Lancelot and Guinevere

by Carol Anne Douglas

  "How can you speak to me so harshly? Don't you love me?" Guinevere demanded.

  "That's why I speak so. And I’m tired of hearing you criticize a man who has so often faced danger. You have no idea what that’s like. You've never known anything but safety and comfort." Lancelot turned away and looked out at the dark again. A few torches gleamed in the courtyard. She had never before thought that Guinevere would leave with her, but she was not pleased to have her fears confirmed. Did Guinevere truly love her as much as she loved Guinevere? She fought back tears.

  "But why talk about going now? I can't leave Talwyn until she is married to a good husband."

  Guinevere's voice was pitched high.

  "There will always be a reason not to go. Then someday, one of us will die, and the other will sigh because it's too late." Lancelot stared at the night sky where only a sliver of a moon was visible. It had been too much to hope that Guinevere would leave with her.

  Guinevere put an arm on her shoulder. "It won't be like that. Arthur will die before either of us does."

  "Is that my hope?" Lancelot exclaimed, flung off her arm, and ran out of the secret passage and down the stairs. She did not say that she faced many times the dangers Arthur did, or that if she saw him threatened she was sworn and honor bound to give her life to protect his.

  But when she had gone to her own small house, she wondered whether she was being too hard on Guinevere. Perhaps Guinevere realized that Lancelot was the one who was likely to die first, and how would it be for her alone in an unfamiliar country like Lesser Britain? Perhaps Guinevere would be better off staying with Arthur, Lancelot told herself. But did Guinevere care more about being a queen than about being with her? She buried her head in her pillow.

  Guinevere put her arms on the table and let her head lie on them. Lancelot did not understand, could not understand. It was impossible to leave Arthur. He would not simply let them go. The king's men would pursue them—far too many men for Lancelot to fight.

  How Guinevere now hated the sight of her husband's face! But she could never tell Lancelot the reason why. The wife dreaded the husband because the husband hated the wife.

  Lancelot did not understand what it was not to be free.

  Guinevere looked with loathing at the gold ring on her finger. And Lancelot believed that there were no dangers in a queen’s life. Guinevere prayed that Lancelot would never know the truth.

  The next morning on her way through the mist to the stables, Lancelot saw a figure, bent over but clearly tall, sitting on the fence by the pasture.

  "Gawaine," she said. The face that turned to her looked older than it had a month or so before, so she added, "I'm sorry."

  He began to weep, not putting up a hand to cover the tears.

  Never having seen him do such a thing before, she was astonished.

  "I didn't treat her well enough." His voice sounded hollow. "I was afraid that men would think I was foolish to love a serving woman. But I was the fool to care what they thought."

  It was undeniable that Gawaine had not treated Ragnal well enough for one he loved, though no other man she knew would have treated a serving woman better. Lancelot patted him on the back and said, in her most manly voice, "There, there, old man. At least she knew that she was the one you always returned to. And she died while you were at Camelot, so you could say farewell. That's little enough, but some don't even have that."

  Gawaine sighed deeply.

  Lancelot gestured towards the stable. "Why don't you go for a ride in the forest? That always helps me."

  He shook his head. "I have to teach the boys some riding maneuvers this morning."

  "I'll take your class. I may need to ask you to take my classes for some days soon. Tristram is running away with King Mark's wife, Iseult, and I'm helping them."

  "You're the patron saint of adulterers, aren't you?" Gawaine shook his head. "Thanks for taking my class. Of course I'll teach yours anytime." He paused. "As you know, both my wives died in childbed when I was young. I often thought, what was the good of loving women, only to see them die in childbed? Perhaps I liked it that Ragnal was beyond the age for that. But death has claimed her nonetheless." He sighed, and lumbered off to get his horse.

  Lancelot vowed again to find a way to persuade Guinevere to leave. If Iseult could run away, why couldn't Guinevere? Life was too short not to be together. If by some strange chance Guinevere died first, it would be unbearable, knowing that they hadn't made every effort to have some years alone together.

