Lancelot and Guinevere

by Carol Anne Douglas

  "Fools!" he shouted. "Lancelot, only you would be mad enough to take my lady back to a convent. Branwen, my patience with you is almost at an end, but come back with me and I shall try to forget your foolishness."

  "I am not your lady any longer, Antonius." Branwen spoke without faltering. "Return home. I truly want to be here."

  Antonius rode up to her, but Lancelot moved her horse between them. "You must listen to the lady, Antonius."

  "Will they even take you back?" he jeered.

  The sister porter opened the gate, and the Abbess Perpetua, a tall and formidable woman, appeared.

  "Cease this clamor," the abbess demanded. "You could be heard from a mile away. If Sister Branwen wishes to return here, she may. Please enter, sister, and Lancelot also."

  "Farewell, then." Antonius's face reddened. "Don't think you can ever come back to me after this. And Lancelot, don't you ever trespass on my hospitality again."

  He turned his horse and rode away.

  Lancelot exhaled. She thanked St. Agnes, whose relic she wore in a pouch hanging from a leather strap around her neck, that she did not have to injure Antonius in order to protect Branwen.

  Branwen entered the convent gate, and Lancelot followed. They dismounted, and went through the heavy door to the convent proper.

  As soon as the door was shut behind them, Branwen went down on her knees. She glanced from a statue of the Virgin to the abbess. "Please forgive me for leaving, reverend mother," she begged. "I will do any penance you designate.

  The abbess put her hand on Branwen's arm and lifted her up. "Sister Branwen, you have shown that you never left. Perhaps you need some refreshment in the refectory before we go to the chapel."

  At these words, tears started in Branwen's eyes. "Thank you," she choked.

  "We are glad to see you," the abbess said, in a voice as calm as if she were telling the sisters to commence prayers. "Remember the parable of the prodigal son. A prodigal daughter is just the same. And we also thank Lancelot for bringing you." She smiled at Lancelot. "You cannot come into our refectory, Lancelot, but we can have some food brought to you in our room for guests. We are grateful."

  Lancelot was much moved by the abbess's graciousness, and rejoiced that she had helped Branwen. Perhaps this was the kindest convent in Britain. Lancelot looked forward to telling Guinevere the story.

  Then plump old Mother Ninian, smiling as ever, rushed in and hugged Branwen. The abbess shook her head over this undecorous behavior, but her face showed no disapproval.

  "Branwen! It will be good to see you in black and white again," Mother Ninian said. "Those are the most becoming colors, I assure you."

  Ninian breeched propriety even further by giving Lancelot a wink. "Don't you dare leave until I've had a chance to talk with you," she told Lancelot.

  Lancelot nodded in happy agreement. She rejoiced at seeing this nun who had counseled her well during the Saxon War and after it.

  Ninian swept Branwen away.

  "There is also someone else who will want to see you, I believe," Mother Perpetua said. "Thank you again, Lancelot."

  Soon after the abbess exited the room, leaving Lancelot to stare at the statue of Saint Mary holding a book (which Lancelot thought it unlikely that a poor carpenter's wife would have read), a woman in simple clothes, but not a nun's habit, entered.

  Maire and Lancelot smiled at each other. Lancelot would of course never refer to the fact that she had brought Maire to the convent to help her leave off serving Arthur's army as a camp follower.

  Maire handed her a cup of wine, and Lancelot accepted it gratefully and asked how she was.

  After a chat with Maire and a longer conversation with Mother Ninian, Lancelot left satisfied. She wondered whether she would be forgiven for her sins as easily as Branwen was.

  Lancelot rode into the forest. She wondered whether Antonius might lurk there and want to fight after all. But she saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  Except that at the foot of a large oak tree lay the corpse of the girl she had killed accidentally in the Saxon War.

  Lancelot almost fell off her horse. She shook her head, and looked again. Only a lichen-covered rock sat near the tree roots.

  Lancelot made the sign of the cross and told herself there was nothing the matter with her.

