Lancelot- Her Story

by Carol Anne Douglas

  How long would it take before they found out she was a woman? Uriens had made no sign that he knew, so perhaps Morgan hadn't told him – yet. But how could she keep her secret as a prisoner? Perhaps she should have accepted the offer to be a guest after all. Yet she could not, for it would then seem as if she gave up the sword willingly. Unnerved by the darkness, she paced about the small cell. She heard a scratching sound in a corner. Rats, no doubt. She shuddered at the thought of lying down and trying to sleep on the filthy straw with rats molesting her.

  Time passed, but still she remained upright. To keep calm, she counted the number of times that she paced the cell, but she stopped counting after one thousand. She feared that she would start seeing the corpses from the war again.

  How long would she be away from the trees and the grass, the birds and the smell of flowers? She needed them as she needed water.

  "Lancelot!" a voice called down to her.

  It did not sound menacing.

  "Yes?"

  "I am Uwaine, King Uriens's youngest son. I've come to get you out of the dungeon. The king is holding his feast and I've sent the guards off to get their share of meat and ale."

  The grate creaked open and a ladder appeared.

  Though her limbs were stiff, she scrambled up the ladder.

  "Many thanks," she exclaimed, as Uwaine caught hold of her arm and helped her out.

  "My father pays no heed to me. I knew he was wrong. All my life I have wanted to become one of King Arthur's warriors. Will you put in a good word for me?" he pleaded.

  "Indeed!" She would put in many, if Arthur would ever listen to her again.

  But Arthur's name reminded her of the sword.

  "I can't leave without King Arthur's sword." She sighed.

  "A friend of yours has taken it from my father's quarters. I think my father will be too drunk when the feast is over to notice that it's gone, if he doesn't just collapse where he sits, as he often does." Uwaine's voice was bitter, as if his father had disappointed him many times.

  "A friend of mine?" Who could that be?

  "Which of your friends is good at taking things?" said a familiar voice.

  "Drian!" Lancelot exclaimed with delight.

  "I was complaining at the feast about my father's imprisoning you," Uwaine said, "and, after most of the men were drunk, this harper came up to me and suggested that we help you escape and get the sword."

  "Look." Drian handed Lancelot a long object in leather.

  "Can it be?" Lancelot eagerly tore at the wrapping and opened it enough to see a purple gleam on the end. Lancelot clutched the sword. "But Uwaine, won't your father blame and punish you?"

  "He might, but I can take it. What can he do? I am his son, after all."

  "He might disinherit you."

  "He might." Uwaine nodded. "But I am only his third son, and would not get much anyway. If I don't help you now, I lose my chance to ever be one of King Arthur's men."

  Drian snorted with impatience. "Come, we must get away as soon as possible. Everyone will be looking for Lancelot, so you should wear a disguise. While I was in the family's quarters, I found a gown and a veil. You can be my wife."

  "Your wife? I don't want to disguise myself as a woman," Lancelot complained.

  "You should, it's a clever idea," Uwaine urged. "That way you can ride pillion on your horse. If two horses were missing, they'd know you were both gone. If you take one, everyone will be too busy to notice that the harper has gone, too, or to connect him with your escape. They'll be looking for a lone rider."

  "You can change clothes when we get in the woods," Drian said, casting a wary glance around her. "Let's make haste."

  They moved through the dark courtyard to a stable.

  "Who goes there?" called out a guard.

  "Uwaine," the young man said.

  "Aye, my lord," the guard replied, moving on.

  They entered the stable, found Raven, and Lancelot saddled her. She patted the mare to reassure her about taking a strange rider. Then Lancelot swung up on the saddle and Drian got up behind her.

  "You will commend me to King Arthur?" Uwaine whispered.

  "I shall praise you as you deserve. I hope your father does not punish you severely." Lancelot was anxious to be gone.

  Uwaine pointed out the road and they pounded off through the night forest. They must get as far away as possible before morning. Raven seemed rested and ready to go as fast as she could, though the road was not a good one and she was carrying two riders.

  For once, Lancelot regretted that there was a full moon and a cloudless sky.

