"Arthur says I must not speak with you in public now, and I must go away for at least a month." Lancelot sighed. "I will go on a mission to Gwynedd the day after tomorrow."
"Oh, my poor dear." Guinevere put Lancelot's head on her shoulder and stroked her hair. "I will be so sorry to see you go. Try to bear it."
Toward morning, Lancelot began talking almost as cautiously as if she were tracking some creature in the wilds.
"I think I should tell the other warriors that I was the one who killed that girl during the war. When I heard that you knew about her death and still thought ill of Gawaine because of it, I saw that it was wrong for me to keep silent." She listened for Guinevere's response, expecting her to be annoyed that Lancelot was concerned about the injury she had done to Gawaine.
But Guinevere held her a little closer. "Of course you should tell. If people know that it was Lancelot who did it, they will see it for what it was, slashing out unthinkingly brought on by the state that soldiers get into in a war. But if they believe that Gawaine did it, they might think it was something even uglier, as I did.
"Also," Guinevere continued, frowning, "it is not right to have secrets about such a thing. If a girl has been killed, everyone should know who did it."
Lancelot felt even more affection for her than ever. "You're right. I should have told you long ago," she said in a voice full of appreciation. She dared to smile.
"Yes, you should have." Guinevere's voice faltered in an unaccustomed way. "You trusted Gawaine more than you trusted me."
"Not any more," Lancelot assured her, although the words admitted it. She saw Guinevere flinch, and felt ashamed of her lack of trust. "He has seen me at my worst, but you generally see me at my best."
"You trust someone who has seen you kill more than someone who has known your love?" Guinevere shook her head and sighed.
Lancelot echoed her sigh. How could one who had never killed ever comprehend what it was to be a killer? "Please understand. Don't you know how much I feared to lose you?"
"That will never happen." Guinevere's hand stroked the hair back from Lancelot's forehead.
Lancelot kissed her, then dressed, for she had to leave before dawn, as always. Her heart was full of gratitude for Guinevere's love. She was relieved to have shed the burden of one of her secrets, and wondered whether she should tell Guinevere the rest. But no, Guinevere would never believe that Gawaine would keep silent about Lancelot's sex, and it would be wrong to worry her.
Too weak to get out of bed, Guinevere remained there. Rosy dawn streaking through her window did not charm her. She did not want to see the too bright light of day. Her heart felt heavy, as if someone had died.
She had never struck, never even slapped, anyone in her whole life. How could she understand so much killing?
Lancelot was unknowable, unreachable. The expression on her face, the tone in her voice, had been like those of a person returned from the dead.
Guinevere had believed that Lancelot had mostly recovered from the war. Lancelot had jested more as the years passed, had rejoiced in their tender play. But now she could see that Lancelot had not healed, would never heal.
Those gentle hands had held swords that sliced through so much human flesh, not just the girl's. Guinevere was used to fighting contests, where serious wounds were not too many, and often were the result of accidents.
Lancelot hardly ever injured her opponents much. Guinevere had never allowed herself to see Lancelot as a killer, but she had deceived herself.
Not just Lancelot, of course – all of them. Her father, her husband, almost all the men she knew were killers. She had seen them as defenders against the Saxons, which was true, but she had not admitted just how brutal that defense was. She had told herself that Gawaine was a beast, as a way of not seeing that they all were. Yes, Gawaine had taken the blame for Lancelot's killing, but why? Likely he had bloody secrets of his own. Probably all of them did, even Bors. If Lancelot could be brutal, any warrior could.
Guinevere shuddered. The dawn had been replaced with a bright light that shone into her eyes. She would not cover them. She sat down to dine every day with a pack of wolves. None of the women wanted to know what the men they embraced and comforted had done in the name of protecting Britain, she thought. They did not want to see beyond the smiling faces and the jests. If the men were brutes, the women chose not to comprehend.
Even Lancelot, even a woman, the kindest person Guinevere had ever known, had done unspeakable things, and been shattered by them.
