Lancelot- Her Story

by Carol Anne Douglas

  If Lancelot was a woman, why would she love another woman? The thought came to him forcefully that Lancelot had seen her mother raped and murdered. That must be why she was as she was.

  The war! Lancelot was a woman, but she had gone through everything, she had seen every horror. Gods! He shuddered. She had saved his life, she had risked herself to save so many lives. Thank the gods he had said he had killed the girl, so Lancelot would not have to bear the shame.

  Gawaine could not sleep, but he was not eager for the day. He didn't plan to let Lancelot know that he knew. She had deceived him, so let him deceive her for a while. Of course he would never tell anyone else. But how could he bear to speak with Lancelot, how could he be around her?

  He had said so many things to Lancelot that he never would have told a woman. She had let him make a fool of himself.

  Before dawn came, Gawaine decided to leave. Lancelot usually rose at dawn – all he wanted was to be gone.

  It was difficult to open the door and get out of the tiny room without stepping over Lancelot. He carried his boots downstairs and put them on at one of the benches. He didn't wake anyone to give him food.

  On his way to the stable, Gawaine laughed. He had always thought it rather callous for a man to leave a woman before she woke! The circumstances now were a little different, but he might as well have a laugh at her expense. She surely had had many at his.

  As he rode off, Gawaine thought of jests he could make to Lancelot. He favored, "Couldn't you trust yourself in bed with me?" That would make her furious. He wasn't sure he wanted to anger her that much.

  The thought that he had lain in bed, frozen and speechless, because the person in the room with him was a woman rather than a man, made Gawaine laugh.

  But, though he didn't want to be with Lancelot at the moment, he was sorry that she was going off into possible danger alone, and he vowed that he would go with her on such missions even more often than he had in the past.

  When Lancelot woke, she saw that Gawaine was gone. No doubt she had offended him, but she couldn't worry about that. All she could think of was leaving as quickly as possible to get Arthur's sword, and hoping that she wouldn't be banished when Morgan told Arthur that she was a woman.

  Clutching something under her cloak, Fencha burst into the queen’s room. She closed the door behind her carefully.

  "My lady, I have a letter from the Lady Morgan to King Uriens!" She thrust a leather packet at Guinevere.

  Guinevere grasped the packet, extracted a sealed vellum letter, and broke the seal.

  "Poor Irion! He will never be able to carry messages again," Fencha said, shaking her head.

  Caring little about the messenger, Guinevere sat down and pored over the missive.

  The honeyed words were all too familiar. Guinevere recognized the style at once. How could Morgan address sixty-year-old Uriens, whom she must not have seen in many years, in such tender terms? Unless these terms were a code for something else.

  Yes, there was something different from her letters to Guinevere. Even if Morgan truly did intend to marry the aged king, who had never had a handsome face, would she need to tell him how many men-at-arms she could summon, or to find out how many Rheged had available? Another kind of alliance was planned.

  This intimate letter to Uriens would make it clear that Morgan had been part of the plot to steal Arthur's sword – indeed, that she was the instigator.

  The thought of siding with Arthur, whom she had never wanted, against Morgan, whom she once had wanted so much, seemed ironic. But Morgan had threatened to reveal Lancelot's sex, which would ruin their lives. Neither did Guinevere want Uriens for a ruler. Arthur was more far-sighted and concerned with the welfare of Britain as a whole.

  Guinevere had no wish to harm Morgan. Arthur would imprison his sister if he knew that she plotted with Uriens. Her pleasant exile at Tintagel would be at an end. A warning should be enough to keep her from further plots, and from disclosing Lancelot's secret. Guinevere sent a message to Morgan.

  Dearest sister,

  I hope as always that you are well. I so appreciate your letters.

  But the ones that come across my path that are not addressed to me are sometimes less pleasant.

  Rheged is very far from Cornwall, too far for a convenient ally. Are you truly considering marrying the ancient Uriens? You have my congratulations if you are. Perhaps you simply want to see the forests and lakes of Rheged. Yet your words about your dower said rather too much about the number of your fighting men for my taste.

