Lancelot and Guinevere

by Carol Anne Douglas

  Galahad began to sob, and Lancelot walked her off the field. She took Galahad to her small, spartan house, which Galahad had never visited before.

  "He's dead," choked Galahad, slumping onto Lancelot's bed. "I killed a man. I killed a friend." Lionel had not been a good friend, but they had always been cordial to each other. "I don't want to face the others. I don't want to kill. I don't want to be a warrior."

  Lancelot clasped Galahad's shoulder. "You didn't kill him. His own weakness did. Nothing you did was unfair or brutal."

  "It was for nothing. No life was saved, no battles won. I'll never fight in a contest again." Galahad's heart felt unbearably heavy. She had never known that hearts really felt that way.

  Lancelot patted Galahad's back. "It was terrible. Of course you must think and pray about it. But really, it wasn't your fault. I must go back to the contest. Rest here as long as you wish."

  But Galahad thought Lionel's death was indeed her fault. Why had she slashed again and again at Lionel, why had she so wanted to win? For what purpose?

  Gawaine chatted with his mother. Queen Morgause had come for the Pentecost celebration—not to pray, of course, but to see how things were at Camelot. And to see him.

  They sat in Camelot's finest guest house, made much finer than usual with elegant wall hangings that Cai must have procured from every room but the king's and queen's.

  Morgause still was not an old woman, Gawaine thought. She was just fifteen years older than he was, and her red hair had no gray. The lines in her face showed only strength, he believed, not diminishing beauty. She wore a fine gown of the darkest green and heavy chains of gold.

  She had dismissed all of her serving women—and Lamorak, her war leader, on perpetual loan from Arthur and not so secretly her lover—so she could be alone with her favorite son.

  Although Gawaine had won the chief prize in the fighting contests the day before and had feasted well into the night, he had slept only a trifle late because he wanted to spend time with his mother.

  Morgause pressed his hand and gave him her warmest smile, which indeed she seldom withheld from him. "Your fighting outshines all the others. You are golden, and they are but silver, or lesser still."

  He returned her smile. "Lancelot is a fine fighter also." This time he had won, as he had known Lancelot would let him do in front of his mother. Indeed he had fought well, but he could tell that Lancelot had held something back, and this time he was not displeased. He might have won even if Lancelot had not done so, but it would have been a pity to have his mother see him defeated.

  "Hmpf." Morgause made a low sound that was almost a growl. "Lancelot is nothing compared with you. I wonder why people make so much of him. No doubt it is because he is handsome, in a weak sort of way. He seems almost womanish to me."

  "Mother! You mustn't say such things!" Gawaine gasped. Her eyes were too sharp.

  "It wouldn't surprise me if he went looking for men," Morgause continued, fingering a golden goblet that was fine enough to be used as a chalice at Mass.

  "Lancelot would never do that," Gawaine insisted, moving to stir up the coals in the brazier and escape his mother's scrutiny. "He has been my friend for many years, and has saved my life more than once. Aren't you grateful for that?"

  "Of course, my son." Her voice softened. "But no doubt you have saved his also."

  "No doubt."

  "Still, he seems as bloodless as Guinevere. Little drinking, no flirting. Perhaps that's why they are so fond of each other. Oh

  so serious, both of them, and who could possibly accuse them of wrongdoing?" She laughed, not pleasantly, and drank from the chalice-like goblet that Cai had provided in her honor.

  Gawaine put his hands on her shoulders. "You must not speak of that with anyone but me."

  "Never fear, I shan't." Morgause shrugged. "Why should I care if Guinevere wants both Arthur and Lancelot? Many women would think her fortunate, but she scorns the finest man at Camelot. I shall never like a woman who looks with disfavor on you. She never smiles at you." Her mouth twisted in a grimace.

  Gawaine laughed and took his hands from her shoulders. "What, do you want me to be a rival to Arthur and Lancelot in the queen's affections? I like her no better than she likes me, so we are agreed about each other."