  When Lancelot was changing her clothes—her serving man was blind, so he could be present—Catwal said to her, "Ragnal gave me a message for you."

  "A message for me?" Lancelot was surprised, for she hadn't known Ragnal well.

  "Yes." Catwal handed Lancelot her green tunic. How good he was at recognizing clothes by their feel. "She wanted me to tell you that she had exaggerated Gawaine's faults, that he was good to her."

  "Why would she want to tell me that?" Lancelot paused before putting on the new tunic.

  Catwal shrugged.

  That was how people were when they were dying, Lancelot thought. No doubt they felt guilty about even the slightest things. Surely if Lancelot were dying, she would regret any critical thoughts she ever had about Guinevere, though she never expressed them to anyone else. And if Guinevere died first... no, that couldn't happen. It was too horrible to contemplate.

  Rubbing her face with a towel, Lancelot looked up and saw a man—scarcely more than a boy, about sixteen years of age—she had killed in the war. Blood still poured from his side.

  Lancelot groaned and looked away. When she turned back, the specter was no longer there.

  Was she mad? How dare she urge Guinevere to go away with her? Tears streamed down Lancelot's cheeks, but she dried them. She must pretend that nothing was wrong, and perhaps the strange visions would go away.

  12 TRISTAM AND ISEULT

  Guinevere finished her breakfast of wheaten bread and marched off to the stables. It was the first sunny day after a week of rain and she was determined to go riding, although Lancelot had said that she could not accompany her. Lancelot might have to leave at any moment to help Tristram, who was fleeing with Iseult, wife of King Mark of Dumnonia. Tristram had sent word that they would be passing through the forest near Camelot and would need Lancelot's aid.

  Arthur required Guinevere to have an escort, so she asked Bors, who had always admired her and imagined that she was more pious than she truly was. Bors had led the escort that had brought her from her father's land to Camelot, and had been impressed that she wanted to spend a night on the journey at a convent. He of course did not know that during that night Guinevere had made love with her childhood friend, Valeria, who had been fostered at her father Leodegran's caer before an uncle sent her off to the convent of the Holy Mother. That night had been a hidden treasure that Guinevere had mulled over until she met and loved Lancelot.

  When Guinevere arrived at the stables, half a dozen warriors, including Agravaine, the one she liked least, were mounted and prepared to ride with her.

  "The king said that he wanted you to have a proper escort in case of danger," Agravaine explained, gloating as if he knew that he was intruding and it pleased him.

  Her husband would let her ride, but he would make it as unpleasant as possible for her. Well, she would not turn back to her room.

  Riding through the forest, Guinevere tried to listen to it as Lancelot did, hearing every woodpecker's tap and thrush's song. The bluebells were just beginning to open their blossoms, but they were not as fair as they would have been if Lancelot had been with her. She ignored the warriors' noisy talk.

  A man hailed the queen's party.

  Tristram, his tall frame thin and grimy, was riding with a woman veiled in green.

  The men hailed Tristram, whom they had not seen in many a day. Guinevere merely nodded, for she was not overly fond of him.

  Making none of the customary salutations to the queen, Tr
istram called out, "Brother warriors of King Arthur, I am in dire straits. Tell no one that you have seen me."

  Most of them readily agreed that they would not, but Bors challenged him. "Who is this lady, then? Are you wronging her, or her family?" Like everyone else, Bors must have heard the tales that Tristram had a sinful love for King Mark's wife. Guinevere was grateful that Bors seemed to believe that Lancelot's obvious love for her was pure and hopeless.

  Tristram glowered.

  "Let me speak with the lady," Guinevere said, moving her horse towards theirs. "Are you well, my dear?" She guessed who wore the once fine gown now stained and torn so one could scarcely tell what its original color had been. "I am Guinevere."

  The lady rode to her at once and lifted the green veil. "Do you understand, then?" she asked in a thin, reedy voice that only Guinevere could hear. "I am Iseult. I could bear it no longer. I felt as if Mark raped me. Can a husband rape his wife, or am I mad?"

  Guinevere softened her voice. "You are not mad."

