Lancelot and Guinevere

by Carol Anne Douglas

  She did not feel that she saw repentance in his face, but how could she know?

  Guinevere's face was stiff, her muscles straining to smile. Her eyes held no warmth. She must be thinking of her sister. The grail, or whatever it was, must hold no beauty for her. Lancelot could see that Guinevere's rage was barely suppressed.

  Arthur put his arm around Guinevere and kissed her cheek. Lancelot could bear it no more. She wanted to leap from her seat and strike him. Holy Grail, indeed!

  Not many days before, Arthur had been touching and kissing Guinevere's sister. Lancelot felt her chest constrict. Her hand went to the place where her sword would be, though she was not wearing it for the feast day supper.

  She wanted to kill. She was nothing but a killer, and never would be more. Never could she create anything good or beautiful. Her soul must be dead indeed.

  This wasn't Arthur. This couldn't be Arthur, the man she had sworn to follow.

  Camelot just another hill fort, a bigger one. She and her friends were nothing but killers. This wasn't the Camelot she had thought she knew. She reeled.

  She almost ran out of the hall, barely managing to conceal her panic.

  Galahad and Percy did not linger late at the table.

  Percy did not eat. He sat so still that Galahad wondered if he might be ill, but his eyes shone and he gazed up at the roof, which held only a smoke hole.

  Galahad managed to eat some venison and sweet cakes, and noticed that the wine was the finest ever served, at least to the young warriors.

  "Percy." Putting a hand on his arm, Galahad tried to wake him from his daze.

  "Yes?" Percy blinked as if surprised that any human voice would speak to him.

  "Shall we leave?" Galahad saw that many other warriors were beginning to drink as much as they usually did at such a feast, and wanted to spare Percy from being rudely pulled from his bliss.

  Percy nodded. They went to the courtyard.

  The winter stars lit the heavens. The air was cold, but Galahad knew that Percy would be impervious to mere temperatures.

  "Was that the grail?" Percy asked in a wondering tone. "It seemed somehow too splendid. I would have expected it to have a simpler earthly aspect."

  "Indeed," Galahad said, cautious lest she offend. "I would not think the Christ used elegant vessels. His supper was only at a simple inn, after all."

  Percy shook his head. "A king's caer has too much earthly grandeur for such a rare treasure. I think this vessel must just be a sign that we should seek the true grail. It may well be in a caer of gold and silver, but I think the outward appearance would be very different." He turned his eyes from the stars to Galahad. "Will you seek for the grail?"

  "I don't know. Perhaps I'm afraid that I might find it." Galahad shivered. Was it from the cold, or the idea of some terrible spiritual duty? She wondered.

  Snow began to fall, and Percy stared at it as if it were a miracle. “Is this a sign from heaven?” he asked.

  “It doesn't seem like an auspicious sign for a quest.” Galahad pulled her cloak tighter. It was black, made from the same material as nuns' habits.

  Lancelot burst into Guinevere's room. Snow covered Lancelot's shoulders, but she didn't bother to brush it off. "You can't stay with a man who'd lie with your own sister!" she said in a voice that was much louder than usual. “It's repulsive. And to pretend that he's a great friend of the Christ's, and the court is full of visions—it's vile, too vile to believe. I'm surprised that Nimue would lend herself to such a deception. A chalice that glows in the dark! How blasphemous! It's time for us to leave."

  Guinevere grabbed the arms of her chair. "Leave? We cannot."

  "Of course we can, and must." Lancelot paced about the room like a wild creature penned. Its familiar candlelight did not soothe her. "How can you bear to be kissed by a man who lay with your sister? Won't you leave?" she pleaded.

  Guinevere's mouth was set in a tight, grim line. "I find it hard to bear the way he treated my sister, but my situation is not so different from what it was before."

  "Not different for you? How not? I can see that you are angry at him." Lancelot searched her face.