  "You might be excused for not liking her, but I don't excuse her for disliking you," Morgause insisted. "Everyone at Camelot should be grateful that you deign to live here instead of ruling in Lothian and Orkney. Oh, Gawaine," she said in a softer, sadder tone, "I know that you are happy here, but at times it is so lonely in the North without you. I watch the seabirds return in the spring and I wish that my own son returned more often." She sighed—a great, tremulous sigh. "Lothian's lochs are lonely without you, and the heather does not bloom as brightly when you are gone. And Orkney is more deserted than every without you."

  As she spoke, he could almost smell the sea salt of Orkney and hear the cries of shorebirds, the demented-cow bellows of the puffins.

  He tried to jest. "The gulls are moaning for me, no doubt."

  Morgause gave him a brave little smile. "And they would be laughing if you were there. No one jests as well as you do."

  Gawaine winced. He sat beside her and took her hands in his. "Ah, Mother, I should hate for you to be lonely. How goes it with Lamorak?"

  "He is devoted to me, and I am devoted to him," Morgause said impatiently, pulling her hands away. "But I am a mother, and a mother does not forget her children."

  "Your other sons might also want to visit Lothian and Orkney," he teased her, knowing well that she had little eagerness to see Agravaine and Gaheris, though she was fond of Gareth.

  "Indeed I do not want them." Morgause twisted her gold chain in her hands. "When Gareth was there, he urged me ten times a day to get baptized. It was tiresome. As for Agravaine and Gaheris, let them stay in the South. Keep Agravaine far from me, Gawaine. He eyes my crown with rage and lust."

  "How dare he!" Gawaine made an angry gesture with his fist. "I was only jesting, Mother. Of course I'll keep him from bothering you in Lothian."

  "If Agravaine were to try to unseat me, he might face the same fate as his father." Morgause ran her finger around the edge of her golden cup, as if testing it.

  Gawaine gulped. His mother had poisoned his father after he had told her that Lot was a rapist—and after Lot, angry that Gawaine had gone to Arthur's warband, had ordered her never to see her eldest son again.

  "If you wore the crown, Agravaine would accept it," Morgause told him. "Someday I won't be here any longer, and you'll have to go to rule in Lothian. You'll rule when that time comes, won't you?" Her eyes were pleading, as they rarely did.

  He leaned forwarded and pressed her hands again. "Yes, yes, if I must.”

  “Arthur should name you formally as his heir. I take it very ill that he has not. Your becoming king of Lothian should be no obstacle to that.”

  “As far as I know, I am his heir, but there's no need for it to be public. But the day of kingship should be far away, Mother. You will live long, I pray, and so will Arthur."

  Morgause returned the pressure on his hands. "None of us live forever, Gawaine. Even you won't. You must marry and have sons."

  He dropped her hands. "Must you mention marriage every time you see me? I will marry someday, no doubt." He picked up a silver goblet lined in gold—even Cai could not find two goblets like the one Morgause drank from—and gulped down a quantity of wine.

  “But if you do not marry, one of Agravaine's sons might rule, and they are little better than he is.” Morgause showed her contempt in her face. “Agravaine's poor wife wouldn't make the journey with me because she feels safer away from him in Lothian.”

  Gawaine sighed. “You have a good point, Mother. But there is no woman whom I wish to marry.”

  "Perhaps you would like the girls in Lothian better than those here," Morgause countered.

  "But you came from Cornwall, so the ladies there must be the best. Ha
ving you here is like a breath of heather. How can I be pleased with any of these ladies when none are as fair as you are?" He gave her what he believed was his most winning smile.

  His mother laughed. "Oh, Gawaine, you always turn me away with flattery."

  His laughter joined with hers. It was grand to have her at Camelot, and he would be sad to see her go, but he would also feel relieved. He certainly couldn't tell her that he fancied the only woman in the world who would be horrified at the idea of being a queen.

  That night a less welcome visitor came to Gawaine's house. It was late, but Gawaine's servant had left the lamps burning. Gareth was off praying in the chapel, though Gawaine wished his younger brother were wenching instead. Gawaine scratched the ears of an old hound and told the dog that he looked foolish with his tongue hanging out. The hound licked Gawaine's face.