  As always, I cherish our friendship and I appreciate your noble ideals.

  As you have wanted a women's council, I give you a woman's counsel. In me, you have an ally. And it is this alliance that you should trust. I shall let no one harm you, nor will you be obscure if it is ever in my power to bring you from Cornwall.

  But you know as well as I who holds the heart of Britain, and who has the skill to bring men together. Do not set the dogs against the bear, or imagine that they would serve you if they could harry him.

  Nor should you reveal my friend's secret, for if you do Arthur will see your letter to Uriens and will know what you intended. Be my friend. You are not the only one who has spies. My silence concerning this matter, if it goes no further, is a proof of my fondness.

  Your sister

  Morgan should learn that the girl who had once hung on her words had grown up, Guinevere thought. Now that she knew what love was, there was no need to play at it with one who toyed with her, as she suspected Morgan had.

  Brooding over her troubles, Lancelot rode across a meadow of brown grasses.

  Wind kept pushing her cloak away from her body, but the cold air seemed only a small matter. A kestrel flew from a tree branch to catch an unlucky mouse, and Lancelot felt that she could be trapped just as easily.

  She scarcely noticed a beautiful lady ride up to her until the lady almost hovered like a kestrel over her.

  The lady, whose golden hair shimmered in the sun, said, "Greetings, noble lord. Who are you?"

  "I am but a poor warrior," Lancelot said, bowing. Even on such an important mission, one should always be courteous. She thought to avoid the usual clamor and adulation that came when she gave the name of Lancelot.

  "Mysteries are always exciting, especially when the Unknown is so handsome," the lady exclaimed with delight. "I am the Lady Lydia, a poor widow," Her cloak was fit for a queen – snowy wool, embroidered with gold, which did not seem prudent in the deserted meadow. "My villa is near, poor wayfarer, and I would be honored if you would be my guest for supper and rest there tonight."

  Lancelot hesitated, but a rumbling in her stomach convinced her. She had no food with her, because she had been too preoccupied to bother with it. The sun would soon set and the wind would likely be stronger that night. Raven needed a night's rest, and Lancelot could do with one as well.

  "Thank you for your kind offer. It has been some days since I have had a proper meal, so I'll gladly accept. But I'm on an important mission and will have to leave by dawn."

  Lancelot's feet felt frozen. She was eager to warm them beside a fire. She was just as glad that she did not have to sleep on the bare ground. The villa was small, but well restored, with even the tile floors in good repair. But the servants moved about uneasily, as if they were accustomed to frequent reprimands.

  Lancelot was pleased to sit in a chair, not on a bench, while she dined. The roasted partridge was so succulent that she ate more than usual.

  Lydia had changed into a red gown embroidered with gold thread and wore a good many jewels.

  After they had eaten, the servants left them alone, and the lady said, "You are so handsome. I hope that you will come to my room tonight." She tried to take hold of Lancelot's hand.

  Why didn't I see this coming, Lancelot sighed inwardly, ignoring the proffered hand. "Thank you for your kind offer, my lady, but I am pledged to another and cannot accept it."

  "You are married?" asked Lyd
ia, pouting.

  "Not exactly, but I am pledged." Perhaps she should have said she was married, Lancelot thought as soon as she spoke the words.

  "She would never know." Lydia batted her eyelashes.

  "But I am true to the lady I love." Lancelot's voice was testy, for she was irked at the lady's presumption. She rose, prepared to spend the night under a tree.

  "Don't go. I long for you." Lydia grasped Lancelot's hand.

  Lancelot wanted to say how little she longed for Lydia, but the habit of courtesy was ingrained in her. "Forgive me, my lady, but I cannot stay here if you continue pressing me to break my pledge."

  Lydia dropped her hand and sighed. "You grieve me, but you may stay here anyway. I wouldn't send you out on this cold night just because you are vowed to another."

  "Thank you, my lady." Lancelot was relieved, for she longed for a bed, though not the lady's.

  "Have some more wine," Lydia urged.

  The wine in the goblet of rare green glass tasted strange, almost biting, but Lancelot was thirsty and drank it nevertheless.

