grew and the anticipation of – she knew not what – was nearly unbearable.

  On her way to train the lads learning to be warriors, Lancelot shivered. She could see her breath. The morning frost gave the practice yard a silvery glow as if it had been enchanted overnight.

  The king's body servant, Tewdar, hurried across the courtyard to her. Even though he limped, he could manage a run.

  "The king bids you come to his room without delay, my lord." The man's voice had an edge to it.

  "Of course."

  What could the trouble be? A Saxon invasion? An uprising? Lancelot's stride carried her quickly back across the courtyard and through the caer to the king.

  Arthur was pacing about his room. Deep wrinkles creased his brow, making him look years older than he had the night before.

  "Lance! My sword is gone!" he exclaimed, putting his hands to his head. "Someone has stolen Excalibur."

  "It cannot be!" She shuddered. Morgan had given her until autumn to steal the sword, but autumn was nearly over and Lancelot had not. Now someone else had. She had not warned the king. The pit of her stomach sank. Perhaps it was her fault. "How could anyone have taken it from your room?"

  "I was in a lady's room, and the guards must have been careless about watching my door. I must have that sword!" His hands made fists. "I let everyone think that the sword was magical, had been given me by a mysterious lady's hand emerging from a lake. That made it too tempting for someone who wishes me ill to steal. Now people will believe that I've lost power. Whoever did this will be drawn and quartered." His gray eyes showed as much distress as if he had lost his best friend. "If anyone asks where it is, I shall say that the amethyst was coming loose and had to be reset. You must find the sword for me. I can trust you to keep this secret for as long as possible."

  "Of course I shall keep this loss secret. Do you have any idea who could have taken it or where they could have gone?" She thought she knew the answer to the latter question.

  "No." He shook his head. "But I have asked the guards who has left the caer since yesterday. Two of the young warriors, Cynlas and Beric, left after dark. It could be either of them, or of course someone else."

  "I'll track them down and find who did it," Lancelot promised. She would set off on the road to Rheged. Cynlas, conspicuous because of his brilliant red hair, was from Rheged, so she thought he was the likely thief. "I'll follow Cynlas."

  "I knew I could depend on you. I'll send Gawaine, the only other man I trust as much as you, after Beric."

  The king put his hand on her shoulder and it was all she could do to refrain from flinching. She felt that she did not deserve his trust.

  Gawaine's chest almost burst with rage at the stealing of Arthur's sword. If he caught the man who did it, the traitor would wish he had never been born.

  Gawaine and Lancelot rode north as fast as they could, until they would reach a crossroad where he would go on to Eburacum, where Beric's family lived, and Lancelot would go towards Rheged. Bent on their task, they were much more silent than usual. Gawaine could see that Lancelot was as anxious as he was. Indeed, Lancelot's face was pale, though Gawaine thought his own must be red, as it was likely to be in the cold.

  The trees had lost their leaves, and Gawaine was not eager to sleep under them and feel the whistling wind all night. But not long after dark, he spied the welcome light of a tavern he had visited in previous travels.

  "A tavern! Good, we'll have a bed for the night," Gawaine said.

  "I'd rather sleep in the open air," Lancelot replied in a strange voice.

  "Whatever for? I think it will rain by midnight. It's a good night to be under a roof." Gawaine stared at Lancelot.

  "If we slept at the tavern, we might get lice," Lancelot objected, not returning Gawaine's look.

  "What, have you never had lice before?" Gawaine jeered.

  "Of course, but..."

  "Time enough to worry about cleanliness when we get back to Camelot. I've stayed at this tavern. It was reasonably clean and had passable food. Come on." Taking no more time for talk, he advanced to the stableyard and handed over his horse to a stablehand.

  A pleasing fire blazed in the tavern's firepit.

  The tavernkeeper, who had wrinkles almost as deep as his tankards of ale, greeted Gawaine with a sweeping gesture.

  "My lord Gawaine! You're in luck. We have a bed for you and your friend, even a room of your own!"

  "Very good!" Gawaine flashed the man a smile.

  "I don't suppose there might be two rooms?" Lancelot asked.

  "No, my lord. I have only one other room, and there are already three men in that bed," said the tavernkeeper, pouring hot mead for them.

  When the tavernkeeper went off to get them some stew, Lancelot said, "Perhaps I'll sleep in the stable."

  Gawaine groaned. Why was Lancelot so odd at times?

  "Don't worry, they'll take good care of your horse. You would look like a fool."

  "Very well." But Lancelot sounded far from pleased.

  Steaming bowls of stew arrived at their table, and Gawaine turned his attention to the food. The meat was tough mutton, not so strange at this time of year. Even as they ate, a pelting rain almost drowned out their talk. Thank the gods they could sleep indoors.

  They went to the room, and it was so small that there was barely room for the bed, but Gawaine cared not at all. There was a candle, but he didn't light it. He sat on the bed and pulled off his boots.

  The room was cold, so he laid down without taking off his clothes, pulled up the blanket, and closed his eyes.

  "I think I'll sleep on the floor," Lancelot said.

  "What!" Gawaine started up. "Are you mad? Why should you want to sleep on the floor? There's scarcely room to lie down."

  "I don't mind. It will be fine."

  "Are you afraid I'll give you lice? I don't have any at the moment." He could hardly keep his voice below a shout.

  "No, there's nothing the matter with you. I just want to sleep on the floor."

  "That's the mo
st foolish thing I've ever heard."

  Gawaine was angry, and even more so because he wanted to go to sleep and not be distracted by nonsense. "I've never been so insulted. No man would refuse to share a bed with any of his friends, or indeed, with a stranger who wasn't completely filthy."

  "It's just my fancy. Don't let it bother you. Goodnight."

  Gawaine grumbled to himself. He had never heard of a man doing such a thing. Clapping his hand over his mouth, he held back a gasp. Indeed, no man would have refused to share a bed with him. Lancelot was a woman! The modesty, the smooth cheeks, the endless sympathy with women! What a fool he was, never to have realized! Gawaine tried to make no noise. He didn't want to talk to Lancelot.

  If Lancelot had not made such a fuss about sleeping in the bed, they could have both slept in it and he'd likely have been none the wiser. But she was too embarrassed. Ridiculous, since she was almost as close to him on the floor as she would have been in the bed. And they had often slept a few yards from each other under the trees.

  A woman had defeated him in fighting, many times! True, he had often defeated her, too, but he never would have fought her in the first place if he'd known she was a woman. How could it be that she fought so well? His own pride had kept him from seeing what should have been obvious. Her cheeks were only a little raw, with never any stubble. She could have rubbed them with something to make them look raw.

  Lancelot was false. His best friend – but was she truly his friend? – had deceived him for some dozen years. If Lancelot was false, likely no one was true. The only people he had trusted as much were his mother and Arthur, and they both would do questionable things for their kingdoms, and for their own power. Bors was good enough, but he would do whatever a priest told him to do, whether it made sense or not. Lancelot had seemed better than anyone else. Except for Lancelot's love for Guinevere.

  Guinevere! Was Lancelot's love for her just a pretense, an excuse for not having a wife? Could she really be Arthur's mistress, not Guinevere's lover? No, for then Arthur would never have sent Lancelot off on so many dangerous missions. Lancelot's passion for Guinevere – the strangest thing of all –was real enough.