Lancelot and Guinevere

by Carol Anne Douglas

Agravaine said, "One of the wounded men must have been with her last night."

  "How dare you say so?" Guinevere's voice was indignant and majestic, though her hands had darted to her cheeks. She could guess what must have happened.

  "That's a terrible insult to the queen, and impossible as well," Bors exclaimed, clenching his fists as if he might strike Agravaine. "I was so uncomfortable that I laid awake all night, and I saw that no one went in the door." He advanced on Agravaine, but his steps were unsteady and he clutched his wounded shoulder.

  "She must have let in one of the wounded men, and you dozed off and didn't see it," said Clegis, who often was seen in Mordred's company.

  Guinevere glared at Agravaine and Clegis.

  Lancelot entered the hall. Her face turned pale at the sight of Guinevere's.

  "It must have been Lancelot," Agravaine charged, turning his gaze from Guinevere to Lancelot. "He must have climbed in through the window to see the queen and cut himself on the way."

  "How dare you insult the queen!" Lancelot raged, putting her hand on the hilt of her sword. "I have no cuts, as anyone can see."

  "There must be a cut on one of your hands. Show them to us," Agravaine demanded.

  "There is no such cut," Lancelot insisted, displaying her hands. "You must not insult the queen any more, or you will have to fight me."

  "These insults to the queen are vile," Bors complained, giving Agravaine a look of contempt. "There must be some other explanation. Perhaps something supernatural that we cannot grasp has taken place."

  "You are all very cruel," Guinevere chided them, making her voice sound pathetic and covering her eyes with her hands. "This is not men's blood, but women's blood. I was overcome by it last night, and in such pain that I wept. I must have put my hands to my face, not realizing that they were covered with it."

  She uncovered her eyes and saw that most of the warriors were red-faced with embarrassment.

  "It is a great shame that we have treated the queen so. Forgive us, your highness," exclaimed Bors in a horrified voice. "We must not tell the king about this terrible insult."

  Lancelot brought Guinevere a flask of water and a cloth to use as a towel.

  "Leave the queen in peace," she told the warriors, and they did.

  That night, when they were together back at Camelot, Lancelot apologized profusely, but Guinevere only laughed.

  Guinevere left the chapel after a Sunday Mass. Her husband's arm was properly linked with hers. They smiled and nodded at those they passed. Bells pealed, but all Guinevere could think of was the unwelcome arm that imprisoned hers.

  "You've heard of course that Tristram and Iseult are living at a caer that belongs to Lancelot," Arthur said in an ordinary conversational tone.

  Guinevere made no reply.

  "It's well that Mark has no large warband. I've heard about the position of that caer and it would be easy to besiege," he told her, "although not so easy as the old villa that belongs to Lance in Lesser Britain. Ah, Bors, that was an admirable service, wasn't it?" he called out.

  Guinevere managed not to flinch at his boast that he could easily take any caer or villa of Lancelot's. She knew well enough that she could not run without risking Lancelot's life. Indeed, there was no chance that they could escape from the High King's huge warband.

  13 THE DARKENING CLOUDS

  Merlin rarely came to supper at the round table. He walked by the kitchen and demanded food at odd hours, or forgot it altogether. If he sat at the table, he rose and wandered off when the conversation bored him, as it generally did. What did he care about which warrior had bested the other? At this late point in his life, he wanted only to think about the gods and the world that they had made.

  One evening at the table when the warriors were discussing which horses were the best mounts in jousting, Merlin rose and grabbed Arthur by the arm. "I'm getting old," he said.

  Arthur did not look alarmed. He merely smiled. "Never too old. You have many years yet, I am sure."

  "When I am gone, Ninian is the only one who can foresee the future for you," Merlin warned, loud enough for those who sat near the king to hear. Sighing, Merlin looked around the table. "I can no longer bear to be with all of you. I see too much. I grieve too much for you." He put his hand briefly on Lancelot's shoulder, and Lancelot shuddered.

  Merlin left the hall. Later, he recalled that Arthur had not asked who Ninian was, and he had failed to tell him.