  They paused only for Lancelot to put on the gown and veil, with Drian helping her. Then Drian was the one to swing up onto the saddle, and Lancelot to sit behind.

  At dawn, they hid among the trees. Exhausted, Lancelot slumped onto the ground and drifted off to sleep, but Drian seemed wide awake.

  Lancelot woke to the sound of horses' hooves. Uriens's men were searching for her, but they passed by. She was glad that the soil was dry, so Raven's tracks were not easy to find.

  In the light, Lancelot could see that the gown she was wearing was yellow, and of costly material. The lady who had lost it would miss it. She wished Drian had stolen a gown that was not so fine.

  "I also brought some ladies' gloves," Drian said. "There aren't many ladies with three fingers on their left hand. We can fill the extra fingers with dirt."

  "I can't get dirt on my hands," Lancelot whined in a fake baby voice. "Very clever." She took the glove, stuffed dirt in the two fingers that would have been empty, and put it on.

  "What name do you want me to call you?" Drian asked. "Pick something pretty."

  Lancelot smiled. "Anna, I think. I like that name very well."

  "Anna," Drian sighed in tones of great passion. "Anna, my beauty."

  Lancelot tapped her on the shoulder. "Let's cover your harp." Fortunately, the harp was small. "Harpers don't usually ride across the country with their wives."

  "If only I could," Drian sighed. "If only I had a wife in the first place."

  They covered the harp with Lancelot's cloak, but the shape was unmistakable if anyone looked closely. They tried even more carefully to conceal the king's sword. Drian offered to wear it, but Lancelot shook her head. The two proceeded on their journey.

  "Thank you for everything, but we should have taken two horses," Lancelot complained. "We could have ridden faster, and it's uncomfortable perching on the back of the horse."

  "Remember, it was my horse that we left. But I like having your arms around me," Drian said, turning to grin at her.

  "We can steal a new horse when we have a chance."

  "We can buy one!" Lancelot was stirred, and not by passion.

  "What, they put you in a dungeon but they let you keep your purse?"

  "Yes."

  "Ah, you nobles lead a different life." Drian shook her head.

  More men in chain mail thudded up behind them. Lancelot hadn't expected a second search party. The warriors paused.

  "Have you seen a man in chain mail fleeing in this direction?" one of the warriors asked. "A handsome man with black hair?"

  "He rushed past us earlier," Drian said, scratching her head as if trying to remember when that had happened. "Very rude he was, too. His horse stirred up a lot of dust."

  "We're on the right track," the warrior cried to the others, and they went on.

  "See, the disguise was a good idea," Drian said, patting Lancelot's right hand, which was holding on to her. "Now, be a good little wife and do what I say."

  "Don't carry the pretense too far," Lancelot warned her.

  "I'm a hero," Drian boasted.

  "I stole back the king's sword. Do you think he'd miss the amethyst if it happened to come loose? He could get another one."

  "Drian!" Lancelot shouted. "Don't you dare!"

  "I was just jesting. I know you wouldn't let me take it."

  Lancelot had a chance to think during the ride
. She felt little pleasure at the thought of returning to Camelot. Morgan surely would send Arthur a message revealing her secret. Even bringing Arthur's sword back might not convince him to allow a woman to be one of his warriors.

  But she would give her life for him. She would have rotted in Uriens's dungeon if need be. If the king was worth this fealty, could he turn away one who had sworn an oath to him and never broken it?

  29 A Double Disguise

  After the moon had risen, Lancelot and Drian came to a tavern. This time, Lancelot was glad to share a room, and pleased that they had one to themselves. The noise from the men drinking in the tavern didn't bother her much, nor did a few spider webs in the corners. The room was warm, compared with the ride, and especially with the dungeon.

  "I'm longing to change out of this gown, but I suppose I can't go to bed a woman and leave as a man in the morning, even in this out of the way tavern." Lancelot rolled up the gown's sleeves, which were too sweeping for her taste. "But I'll change when we're back on the road."

  "Are you sure of that?" Drian looked out of the window. "Some men wearing Uriens's colors are riding up to the tavern."

  Groaning, Lancelot looked through the window and confirmed the sighting. "I suppose we had better not leave in the morning until after they've gone."