Guinevere let the grief flood through her, for she wanted to be able to smile as usual when her wounded sweetheart returned at night.
That evening, Lancelot, Peredur, Bedwyr, and Bors were in Arthur's room reminiscing about the Saxon War.
During a pause in which they were thinking of fallen comrades, Lancelot spoke up in a sober voice. She trembled. Would these men who now smiled at her ever smile that way again?
"The death I think most of is not a warrior's." Lancelot looked at the dark window rather than her friends' faces, but her voice did not falter. "Do you remember that poor British girl who was struck while she hid in the undergrowth? I, not Gawaine, was the one who struck into the brush and killed her. Killing her is the most terrible thing I have ever done, but letting Gawaine take the blame is the most contemptible. I should not let myself be called the greatest warrior in the world. Instead, I should call myself The Warrior Who Has Done Wrong."
Everyone was silent for a moment, and Lancelot wondered whether they would drive her out of the king's room.
Then Peredur said, "It was a terrible thing, and as the father of a girl not much older, I was horrified, but you shouldn't worry that anyone thought less of Gawaine. After a little reflection, all of us knew that you must have done it, because you were half mad at the time. We were too worried about you to blame you. We understood that Gawaine was protecting you."
Knocking over her goblet of wine, Lancelot exclaimed, "Holy Mother, you knew all the time, and knew that I was too cowardly to own it!" It was incredible to her that the warriors would not have shunned one who had done something so terrible. They even had maintained Lancelot's reputation as the best of them!
Her wine, red as blood, ran across the table and onto the floor.
Setting the goblet right, Peredur said soothingly, "Now, now, we know it was an accident. Don't believe that we think less of you."
Bors put a hand on Lancelot's shoulder. "We all have done terrible things, especially in war. It's right to be ashamed of them. I don't know whether it's better to talk of them or not. I could say what the worst thing is that I have done, and so could every man here, but I won't because it could become almost a contest to see who has done the worst."
Lancelot's head spun and her heart raced. She could hardly believe that any of them had done anything as bad as she had. "We should tell the young men about these things, as a warning. Why should we pretend to be better than we are? How will that help others to avoid our mistakes?"
"No, we should not tell them," Bors shook his head vigorously. "Young men need to believe that it's possible to be good, and to be inspired to do better than the best that we have done, not crueler than the worst. You should not tell any other warriors about what you have done, because they should believe that it is possible to always be good, as they think you are. But of course we must warn the young warriors in a general way of the moral dangers involved in fighting."
"You are both right," Peredur said. "But I couldn't bear to let my son know the worst that I have done. I must hope that telling him the best will be enough."
Although the others looked calm, Arthur was staring at Lancelot. She averted her gaze from him. Evidently he had not known that she had killed the girl. What would he think of her now?
"None of us is pure," Bors said, then his voice became warmer. "But at least some women are, and they will pray for us. I would not want my wife or any others to be disillusioned."
Lancelot groan
ed. "Women are only human. Why expect them to be any better than men are?"
"Why of course they are! How could you, the courteous one, say otherwise?" Bors's eyes widened.
"So men can sin, as long as women are innocent, and save men with their virtue?" Lancelot asked. "Women are either bad, and men can do anything to them, or are good, and must redeem men, in large part for what they do to other women?"
"Of course a good woman would want to," Bors replied.
"So women's purpose is to redeem men?" Lancelot sighed. "I doubt that anyone can redeem me."
Bors gasped.
To save his feelings, Lancelot quickly added, "Other than the Christ, of course." But she wasn't sure she believed it. Her soul seemed weighed down with sins, including those she would never give up.
Bedwyr, who had drummed on the table during this talk of virtue, spoke up. "Don't worry, Lancelot. Nothing happened to Gawaine. He's too important to punish, and so are you, no matter what you do."
"What?" Lancelot fell back in her chair.
She wanted the king to yell at Bedwyr and insist that he would punish anyone who committed a crime, but Arthur said nothing. Bors and Peredur merely frowned.