  A knock sounded at the door, but Agravaine entered almost before Gawaine could bid him to do so.

  "You should lock your door." Agravaine's tone was unpleasant, which was no uncommon occurrence.

  Gawaine relaxed in his chair and indicated a chair for Agravaine. "Who would dare to try to attack me in my own home? Anyone who did would not live long."

  "Your dog didn't even bark." Agravaine regarded the hound with some disgust.

  "He knows you, of course. What is your business that cannot wait until the morrow?" Although Agravaine was eyeing a jar of mead, Gawaine refrained from offering him anything to drink.

  Scowling, Agravaine leaned forward. "Will our mother never step down from her throne? Why don't you ask her? It shames us that an old woman rules in our stead."

  Gawaine straightened his back. "In my stead, you mean. I shall thank you not to refer to Queen Morgause as an old woman. She is cleverer than any ruler in the land, save Arthur. No one could rule Lothian and Orkney better."

  Agravaine snorted. "I say she shames us. As if she didn't shame us enough by having a lover always hanging about her. I've said many times, we should force her to dismiss him—or we should take action ourselves."

  Gawaine leapt up from his chair. "If you dare to make any move against her, or against Lamorak, I'll see that you regret it. Don't try anything." He brandished his fist.

  "Ever the good son, Gawaine, but not such a good brother." Agravaine rose and stared at the fist as if daring Gawaine to strike.

  "Better than you deserve. Stop this quarreling and be off." Gawaine indicated the door.

  "Whatever you say, Elder Brother." Agravaine's voice mocked him, but he went out into the night.

  Gawaine groaned and poured himself some mead. He knew that his warning would keep Agravaine at Camelot. Why weren't his brothers more of a comfort to him? Then he remembered that for years he had thought of Lancelot as a brother, and he laughed.

  Galahad stayed away from everyone else as much as possible, speaking only when sought out.

  She avoided even Talwyn's sympathetic glances, for she feared to weep in front of Talwyn.

  Gawaine taught Galahad a tune on the pipes that was even sadder than any Galahad had heard before. It was almost like weeping, but more calming. Galahad played it again and again, but knew that the whole of life could not be spent with the pipes.

  Galahad thought it necessary to speak with the king. Almost creeping to Arthur's rooms, Galahad asked meekly for a moment's talk.

  "Of course, Galahad." The king smiled at her kindly.

  "I want to tell you how sorry I am. I killed another of your warriors, who wanted only to serve well. I failed you. Please forgive me." Galahad knelt down and sobbed.

  Arthur motioned for her to rise. "Nonsense, no one knew that this could happen. You didn't fail. Of course you're sorry, but don't grieve so over it. You have to be a warrior, after all." He seemed a little displeased at Galahad's strong emotion.

  Talwyn took a slice of bread and another of cold meat from one of the tables that had been set out with food for the people of Camelot to break their fast. In the morning, eating was hurried as people went about their tasks. Before Talwyn left the great hall, King Arthur walked in her direction. After curtseying, she tried to scurry out of his path, but he stopped to speak with her. He never had before, so Talwyn stared at him.

  "You should make yourself attractive to Gawaine," the king said in an undertone. "There's a chance that he might marry you, and there's no need to tell you that's the best marriage you could make."

  Talwyn was unable to speak. She realized that her mouth was hanging open with astonishment.

  The king gave her an impatient look, so she nodded and said, "Yes, my lord," as she was expected to do.

  "Good girl." Then the king was off, to do whatever kings did.

  Talwyn staggered out to the courtyard. What should she do? By good fortune—or, perhaps, not so good—she saw Gawaine walking to the great hall, no doubt for a morning meal.

  She rushed over to him. "Noble lord, I must speak with you," she said in a breathless voice.

  Gawaine's eyes widened. "What's the matter? Has someone been injured? Is your father unwell?"

  "No, no, I just need to speak with you, pray." Talwyn blushed.

  Gawaine frowned. "What in the name of Cerridwen? Lady Talwyn, you should go to the lady Lionors. I will come soon and speak with you at her house. Bors will no doubt be at Mass at this hour."