  Iseult sighed. "I knew what it was to be touched with love by Tristram, and Mark was nothing like that. I thought you were the only woman who might understand me. We have hidden in forests and in caves, but still they follow us. But it's worth it, it's worth it."

  Guinevere was much moved, although she guessed that their journey would end in grief. She asked, "Where are you going?"

  "Don't you know? We go to meet Lancelot of the Lake, who is helping us. We are going to a caer in Lothian because we have heard that Queen Morgause would let us live there unmolested."

  "It is just what he would do." Guinevere smiled. "I can do no less. Here, change veils with me. That might delay your pursuers." She removed her own white veil trimmed with a scarlet ribbon, showing the still black braids underneath.

  "How kind you are!" Iseult exclaimed, doffing her own veil and receiving Guinevere's.

  "What are you doing, sweeting? We must make haste," Tristram fretted, speaking in a tone gentler than he had used at Camelot.

  Contrary to gossip, Iseult was not a beautiful woman, but had ordinary brown hair and a face covered with freckles. Her green eyes were those of a small, frightened creature. Guinevere thought the better of Tristram therefore. Most men would not have risked their lives for a woman like Iseult, but Tristram looked at her as if she were the most beautiful woman in the world.

  "A thousand thanks. You know what it is to be a lover," Iseult said, and Guinevere pressed her hand.

  "I do," she whispered. "Take care, and my prayers go with you."

  When they rode off, the warriors wished Tristram Godspeed, but Bors did not join in.

  "Lady Guinevere, you should not have taken that sinful woman's veil," he exclaimed.

  "It becomes her well," Agravaine said in a voice that was just audible.

  As the afternoon light began to dim, they heard a great clamor. Suddenly, a number of warriors with shields and helmets in the style of Dumnonia crashed through the trees.

  They saw Guinevere in Iseult's green veil, and attacked.

  "There's King Mark's wife! Seize her!"

  Of course the warriors from Camelot fought back to defend Guinevere.

  "Cease this, fools!" Guinevere yelled, but her voice was lost in the din.

  Almost before she knew it, there were injuries on both sides. As she saw a Dumnonian sword cut through Bors's shoulder, Guinevere drove her horse towards the Dumnonian warriors.

  "End this foolery! I am Guinevere!" she cried out, pulling the veil from her head. The warriors from Camelot put up their swords and moved their horses protectively around her. The men from Dumnonia saw that she was not Iseult, and the skirmish ended.

  "Have you seen our Queen Iseult with Tristram?" demanded a Dumnonian warrior.

  "Indeed, we saw them on their way to the coast, where they said they would board a ship for Lesser Britain," Guinevere told him.

  None of the men from Camelot contradicted her, and the Dumnonian warriors turned west with much grumbling.

  All of the small party of warriors from Camelot bled, although only Bors had a serious wound. Grimacing, he seemed barely able to sit on his horse.

  "Forgive me for endangering you," Guinevere said to the grumbling men, and indeed she was sorry about their wounds. "Let us stay in the first shelter we come to, so you can rest. I fear that Bors is not sound enough to travel back to Camelot by nightfall."

  They had passed by an abandoned holding not long before, so they returned and quartered there for the night. Guinevere thanked each man and surveyed the state of their injuries.

  Lancelot waited at a certain clearing in the forest, as she had at the appointed time every day for several days. The surrounding oaks and beeches were so thick that little sunlight permitted flowers to sprout up among them, but new bluebells grew in the clearing. She was about to leave when she heard horses, and the riders came into view. It was Tristram with a lady wearing Guinevere's scarlet-trimmed veil.

  "What are you doing with Lady Guinevere's veil?" Lancelot called out, startled.

  "What way is that to greet my lady?" exclaimed Tristram, quick to anger as usual.

  Iseult parted the veil. "Are you Lancelot of the Lake? I am Iseult. The kind queen exchanged veils with me, but I fear that it may endanger her. Mark's men still pursue us."

  Lancelot was moved by Iseult's sweet, frightened face, but even more by the thought of Guinevere in danger. She had imagined that Tristram would be able to evade Mark's men much sooner.