After a long pause, Lancelot bade them goodnight, and left. She almost wished her friends had condemned her. What, if anything, would they condemn? It occurred to her that the most dreadful thing she had done, killing a girl in war, was perhaps not so uncommon after all. What Bedwyr had suggested was so repulsive that she couldn't bear to think about it.
She did want to redeem men, at least her good friends, but she had not realized it was expected of women. She knew that being a warrior was based on terrible moral compromises, and now she had discovered that being a good woman was also. What was left? She had to continue being a warrior to stay with Guinevere.
Now she had required Guinevere to share the burden of knowing her guilt. Was that kind? Lancelot asked herself. Should one ask that of a lover?
When Lancelot entered Guinevere's room, the handsome warrior's face was more careworn than ever. Even in the candlelight, she looked pale. She moved slowly, as if reluctant to see Guinevere, and she seemed to have difficulty looking Guinevere in the eye.
Moved almost to tears, Guinevere took her hand and led her to a chair. "Tell me everything about the war. Tell me all of the things that haunt you."
Lancelot put her hand over her face.
"How can I burden you with such horrors? It's not right that you should have to think about them."
"It is right." Guinevere looked into those sad brown eyes, eyes so grieved that the word "sad" was inadequate.
"You are so good." Lancelot pressed Guinevere's hand to her cheek, which was soon damp with tears.
Guinevere steeled herself to bear whatever Lancelot would say. It would be terrible, but not so bad as Lancelot's having to depart the next day.
In the spring, when Gawaine had returned to Camelot, Guinevere reluctantly approached him in the courtyard and gestured for him to follow her into the walled garden.
He grinned as if he wanted to make a jest about their having an assignation. No doubt he would make apologizing difficult for her. Guinevere gritted her teeth. It galled her to have to make an apology to the man who had gone to a woman and pretended to be Lancelot.
As soon as they were within the walls and she could see that no one else was there, Guinevere spoke. She wanted to make the conversation as brief as possible, overheard only by the robins hopping about the garden.
She gave him the barest of nods. "Lord Gawaine, I regret my mistake about the girl's death."
Gawaine bowed his head to her. "Thank you, Lady Guinevere. I understand. Certainly a man who intentionally killed a girl should be shunned at first and hanged afterwards. I assure you that I never would have told Queen Morgause anything about the death of the girl or your words."
Guinevere nodded to him and moved away, indicating that it was time to end the conversation.
But Gawaine did not leave. He lowered his voice. "Lady Guinevere, I doubt that Lancelot told you that after he accidentally killed the girl, he turned his sword on himself, but I grabbed his arm and restrained him."
Guinevere gasped.
"Even later, he came near to killing himself in grief," Gawaine continued in a solemn voice. "The only reason he didn't throw himself in the river is that a camp follower also had gone there to kill herself, and he saved her life instead."
Guinevere sat down on a bench to keep from falling.
Gawaine remained standing. "Later, he often tried to get himself killed in battle, but of course he did not succeed, thank all the gods. Lancelot has suffered a great deal. It would go very hard with him if he had to endure any more great suffering. I thought you should understand that."
Guinevere said nothing. Her heart seemed to stop.
Gawaine bowed to her and left the garden.
The thought that Lancelot had tried to kill herself was almost beyond bearing, but remembering all that Lancelot had told her about the war, Guinevere could understand it. She of course would never give Lancelot any great hurt – did Gawaine imagine that she would? But she could not keep Lancelot from going out to battle again. She wanted to fold Lancelot in her arms, to cover her as a mother hen covers its chick, but that was impossible.
She stared almost unseeing at an apple tree that was beginning to bud. The robins' song seemed to be coming from far away.
Lancelot, Lancelot, Lancelot, she repeated silently, over and over.
As if in a dream, Guinevere rose and walked towards the stables to see her horse and perhaps ride. Not much to her pleasure, she saw Gawaine ahead of her.