  Nimue still studied with Merlin every day, sometimes walking or riding in the forest with him, for he said that it was better to learn of sacred things in the world that is sacred, which is to say, not man-made.

  One spring day when they were sitting by a pond, watching a dabchick run across the surface of the water chasing another dabchick, no doubt in some nuptial dance, Nimue sighed.

  "Am I boring you?" Merlin asked, suddenly retreating in the belief that that must be so.

  "No, never. I could spend my whole life with you," Nimue averred.

  "You'll go off and marry," he told her. Merlin had not realized that he was lonely until he had met her, and he knew that he would be twice as lonely when she went away. Her face, with its small, upturned nose and little mouth, often appeared in his dreams.

  Tears formed in her gray eyes and she stared down at the mossy bank. "No, I won't. Don't you see that I love you?"

  Merlin stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. She looked fairer than ever. How could a young girl imagine herself in love with him? "Nonsense, I am far too old to think of such things. You'll marry some young man."

  "Some fool who spends all his time fighting other men or practicing fighting? No, I won't." Nimue shook her head defiantly. "I don't care whether you are old."

  "I tell you, I am much too old to think of things of love." His voice cracked. Apparently she was too innocent to understand what he meant, but he could not bear to explain any further.

  She looked into his eyes. "I don't care. We can just be together as we are now."

  Merlin merely sighed. If only he could match this love.

  "You don't say whether you love me, too. I think that means you do," Nimue said, apparently trying to coax an admission out of him.

  "It's not right for me to promise what I can't give," he told her. His heart felt heavier than it had since he had learned that the people of the old faith had left Avalon.

  A blackbird sang, but its notes sounded melancholy to him.

  If only he could fade away, and return as a young man to love Nimue properly. He had served the gods all his life. Would they give him this last, greatest gift? Merlin closed his eyes in prayer.

  Merlin took Nimue on a ride farther into the forest than she had ever been and showed her a hollow oak tree. "See, this tree was split by lightning, but yet it still lives."

  Nimue looked at it with considerable interest. Green woodpeckers had made a few holes in its surface, but not many. An owl's nest sat high in its branches and small pellets cast by the owls were lying on the ground surrounding it. "Is it a particularly sacred tree?" She knew, of course, that oak groves were sacred places.

  He took her hand gently. "This one is important to me. Here I shall rest, and I shall never waken. Merlin will never see you again, because it is time for me to go."

  "No! Not yet!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. "You could live for years."

  Merlin pulled away from her. "No, it is my time. Do not try to stop me. Just return to the caer and tell the king that I have done all I could for him. Now I need to rest."

  She wept, but he would not change his mind.

  Finally, after many protests, Nimue agreed to leave.

  When she returned to Camelot and told her tale, the king stared at her in dismay. He sent his warriors out to search for the old man, but, look as they might, they could not find him, or even his body.

  Nimue heard people whisper that she had killed Merlin. She shrank from them.

  However, she did hear Guinevere tell her l
adies, "Nonsense, why should Nimue kill old Merlin? Men have no great reason to fear women, so they devise strange tales about us. People claim that she killed him to steal his magic, but he had no magic, save that people believed in him. People believe that a man who is said to have magic is good, but a woman who might is evil."

  Nimue returned to the oak in the hope that she might find Merlin's body. But the ground by the tree was empty, and she thought that he had decided to go off and die somewhere else after all.

  Tears dripped down her cheeks, and they built up to a noisy wail. As she was keening, she heard movements in the bushes, and started up, alarmed.

  A young man parted the bushes and appeared beside her. He was short, as short as Merlin had been, with darkish skin, black hair, and gray eyes, and she thought he might be one of the Old Ones. He wore a plain homespun tunic and breeches.

  "Don't weep," he said in a gentle, somewhat faltering voice. "Why are you weeping?"

  "My teacher is dead," Nimue sobbed.

  "That is sad," he agreed, "but be glad that you had a teacher. Not everyone does."

  "Who are you?" she asked, her tears slowing.

  He paused. "My name is Taliesin," he said, turning the word in his mouth as if it were a question rather than an answer. "And yours?"