  6 THE WARRIOR OF THE HAWTHORN BUSH

  Newly acquired dignity forgotten, Galahad ran down the convent stairs, almost bumping into the statue of the Virgin holding a book in her hands. Galahad dashed past the plump sister porter, flung open the heavy oak door as if it had been the flimsy door of a peasant's hut, and rushed to meet the lady approaching on a roan horse.

  "Mother!" Galahad ran to the fine horse and swung down the tall and elegant lady who had ridden on it.

  The Lady Morgan of Cornwalll beamed as she embraced Galahad and tousled the already tangled reddish hair that didn't quite match her own red-gold.

  Galahad's breeches had a hole in the knee, but perhaps Morgan hadn't noticed that.

  Morgan pulled back enough to have a good look at Galahad's face, and Galahad knew she was the only one who thought it handsome. Galahad breathed in Morgan's perfume, which smelled of lavender.

  "What a ruffian you've become. Do you embrace all ladies who come here? Are the sisters safe around you?" Morgan teased.

  "Oh, mother!" Galahad looked around to make sure no one had heard this comment. "Of course they are. But then, none of them are as beautiful as you."

  Morgan laughed. "With a tongue like that, you'll do well at court."

  Galahad cried out with excitement, "May I go to court now? Is it finally time?"

  "Yes. But I must greet the sisters now," she said, smiling at the nuns who were standing at the portal. Only the youngest ones looked puzzled at the sight of a commanding lady in riding breeches. "We can talk about it later. Must you wear that thing around your neck?" She glanced disapprovingly at the silver cross that swung there. "Christians used to wear a ChiRo. This new fashion of wearing a symbol of death is much worse."

  Before Galahad could reply that it was a nun's gift that could not be rejected, an infinity of nuns greeted the lady and Galahad nearly pawed the ground in impatience. Morgan must talk at length to the dignified abbess, who embraced her, and, in shorter bursts, with the others.

  Then Morgan had to be offered bread and honey, which she ate in the refectory with the abbess, while Galahad stayed discreetly silent. Galahad stared at a tapestry of the miracle of the loaves and fishes. The fishes looked so real that they seemed ready to swim off the wall. Too excited to eat, Galahad cut a few pieces from an apple but didn't finish it.

  After the meal had ended, Galahad, the lady Morgan, and old Mother Ninian went off to the convent garden, where roses and foxglove bloomed. The scent tantalized Galahad. Would the flowers at Camelot smell as sweet or sweeter?

  "How are Galahad's lessons going, Lady Ninian?" Morgan asked, for she never used the Christian title Mother Ninian to another who used to serve the goddess at Avalon before the shrine had been abandoned.

  Very well, Lady Morgan," the old woman answered, patting Galahad's arm fondly. "But this one has more of a head for the riding and swordplay."

  Morgan nodded her approval. "Good. It is time that you learned more about such things than you can at a convent."

  "Sister Darerca is not bad with a sword," Galahad objected, "though I always defeat her now. I'd like to learn from Lancelot of the Lightning Arm, the greatest warrior in the world." Galahad had never been allowed to meet Lancelot when the warrior came to the convent, but now at last the meeting could take place. But perhaps Lancelot would pay no heed to Galahad at Camelot. Lancelot might be too important to pay attention to those who came for training. Galahad hoped not.

  Darerca, large as many warriors, was Ninian's dear friend, and Ninian smiled as always at hearing the name.

  "No doubt you will learn from Lancelot." Morgan frowned. Her red-gold hair gleamed in the sun. "But keep your distance, even fro
m Lancelot. Remember that you are a king's son."

  The wrinkles on Ninian's brow grew much more pronounced than the one on Morgan's.

  "You cannot tell anyone, even Lancelot, that you are not a man," Morgan commanded. "Swear, by the womb that bore you and the breasts that nursed you—mine—that you will never tell Lancelot." She extended her hand, indicating that Galahad should clasp it.

  Galahad trembled at taking such an oath. Why did her mother care so much whether Lancelot knew? But Morgan did not always explain her commands. She clasped Morgan's hand. "I swear by the womb that bore me and the breasts that nursed me that I will never tell Lancelot."

  Morgan seated herself on a stone bench, and Galahad sprawled on the ground in front of her. This posture displayed the tear in the right leg of Galahad's breeches.