  "Don't worry. We have a whole night 'til then." Drian looked at the bed meaningfully.

  "I can't sleep with you," Lancelot said.

  "But you're my wife." Drian pulled down the blanket.

  Lancelot shook her head. "I'm not."

  "We could just sleep together and do no more."

  Lancelot found that a pleasant idea. She relented. "I suppose we could, just for one night."

  They kept their clothes on – Lancelot didn't care whether she wrinkled the gown – and slept spoon-fashion.

  In the morning, Lancelot slept later than usual. When she woke, Drian had left, but the harp was still there.

  The sun climbed high in the heavens, and Lancelot tired of waiting. No matter how strange it looked for a woman in a gown, she went to the stable, determined to saddle Raven and tie on all their things, including Drian's harp and the king's sword. Of course the sword was still covered with leather.

  "Your husband makes you saddle your own horse!" exclaimed a stablehand, staring at Lancelot as if she had three heads.

  Lancelot sighed. "He's a bit of a tyrant, I fear. Would you help me, kind sir?"

  "Tsk, it's a shame. To be sure I will."

  She let him put on the saddle, but she tied on the harp and the sword herself, though she felt clumsy with one hand in the partially dirt-filled glove. She whispered in Raven's ear to reassure her that she wouldn't have to carry two riders for long.

  The white-bearded tavern keeper came to the stable door and watched her. "Poor lady, it's a good thing you can fend for yourself. Your husband got in a quarrel this morning, and he's in a fight now, I'm afraid, and with a famous fighter, too."

  "What!" Lancelot wheeled about to face him. "How could that be? Who's he fighting?"

  The man sighed and gazed at the stable floor. "I'm afraid it's Gawaine ap Lot himself. You might be a widow this day."

  "No! Where are they?" Lancelot vaulted onto the horse as well as she could in a gown. The skirt ripped.

  "In the meadow about a mile south of here." Both the tavernkeeper and the stable hand stared at her, now as if she had ten heads.

  Lancelot rode as fast as she could, the stable yard's chickens squawking and fluttering as she went. Would she be soon enough to keep one of her friends from killing the other? Gawaine could not know that Drian was her friend, and certainly not that Drian was a woman.

  She rode to a field where a crowd was watching a fight.

  That is, Gawaine was fighting and Drian, still unhurt, was flourishing a sword with determination but little skill.

  "Stop!" Lancelot yelled, riding through the crowd and into the center of the field. Men scurried aside to avoid her horse. Some yelled and shook their fists at her. There were too many people around for explanations. "Jump up behind me!" she cried to Drian, and extended her hand.

  Drian quickly obliged. "My fine wife!" she exclaimed.

  Gawaine froze, staring at Lancelot. He stood there holding his sword in the air.

  "I'll explain later," Lancelot shouted to him as she rode off with Drian.

  When they had gone about a mile, Drian said, "Thanks. I'm glad I got away from that son of a witch."

  "Thanks!" Lancelot all but shouted. "That's all you have to say? Don't call Gawaine that. He's my friend, or he was. How did you make him so angry? He's no brawler, and it's unlike him to fight anyone who is... not highborn," she said, not wanting to say lowborn.

  Drian clung to her a little too much.

  "Not that high up! You won't distract me," Lancelot complained. "No, not that low either. What did you do to anger Gawaine?"

  "He just saw me and demanded that I fight. It could be because three years ago I ran away with a girl who was supposed to marry Agravaine ap Lot."

  Lancelot groaned. Gawaine had good cause. But she could see why a girl would prefer Drian to Agravaine, reckless though that might be.

  "What happened to the girl?"

  "She left me for someone else."

  "Did he marry her?"

  "No."

  Lancelot groaned again. "But he might have abandoned her by now. What will happen to her? Perhaps she is starving and desperate. Even marriage to Agravaine would have been better."

  "I don't think she's starving. She left me for a rich widow," Drian said ruefully.

  "Oh. That will be easy to explain to Gawaine," Lancelot said with sarcasm. And Gawaine had seen her in this miserable gown and likely realized that she was a woman. Lancelot did not look forward to meeting him again.