  "I'm Nimue."

  "Ah." He nodded and looked as though he was trying to remember something. He reached out as if to touch her.

  Nimue quickly drew out a knife that she kept in her kirtle and pointed it at him. "Stay back."

  Taliesin shrieked. "Don't hurt me," he cried, shaking.

  Nimue put the knife back in her kirtle. "Are you one of the Old Ones?" she asked. "I have heard that they fear iron."

  Taliesin dried his tears and tried to regain his composure. When he finally spoke, his voice was sad. "Old, young? I don't know. I don't remember anything. I know only my name. All I have are questions. If you had a teacher, can you teach me?"

  "I can try," Nimue told him. She was no longer afraid, and neither did he seem to be. Nimue stayed in a hut in the forest with him.

  One evening when Gawaine sat in the king's room, sharing wine, Arthur ventured, "Surely you must think about having sons."

  Gawaine almost jumped in his chair. This was not a subject that men generally spoke of with Arthur, who had always grieved about having no son. He mumbled a slight acknowledgment and drank some more. "Excellent wine." He stared at the fire in the brazier as if he could see sons sprouting from the flames. His own fires had blazed, but had left him all too short of progeny.

  "Why don't you marry? You're getting on in years."

  This comment about his aging gave Gawaine an excuse to grumble. "Kind of you to say so. I'm still able to bed women, thank you."

  "At forty? I don't doubt that." The king chuckled and his voice became conspiratorial. "Nor do I doubt that you have bastards. But you should have some children born in wedlock as well. After all, they might be kings. What do you think of my fosterling, Talwyn? A pretty girl with a pleasant laugh, isn't she?"

  Gawaine choked on his wine. "What, little Talwyn? Yes, she has a pleasant laugh..." His voice trailed off.

  "You've always liked women who laugh a great deal."

  "I do, but I had no thought of marrying her." Gawaine squirmed in his chair. The wine did not taste as fine as it had a moment before. He had learned to be wary of fathers with eligible daughters, but he had never thought that Arthur would raise this subject.

  "Then think of it. It would please me well to know that the poor girl had such a kind-hearted husband. You surely aren't one of those who believe that Gryffyd's madness could be inherited?" The first comment was made warmly, but there was a hint of displeasure in the final sentence.

  Gawaine thumped down his winecup. "No, I know well that it is from the war. She's a fine girl, no doubt, but I have no thought of marrying a girl of—what is she, sixteen?" When he thought of Talwyn, he thought of the little girl who used to run about carrying scrolls for the queen. Yes, she was older now, but still had an almost childish look of mischief.

  "Almost eighteen. What, is she too old?" Arthur demanded, frowning. "True, most girls are married younger, but Guinevere was determined that she not be married at the usual age. I'm sure that she's a maiden nevertheless."

  "I don't doubt that. I'm not casting aspersions on her character," Gawaine retorted. "I'm forty, Arthur. If I wed, it won't be to some young girl."

  Arthur's eyes widened and his tone suggested disbelief. "Who ever heard of a man saying that a girl was too young for him? She's the usual age, and more. I think you must doubt her sanity or her virginity. If you've heard tales about her, out with them. I won't stand having a fosterling of mine disgrace herself. If she's a loose girl, I'll marry her off, and not worry so much about the husband." He pounded his silver goblet on the table.

  "By all the gods," Gawaine exclaimed, "I'm not saying a word against the girl. She's not a bit of a flirt. No doubt she's a maiden. Don't excite yourself. But if I marry, it will be to someone closer to my age." Seeing the king's incredulous stare, he added, "There are many pretty widows."

  "Why should you want used goods if you can have fresh? You want someone young enough to bear you sons, after all," Arthur argued.

  "Leave me be." Gawaine rose from his chair. "Why not find the girl a younger husband?" It occurred to him that Guinevere might have her own reasons for keeping the girl around her. If she had seduced Lancelot, why not others as well? Perhaps that was why Lancelot had seemed less happy lately. Well, what happened to Talwyn was no concern of his. At worst, Guinevere wouldn't take her maidenhead and make her unmarriageable. But no, Guinevere couldn't have touched her. Talwyn had such a pleasant, open manner, neither shy nor flirtatious, the manner of a girl who'd never been made love to.