  When Lancelot had retired to her chamber, she found that her head was heavy and throbbing. She slumped onto the bed and fell asleep immediately.

  In the middle of the night, Lancelot felt someone get in the bed beside her. Her heart pounded. She was so groggy that she could scarcely move. Terror seized her. Where was she? What man was this? A fellow warrior? A brigand? A Saxon?

  She struggled to fight back, but her limbs would not obey her. A mouth kissed hers, and she managed to turn her head away. Hands touched her. It was a woman!

  Lancelot's heart ceased thumping wildly. She would not be raped. She recognized the smell of Lydia's perfume. She must stop Lydia without hurting her. "Stop! Don't!" Lancelot cried in a too weak voice. Lydia kissed her neck. "No!" Lancelot gasped, pulling away. "Please, leave!"

  Lydia's hand groped Lancelot's crotch, trying to caress what was not there. It pulled back at finding what was.

  "You're not a man!" Lydia shrieked.

  "You're not a lady!" Lancelot replied angrily, moving away from her.

  "You horrible creature! I kissed and touched a woman! How disgusting!" Lydia cried out.

  "I did everything I could to keep you from it. I certainly didn't want you to." Lancelot glared at her indignantly through the dark.

  "Posing as a man. You shameless thing! How could you be so deceitful?"

  "I am the shameless, deceitful one?" Lancelot almost laughed.

  "You drugged me and got into my bed without my consent."

  "Don't you dare talk to me like that, you monster!” Lydia snarled. “Leave my home at once. I despise you! I never want to see your hideous face again,"

  Lancelot suddenly felt sober. "I never want to see you again either."

  Lancelot hurried to the stables and saddled her horse. How glad she was that she had not told her name! Was this how people would treat her if they learned she was a woman? Perhaps she would soon know the answer.

  Forcing Raven to travel on through the night, Lancelot struggled against yielding to whatever drug Lydia had given her. Lancelot's vision blurred and her ears rang. A Saxon berserker lunged at her horse, and Lancelot swung her sword against him, but felt it hit the wood of a tree stump. Hoping she had not damaged her sword, she sheathed it and moved on. The war is over, she reminded herself. The war is over.

  The forest of Rheged was darker and denser than the forest near Camelot. Day was little different from night. The black muck of the forest floor sucked at her mare's hooves, slowing Raven's progress. Fearing that the sword would arrive at Uriens's hall before she could retrieve it, Lancelot urged the mare on.

  Riding as if pursued, she felt little desire for sleep, but Raven needed rest. She would not kill her horse, even for Arthur’s sake.

  No birds sang at this time of year, but wolves howled at night. These wolves might be hungrier than those she had encountered in the past. But for their mournful sound, the forest seemed deserted. She tried to calm Raven, who was unnerved by the howls.

  Some said that spirits walked in such a forest, but Lancelot tried not to think of that. She lay awake cheerlessly, rising often to put more branches on her fire to keep the wolves away. But she feared Morgan more than the wolves. Regardless of whether Lancelot found the king's sword, Morgan surely would denounce her as a woman because she had not been the one to steal it.

  Little of dawn could penetrate through the thick woods, but Lancelot knew it was no longer night. Patting Raven, she mounted and rode on.

  Soon she could smell a cooking fire. There might be a peasant's hut nearby, but what peasant would want to live in this deep forest?

  She approached cautiously. There was only a small open fire, with a red-haired man tending it.

  It was Cynlas, the young warrior she sought. Filled with anger at the sight of him, she charged up to the fire and swung down from her horse.

  "Traitor! You have stolen the king's sword! Hand it over!" Flourishing her sword, she lunged at him.

  "Lancelot!" Cynlas almost toppled into the fire.

  Before he could recover, she grabbed him by the collar of his tunic and shook him. "Don't resist, or you forfeit your life."

  He kicked her, and she fell onto the ground beside him. She had dropped her sword, and Cynlas threw himself on her back, holding her down. His hands grasped her neck in an attempt to strangle her.