  "What is my father like? All that you have told me are stories for children about swords and lakes, skill with horses, and fondness for dogs."

  Morgan's countenance grew sterner, which made her more beautiful than ever. "Arthur is above all a king. He lives for that. He would make any sacrifice for his people, and he would expect his people to make any sacrifice for him. He sees all things in a view from the throne. Anything that does not seem fitting for a king he casts away, as he did me. Never imagine that he would not do the same to you." There was some pity in her eyes, but her mouth was bitter.

  Galahad shook. "Of course I'm no likely child for a king." She bit her lip.

  "Never tell him. Never in his lifetime can you say whose child you are, and perhaps never."

  "Never in his lifetime." Galahad moaned slightly, and Ninian patted her trembling shoulder.

  "He can be fooled, of course, and has been by Lancelot, but if he thought you were his son he would look too closely," Morgan instructed. "No father could understand."

  "No, of course not." Galahad tried to keep her eyes dry but looked over the convent wall towards the forest beyond.

  "Don't weep, I can't bear it," Morgan said, opening her arms and surrounding Galahad, who joined her on the bench and sought shelter in them.

  A thrush sang, its sweet song accentuating life's sadness.

  After a short time, Morgan pulled back a little and scrutinized Galahad. "Are you indeed strong enough to live at court? Can you truly be so restrained?"

  "To become a warrior of King Arthur's? Of course I can." If Lancelot could live disguised as a man, so could she. Could she hold back from embracing her father? She would have to.

  "Very good. And if you ever hear gossip at court that I have plotted against Arthur, don't believe it. It is true that I once pretended that I would marry old King Uriens of Rheged if he would try to restore the old gods..."

  "Mother! You wouldn't! Not some old man!" Galahad objected, nearly falling off the bench.

  Morgan shook her head. "No, dear, of course not. I meant only to prod Arthur, not to injure him." Morgan lightened her voice. "Tell me, have you fallen in love with any of the novices?"

  "Oh, no, mother. Then I would have to stay here and never go out into the world. I have liked it well here." Galahad smiled at Mother Ninian. "But I want to see the world."

  "So you shall. You must be very careful, of course, but surely no child of mine could live forever without loving. I suppose embracing a man at Beltane is not to be thought of?" Morgan asked, watching Galahad's face.

  "Oh, no, mother!" Galahad felt her face grow hot. "Nothing like that. No stranger in the dark. But I do hope to find love," she ventured. "From a woman."

  Morgan's face showed no change. "You are like Lancelot, perhaps? Well, disguised as you are, that will be easier, no doubt. But do not fear to try men either, if you wish, though it's best if you go to them in another guise, or in the dark at Beltane. I can give you a potion to prevent childbearing."

  "Oh, mother, I don't need a potion," Galahad insisted. "I have no inclination for men at all."

  "You have lived in a convent, which is hardly the best place to discover that," Morgan suggested with a hint of a smile. "We shall see. There is only one warning that I should give you." Her sea-green eyes narrowed. "Never lie with any of the family of Lot of Lothian. They are too closely related to us through my aunt, Morgause."

  Ninian snorted. "They are all men anyway, my lady, so there surely is no great difficulty."

  "I am much too shy to approach anyone, mother," Galahad said, laughing nervously. "Of course I shall do as you say."

  Morgan shook her head and sighed. "This is what comes of growing up in a convent. I hope you have taught Galahad about something more than Christianity, Ninian," she said sternly.

  "Even as I taught you all that you know," replied the old woman, not much more cheerfully. "Would I leave anyone to wallow in the misery of a religion that says there is only one life and whose only god is a murdered man?"

  Then the abbess appeared in a doorway and Morgan rose. "I must speak with Perpetua." She left them in the garden.

  Galahad rose when her mother stood.

  Galahad glanced around the familiar garden, which she would now leave. It seemed smaller than it had when she was a child, but still beautiful. A robin redbreast searched for bugs near a rose bush covered with white blossoms.

  Bells pealed for prayers, but Galahad was relieved to see that Ninian did not leave for the chapel.