  "Too many think that Talwyn might have inherited her father's sad state, though I've never seen a touch of madness in her myself," Arthur confessed.

  "So I wasn't exactly the first choice." Gawaine chuckled at this admission. "No doubt someone will ask you for her. Be patient."

  Staring at the flaming brazier, Gawaine remembered his first wife, whom he had wed when he was only eighteen. She had brought him nothing but joy, but she had soon died in childbed. He had been fool enough to marry a girl who resembled her not long afterwards, and had been miserable when he realized that she was not at all the same. That one had died in childbed also, and he had vowed never to marry again unless he was sure that he would never weary of the woman.

  As it happened, there was not even a mistress he was especially fond of. More than a few women had tried to replace Ragnal, but none had.

  If he did choose to marry a girl, Talwyn would not be such a bad choice, not bad at all. She did have a merry laugh.

  He wondered in passing why Arthur would seek him as a husband for Talwyn, although Guinevere surely would not want him for her fosterling.

  Looking into the fire, Gawaine realized there was a woman he wanted to marry. When he thought of who she was, he groaned.

  Arthur played gwyddbwyll with Lancelot, defeating her easily as usual. If she had cared more about the game, she would have been bothered, but she was resigned to losing in this field of play. The king had urged her to come to his room for some wine, and she felt she could not refuse. She wondered how soon she could leave and go to Guinevere.

  "Just a little," she said, honored that he poured the wine for her.

  He laughed genially. "Of course, you will drink little, as you always do. I know you well."

  And as usual she felt a twinge of guilt because he didn't know that she was a woman, but she thought it was probably better so.

  The bronze oil lamps carved in the shape of dragons cast their dancing lights about the room, making it seem almost magical.

  She looked at the familiar wall hangings depicting scenes of hunting and war. As always, she wondered how anyone who had seen war could want to be reminded of it. The warriors falling from their horses seemed alm
ost real to her, and far from beautiful. She had to look away.

  "Those were the days, weren't they, Lance?" Arthur said, seeing her glance at the hanging. "I know it was difficult and painful, but we were great against those Saxons, weren't we?"

  Lancelot sighed and stared down at the game board. "We fought to keep them from taking our lands and enslaving our people, and they did not."

  "Thoughts too gloomy for you? Never mind. At least we knew who the enemy was then." Arthur sighed even more deeply than Lancelot.

  "Well, of course." She looked up at him and tried to read his thoughts. Did he think there were more mysterious enemies now? Did he distrust some of the subject kings?

  "A sword is a man's weapon, Lance. Women are more devious. Poison is their weapon." Arthur spoke in a low voice, as if he were confiding in Lancelot. "I hope the queen doesn't want to rid herself of me that much."

  Lancelot almost fell out of her chair. "How can you think such a thing?"

  Arthur shrugged and downed his wine. "Of course I'd never suspect you."

  Lancelot felt her cheeks flush with anger. She stood and moved away from the table. "And you should not suspect anyone else who is close to you, Arthur. I am sure you have no reason for such morbid thoughts."

  He shrugged again and poured more wine. He offered some to Lancelot, but she shook her head.

  "Perhaps not. But much more goes on between husbands and wives than you could ever guess." The king smiled kindly. "Sure you won't have some more wine?"

  "No thank you, I am weary," she said, and she told the truth.

  Lancelot left and went to her own plain house, not Guinevere's room. She could say the next day that she had had a headache. She sank down on the bed and buried her head in her one pillow. It was a mean thought, a horrible thought. She was betraying Guinevere by thinking for a moment that there was a chance that Guinevere could kill anyone.

  But hadn't she herself killed many men? Hadn't she even killed a girl during the war? What did it matter that it was by accident? The girl was just as dead as if it had not been. It had taken her years to tell Guinevere what she had done, so how could she know whether Guinevere had terrible secrets of her own? Why did she talk about Arthur's death as if it were something to look forward to?