  Summoning all her strength, she forced herself up and twisted free of his grasp. Cynlas leapt up and ran to his horse, but as he swung up she grabbed his leg and pulled him off. He jerked free and ran.

  Something long wrapped in leather hung from his saddle. More concerned about retrieving the king's sword than taking Cynlas back for punishment, she grabbed it from the horse and began to unwrap it. A large amethyst gleamed up at her. Excalibur!

  A score of riders emerged from the path.

  "Lancelot! You've brought me my sword as I knew you would." Thick-jowled, gray-bearded Uriens, followed by some twenty of his men, called out to her. The men surrounded her before she could take more than a few steps towards Raven.

  "I did not!" she exclaimed. "It is King Arthur's sword, and I am returning it to him." She pulled the leather covering off the sword and held it poised for battle.

  "My friend said you would not steal the sword yourself, but you would be the one Arthur sent to retrieve it," Uriens said, not naming Morgan though it was certainly her whom he meant. "And you will yield it to me," he demanded.

  She flourished the heavy Excalibur. "I won't give this sword to anyone but the High King."

  Uriens remained calm. Despite his bulk, he sat his horse well. His hand reached out for the sword. "I am a king, so you may give it to me. You're a great warrior and I don't want to harm you. I would treat you as an honored guest. And I would be right glad if you chose to become one of my warriors.

  "Even you cannot defeat a score of men," Uriens continued. "Would you kill some of them in a hopeless cause? I want the sword, but it is not worth men's lives, certainly not yours. Yield it to me."

  Lancelot hesitated. None of the men advanced on her. She would have to attack them if she wanted to try to escape with the sword. Of course Uriens was right that she could not defeat all twenty of them. He had made the most telling argument: She did not want to kill or injure men needlessly, when she could not possibly win. Much as she wanted to return the sword to Arthur, she would have to yield it up.

  Cynlas had returned to the clearing. He grinned, gloating at Lancelot's predicament.

  She relaxed her sword arm. "You are correct. I cannot succeed against so many. But you should let me return the sword to its rightful owner. The High King will be vexed if you do not."

  Uriens smiled and moved his horse a little closer to Lancelot.

  "Vexed? No doubt. But not angered enough to make war on me, I'll wager. Hand over the sword."

  Thinking that there was little choice, she handed up the sword, hilt extended, and saw the ame
thyst covered by Uriens's large palm. She groaned.

  Uriens held up the sword and his men cheered.

  "I shall hold a feast in celebration." His eyes gleamed with triumph. "Come and be my guest, Lancelot."

  Her pulse beat fast with anger. "I am no guest of yours. I shall never rest until I retrieve the sword."

  Uriens scowled. "Be a guest in my dungeon, then. That might cool your ardor. Take him," he commanded, and several men leapt off their horses and grabbed her. Her own sword she had left on the ground, and one of the men took it. She struck at the men with her fists, but they quickly subdued her.

  "What you're doing is wrong, Father," protested a clean-shaven young man with light brown hair. He wore a gold torque that was nearly as fine as the one on Uriens's neck. "King Arthur is your sovereign. You should return his sword, and you should not imprison Lancelot."

  "Be silent, Uwaine!" Uriens shouted, turning a red face to the young man. "I am sovereign here, and you are my subject."

  Uwaine glowered, but he ceased speaking.

  Lancelot was forced to mount Raven and ride with them. She looked around for a chance to dart off through the trees, but men were guarding her on all sides and the forest was too thick to get through on horseback.

  They brought her to a huge stone and timber hall, surrounded by stables, sheds, and thatch-roofed huts. She dismounted with some dignity, but guards grabbed her arms and pulled her along.

  "So you're the great Lancelot," a foul-breathed guard said contemptuously. "Not willing to die for King Arthur's sword, were you? Perhaps after you've had some time in the dungeon you'll be sorry you didn't."

  She was taken to a pit with a barred grate over it. Guards pulled back the grate and thrust down a ladder for her to climb. She climbed down, saw the ladder withdrawn, and heard the grate close over her.

  She stood in a dark pit with filthy straw on the floor. The smell of wastes of the men who had been here before her was almost overwhelming, but at least she was alone.