  "So now I shall go into the world, Mother Ninian. Do you have any advice for me?" Galahad's attention turned to the old nun.

  It was difficult to notice anyone else when Morgan was present. Ninian plucked a white rose, which she offered to Galahad. Hopping close to Ninian, the robin caught a bug. "Where do you think you have lived all of your life? The world is here, and everywhere. Will you have advice? Have I not given it ever since you could understand my words? I must be a poor teacher if you have not learned until now."

  "No, no, you are the best of teachers!" Galahad protested, for she loved Ninian dearly and did not want to offend her.

  "If you wish, you shall have more of my words," the old nun said, seating herself on the bench that Morgan had vacated and patting it, indicating that Galahad should sit beside her. "You must love without possessing or being possessed. You must fight without killing or being killed. And you must conceal much without becoming deceptive or being deceived. Is that advice enough?"

  "Enough, or too much." Galahad shook her head. It would be difficult enough to understand Mother Ninian's advice, much less to follow it. She twirled the rose in her fingers.

  "That was interesting advice from your mother. How strange that a woman who thought nothing about lying with her brother should think it wrong for you to lie with cousins. Use your head, Galahad. What do you think would disturb her?" She scrutinized Galahad's face.

  Galahad found this question perplexing. Who knew what would disturb her mother? All she could think of was her mother's great news. "Oh, Mother Ninian, I'm finally going to see the court. And my father."

  "Yes, you'll see him. No doubt about that." Ninian was not given to sighs, but she let one escape. "Why must you think so much about this father you have never seen? Have we not loved you?"

  Galahad was embarrassed, as if discovered in some rudeness. She looked into the old nun's kind gray eyes. "Of course. But my mother has told me about him all my life. And people say he is the best and the greatest king in the world."

  Ninian clicked her tongue. "And if your father were not the greatest king in the world, but were kind to you, you would be fond of him anyway, would you not?"

  "Of course. But he won't know me. Am I something awful that must be hidden?" Galahad's voice trembled again.

  "No, no, you're not." Ninian put her arms around Galahad. "Think of your concealment as a game. Laugh when you fool everyone, and that should keep you in a constant state of mirth."

  In a less cheerful tone, she added, "Mind you keep concealed, though, for if they learned your sex it could endanger not only you, but Lancelot as well. If you were discovered, it might be easier for them to guess her secret,
for you look more like a man, with that little beard of yours." She smiled at the tuft of red hair on Galahad's chin.

  A large nun, both tall and stout, came rushing up to them. "So you think those warriors are better fighters than I am, do you, ungrateful child?" Although the nun complained, her blue eyes showed no anger. "Which of them were taught by the greatest teacher of all, the woman warrior Scathach? Which of them were schooled with Cuchulain, as I was? And how many of them are from Ireland, country of the greatest fighters in the world?" Sister Darerca demanded, her robes flapping around her.

  "A few of them may be Irish like you, but none of them has such a history, I should think." Used to Darerca's tall tales about long-dead heroes, Galahad grinned. Darerca, like Ninian, used humor as a form of instruction, and Galahad hoped that some of the warriors at Camelot might have a shred of like wit.

  Morgan called Galahad to her, and Ninian and Darerca were left alone in the garden. Ninian picked up the white rose that Galahad had left on the stone bench and handed it to Darerca, who sniffed it.

  "We'll be losing Galahad, my pagan rose. Will you grieve much?" Darerca asked.

  Ninian sighed and brushed the black veil back from her face. "Save your worry for Galahad. She'll need it. Why must Morgan fill her head with dreams of being the king's child? Galahad is not the sort to claim a throne, and I have raised her to seek happiness, not power. Morgan warned her not to lie with Gawaine, but Galahad does not guess that he is her father." She felt pity for Galahad and even some for Gawaine.

  Darerca shrugged and fingered the rose deftly, not pricking herself. Over the wall, the sun grew large and bright in the west as the day's end drew near.

  "Have you told Morgan that you do not see Galahad on the throne? She believes in your powers of sight, pagan that she is."

  Ninian closed her eyes. "What I have seen will not bear telling," she whispered.

  Darerca put an arm around her and Ninian clutched at her.