  Mirabile dictu! What strange instructions! But Talwyn followed them.

  She entered the house and, walking past an uncountable number of children with toys, bade good-day to the Lady Lionors, who was settling a dispute about some marbles.

  "God grant you good day, Talwyn." Lionors looked only mildly surprised to see her. "Would you help me by getting that kitten down?"

  Looking up, Talwyn saw a black kitten climbing to the top of a wall hanging that depicted several apostles. Jumping up on a stool, she plucked the protesting kitten off the hanging. The kitten scratched her, but she put it down gently nevertheless.

  A little girl grabbed up the kitten and scolded it.

  "Thank you, Talwyn. You'll see what it's like when you have children of your own," Lionors said.

  Talwyn vowed that day would never come.

  A servant showed Gawaine into the room.

  "Good-day, Lady Lionors." He bowed his head first to her, and then to Talwyn.

  "Gawaine!" Lionors exclaimed with pleasure, running her fingers through her hair, although it was braided like a proper married lady's. "How good to see you. I'm afraid that Bors left long ago. You might find him at the chapel, or by now at the practice field."

  "I have come to see you, my lady." He inclined his head again. "It's always good to see your delightful family. Your children are looking well." A little boy ran up to Gawaine, who picked him up and swung him around, then set him down again. "My errand concerns the Lady Talwyn. Could the three of us go to another room?"

  Looking as astonished as Talwyn felt, Lionors bade a serving woman watch for the younger children, then showed the way to another room, where Bors's armor and weapons, rather than toys, predominated.

  "What is this all about?" Lionors asked, shutting the door behind them.

  "The Lady Talwyn approached me in the courtyard and said she needed to speak with me urgently." Gawaine nodded to Talwyn. "But I fear that my reputation is such that even having a conversation with me, especially in agitated manner, might hurt her good name. Therefore I thought it best if we speak in your presence." He turned to Talwyn. "Pardon me for my presumption, but I was only thinking of you."

  "Of course it's proper that you should speak in front of me," Lionors said, "although it would have been even more so in front of the Lady Guinevere..."

  Gawaine cleared his throat.

  "Well, perhaps not," Lionors admitted. Guinevere's dislike for Gawaine was well known. "Talwyn, why on earth do you have to speak with Gawaine?"

  Talwyn felt herself blush, though she had done nothing to blush about.

  "Could we perhaps go to the other side of the room?" she asked.

>   "I suppose so." Lionors sat down in her chair and picked up a garment that needed mending.

  Talwyn walked to the other side of the small room, and Gawaine followed her.

  "Pardon me for causing all this trouble, Lord Gawaine," she said, forcing herself to speak. "But the king told me I should try to make myself agreeable to you in the hope that you might ask to marry me."

  "Indeed?" Gawaine raised his eyebrows.

  "I couldn't tell him, but I care about someone else."

  Gawaine smiled.

  "Other people have approached me about marriage—I don't want the Lady Lionors to hear me because one of the offers concerned her own son—but I have pretended to be mad so I could avoid the matches." She told him the details of her pretenses.

  Gawaine appeared to be holding back laughter, but he shook his head. "Pretending to be mad could be a perilous game, Talwyn. Take care when and how you do it."

  "I know." She nodded. "But I like you too much to lie to you. I wanted to tell you the truth."

  Gawaine's face held the warmest look she had ever seen on it. "Thank you. I am honored. May I ask you which young man—I assume he is young—is fortunate enough to win your affections?"

  Talwyn's face felt hot with blushing. "Galahad. I've never told anyone before."

  "Galahad. A fine young man. I hope that he returns your affections and you will marry." Gawaine beamed at her. "I know that young girls aren't likely to find old men attractive."

  "Oh, I didn't mean that," Talwyn said hastily. "I've always thought you were. If it weren't for Galahad..." She clapped her hand over her mouth.

  "Ah." Gawaine smiled with his eyes. "I'd be your second choice, then? In a way, that's more flattering than being the first choice. Far too many women flirt with me because they want to marry a king's son. But second choice, and honest about it, means that you truly like me."