  "You can't go back to Camelot now. He must know that you're a woman."

  "He's probably the least of my problems," Lancelot said, wondering if that were true. "I have to get out of this gown. I must have looked like a madwoman dressed like this when I rescued you. I can hardly move in the foolish thing."

  "Best not change out of the gown 'til we see whether Uriens's warriors are still about," Drian warned. "And we'd better switch places, my dear."

  "No doubt you're right," Lancelot grumbled. Grudgingly, she went back to riding behind Drian. They spotted some grouse, but it seemed best not to stop to hunt them.

  A peregrine falcon, needing a meal more than the travelers did, swept down and carried off a grouse. Lancelot was reminded of the hawk on Gawaine's shield.

  At midday, they came to a village where they were able to buy a horse for Drian. Lancelot insisted on giving Drian the money to pay for it.

  "You saved me from the dungeon and left your horse, so I must give you this one," Lancelot said, as they purchased a fine chestnut gelding.

  "If you wish, but I could pay for it myself. You don't think I took only the sword and the gown, do you?" Drian winked. "Remember, I left Uriens's keep before I was paid."

  "Drian!" Lancelot moaned, putting her hands to her head. "Is there any holding where you are welcome to return?"

  "I don't steal from all of them," Drian said, patting her new horse.

  "Such restraint." Lancelot's voice was full of sarcasm.

  "Hurry up," called the horse trader, who had been too far away to overhear the conversation. "King Uriens's men want to buy horses, too, and I can charge them a handsome price."

  Only a little alarmed, Lancelot and Drian went to a tavern and were munching on meat pies when a tall, red-bearded man strode up to their table.

  "Lady, you look beautiful in yellow," Gawaine said, bowing to Lancelot.

  "You look pretty in plaid," she said, glancing at his cloak. "It has almost as many lines as the scars on your face."

  Drian tensed, but Lancelot put her hand on Drian's arm.

  "Don't disturb my wife," Drian said.

  "I only want to compliment your lovely wife," Gawaine said,
sitting down at their table, taking out his mead horn, and pouring some of their mead in it. "I have never seen such a delicate lady."

  "I have never heard a man whose talk was so empty," Lancelot replied, narrowing her eyes. She lifted her left hand, still gloved, to show that she was pretending to be a lady who had all five fingers. Gawaine regarded the hand.

  "The last time I encountered your beloved husband, dear lady, was just before 'he'" (Gawaine emphasized the word to show that he knew it was false) "ran away with a cousin of mine who was betrothed to my brother. And when I encountered your husband this morning, I asked 'him'" (emphasized again) "about her, but 'he' refused to tell me." Gawaine looked none too kindly at Drian. He spoke in a falsely polite tone. "Might I ask you again what happened to my cousin Catra?"

  "I have heard that she is safe," Lancelot interjected, "and living with a rich widow."

  Gawaine scowled. "No man will ever marry her now."

  "I believe that was the lady's intention," Lancelot said, hailing the tavern-keeper to bring more mead.

  Gawaine's deepened frown showed that he understood her meaning. He exhaled.

  “The meat pies here are really good. Have some," Lancelot urged. "You must be hungry after the ride from the last tavern. We were. Were you fond of your cousin, or did you know her only slightly?"

  Gawaine poured himself more mead and drank it. "I never met her before Agravaine's betrothal, and neither had Agravaine. It is a matter of family honor."

  "Ah, yes, honor is always a good reason for killing, even for slaughtering harpers who cannot possibly defeat you."

  Lancelot put on a falsely sympathetic smile.

  "I gave him the dignity of trying to fight, which is more than any of my kinsmen would have done." Gawaine glared at Drian. "Harpers are very well in their place, but they cannot rise from their station. Indeed, some cannot rise at all."

  "There's no need to rise to fill a place well," Drian retorted. "For a harper, it's all a matter of the hands."

  Lancelot choked back laughter. "It is a matter of having the tongue to sing sweetly," she said.

  "How fond you are of your dear husband, lady. You must have known him long." Gawaine spread his arms over the table, crowding Drian's, but Drian did not retreat.