"Gawaine!" she called.
He turned to her. "Yes, Lady Guinevere?" Gawaine waited while she walked up to him.
"You can call off your pursuer now. I'm right tired of being followed by your horseman," Guinevere said.
Gawaine stared at her as if she were mad. "What are you talking about, Lady Guinevere? I certainly would not have anyone follow you. Has some man been disturbing you?"
For once, Guinevere believed him. She groped for words.
"If not you, then who? Some warrior has been following me for years, whenever Lancelot is away and I ride alone. When I let my horse run, he appears and follows me. But when I go off into the woods, he disappears."
"Gods, why haven't you told anyone?" Gawaine cried. "How dare this man try to frighten you! He must be stopped." He touched the pommel of his sword.
"I thought he was sent by you."
"No! We must tell Arthur and Lancelot."
Guinevere drew back. "Arthur will never let me ride alone again."
"Forgive me, Lady Guinevere, but he might be right." Gawaine inclined his head in apology. "There could be men who would want to capture you because you are the queen.”
She grimaced at that.
"Please, Lady Guinevere, let me follow you and find out who this is. We must know." Gawaine's tone was urgent. "He might be mad. Even though he hasn't tried to injure you yet, he still might. And one of the stablehands must be informing him when you go out to ride; we have to find out who the informer is, also. Tell Lancelot, and he and I can handle these wretches."
Guinevere's stomach sank at the thought of telling Lancelot that a man had followed her for years but she had never disclosed it. Yet she had to admit that Gawaine was right.
"I suppose I must tell him." Guinevere understood that Gawaine would tell Lancelot if she did not, though he didn't say so. She would not show fear in front of Gawaine, but the realization that the pursuer was unknown to anyone unnerved her. So did the idea that one of the stablehands betrayed her.
That evening, Guinevere told Lancelot as calmly as possible, or so she thought.
Lancelot stared at her as strangely as Gawaine had. "A man has pursued you for years and you never told anyone? Why not, in the name of heaven?"
Reluctant to say she thought Gawaine was behind it all because she didn't want to tell Lance
lot how she had threatened Gawaine, Guinevere searched for a reason. "I didn't think he was dangerous."
"Not dangerous! What would you say if the same thing happened to another lady you know, and she had said nothing?"
"I would say she took a foolish risk," Guinevere admitted, annoyed that Lancelot's first show of anger was aimed at her. "Are you angry at me, or at the man who pursues me?"
"I'll kill him." Lancelot shook with rage, but her voice was steady, and deadly. Her hands were clenched fists.
Guinevere had never seen her beloved so furious. Or heard her speak in that tone. Taken aback, she could not reply.
"I'll pretend to go away, but I'll stay nearby. Then, when you go out, Gawaine and I can follow at a distance. I don't like using you as bait to catch this cur, but we have no other choice."
"I'll be fine," Guinevere insisted.
Lancelot took up a goblet of wine, then set it down. She choked. "Do you understand what all this means? I wasn't imagining things when I saw a man pursuing you the day we became lovers." Her face flushed. "I pray he didn't see our first embraces."
Guinevere touched her hand. "Surely not. Such a man would have tried extortion if he knew our secret." The mere thought of being spied on nauseated her.
"Very likely." Lancelot put her arms around Guinevere and held her tight. "Please don't take chances. I don't want anything to happen to you."
"A strange warning, coming from you. I wish you also would not run so many risks." Guinevere put her head on Lancelot's shoulder.
On a day not far distant, Lancelot said farewell to everyone and left Camelot. She had told Bors to let Guinevere ride alone three days later.
On the appointed day, Guinevere set out. She glanced at the stablehands: young and freckle-faced, older and brawny, old and gray. Surely it couldn't be Cuall the stablemaster who betrayed her, but who could it be?
As she rode, new leaves and birdsong were far from her mind. All she could think of was the plan, and whether it would succeed.
Was it possible that the man might hurt Lancelot?
Lancelot- Her Story Page 52