  "Bah, his men are nothing. Mark does not even bother to come himself," snorted Tristram with contempt. "But if they find us on the way north, you and I can easily fight them off, Lancelot."

  "How can I travel with you if Queen Guinevere might be in danger? I must go and make sure that she is safe." It had taken no time at all for Lancelot to decide to look for Guinevere instead of traveling with them. "I shall tell all the world that I have given you my protection, and claim that the caer in Lothian where you will stay belongs to me. That is all I can do. You will also be under the protection of Queen Morgause, who is no friend to cruel husbands. Her son Gawaine assures me that she will never let Mark's men fight in Lothian."

  Tristram howled like a wounded animal. "You told me that you'd travel with us. False friend! Don't pretend that you care about Guinevere, when you let her stay with her husband. What kind of a man are you? If you loved her at all, you'd run away as we have."

  Shaking with anger, Lancelot tried to control her rage. She could not fight this man, who was all that Iseult had. Nor could she tell Tristram that Arthur did not lie with Guinevere, for that, like all else about their love, was secret.

  "Tristram!" cried Iseult in a pained voice. "Why must you attack all those who help us? First you insulted Dinadan, now Lancelot and Guinevere. Forgive him, Lord Lancelot. He just worries about me."

  Tristram put his hand on his sword, as if he might draw it to keep Lancelot from leaving them. "And well I should. Do you have any idea what it is to have to hide the woman you love in clammy caves and feed her on what game you can snare? You know nothing of love, Lancelot. And as for that filthy Dinadan! You must not think of that sodomite, sweeting."

  "It is those who know what it is to hide love who help you," Lancelot told him. "Forget this foolish quarrel, and go north with the lady. I wish you Godspeed, but I must find Guinevere."

  "Pray, do. I wish you Godspeed as well, and many thanks," said Iseult, inclining her head.

  Lancelot rode off, realizing that Tristram was one of those men who fought the whole world and let himself be close to only one woman, and that was why he so prized Iseult.

  Lancelot worried herself into a frenzy, and by evening, when she found an abandoned building with horses from Camelot, including Guinevere's, tethered outside it, she thought that Guinevere and some of her brother warriors must be held prisoner within.

  "Who holds Queen Guinevere in this place? Release her, or forfeit your life!" she yelled in fierce challenge.

  Gui
nevere walked through the door frame, which lacked a door. "Be calm, Lancelot, I am free and well, but some of our men been injured by Dumnonian warriors. Bors's shoulder is sorely hurt. I thought it better that they rest here until morning."

  "This is no fit shelter for you," Lancelot grumbled, but she tethered her horse near the others and went in to hear the tale and inspect the men's wounds.

  She agreed that they had to stay the night, although she gasped at the state of the second floor room where Guinevere intended to sleep on an ancient bed. Lancelot shook out the rotten coverings, only to see them fall apart in her hands as dead insects and mouse droppings fell out of them.

  "You must take my cloak as a covering, Lady Guinevere," she demanded, whipping off her crimson cloak and spreading it on the rotting boards.

  "If you insist, Lancelot. But I shall manage quite well," Guinevere said publicly and formally.

  The only problem was that Lancelot and Guinevere could not easily be together because the wounded warriors were lying in the hall outside the door of Guinevere's room.

  Lancelot was determined to be with Guinevere and hold her, so when it was dark, she climbed up the outside wall, digging her hands and feet into the crevices between the stones. She pulled herself in through the window, and Guinevere embraced her. They made love as quietly as possible.

  Before dawn, Lancelot climbed down again, which was more difficult than climbing up. When she went to relieve herself, she discovered that, perhaps because of her worry about Guinevere, her blood had flowed sooner than usual. She got a rag from her saddlebag.

  Early in the morning, Guinevere left the room where she had stayed and greeted the warriors, who moved slowly and stiffly. She saw that they all stared at her with strange expressions on their faces.

  Young Clegis spoke up. "The queen's face is covered with blood."