  "I am no more able to leave now than I was before." Guinevere sighed.

  "What is it that you like so much here, though you complain? Perhaps you stay because he can make you a queen, and I cannot." Shaking with anger, Lancelot said the words that she had scarcely let herself think before.

  Guinevere shook also and grasped the gold torque around her neck, almost tearing it off. "True, gold and thrones mean much more to me than you do. If you believe that, you're a fool. I won't be free until Arthur dies, can't you understand that?"

  With a strangled scream, Lancelot rushed out of the queen's room and plunged down the secret staircase. Did Guinevere want her to kill Arthur? The thought was intolerable.

  The next morning, Galahad saw Talwyn in the cobbled courtyard, leaving her footprints in the fine covering of snow. Galahad not seen much of Talwyn in the months since Pentecost. What could Talwyn know about how it felt to kill?

  Now Galahad approached her. "Please walk into the garden with me."

  She stepped carefully around patches of ice on the cobbles. She offered Talwyn her arm, but Talwyn did not put her arm in Galahad's.

  "There are no flowers at this time of year," Talwyn replied, but she followed Galahad into the walled garden nevertheless. The rosebushes sparkled with droplets of ice. Talwyn shivered, perhaps with anticipation as well as cold, or so Galahad hoped.

  "I have decided to go away on a quest, perhaps for the Holy Grail," Galahad told her. Galahad tried to give her a winning smile, doubting that it would be successful.

  Talwyn frowned. "You're going away."

  Galahad's heart beat faster. “Do you care?”

  Talwyn's face became blank. “Not at all.”

  Galahad's heart sank to her boots. She looked at the icicles on the garden's bench. “I'll miss you. Could I have a kiss?”

  “Of course not.” Talwyn took a step away from Galahad. “You think I'm a loose girl, but I'm not. I don't think you're pure enough to find the grail.”

  “Unfortunately, I am. Thank you for keeping me pure, Talwyn.”

  "Go off with the other men, and have your adventures. I shall be just fine here with Lady Guinevere.” She turned away from Galahad and pulled her green wool cloak tight around her.

  Galahad tried to take Talwyn's hand, but she wouldn't permit it. She began to stride to the garden gate, but Galahad pursued her.

  "Wait, there's something I have to tell you." Galahad's voice became urgent.

  "I don't want to hear it! Nothing you could say would make any difference in how I feel about you." She darted through the gate.

  "I hope that's true," Galahad called after her, backing off. Perhaps it was not a good time to tell Talwyn that she was a woman.

  Lancelot went to Arthur's room, but turned down a glass of wine proffered by the king's own hand.

  "I am fasting," she said for an excuse. "I am going off to try to find the grail."

  The king raised his eyebrows. "There is no grail, but what people want to see," Arthur said. "I thought you knew that. It is only an outward sign of the Lord's majesty, sent to help us look for grace."

  "I need to go away." Lancelot stood adamant, barely controlling her anger at him. "Or else my soul may be wounded beyond repair."

  Arthur's frowned. "Nonsense. You must not desert me. I need you here."

  "I must go away to save my soul." She tried to remember that he was the protector of Britain, not simply the man who angered her. She must control her temper. Her arms still ached to strike him.

  "But must you go in the middle of winter? That's no time for journeys." The king shook his head. "Why not wait until Easter?"

  "No, I must go now," Lancelot insisted, feeling that she could not control herself any longer.

  "If you insist, you may go." Arthur sighed. "But return soon."

  Not too soon,
she thought, turning away so he would not see her face.

  "Lancelot is going off to find the Holy Grail, isn't that splendid?" Bors said to Gawaine after they had demonstrated some fighting techniques to the young warriors in a practice room. They were rubbing their faces with towels. “I will go too.”

  "Oh, Daghdha's cauldron that has no bottom, but provides food for all those who come to it," Gawaine replied, not wanting to speak about Lancelot's going away. "I always liked that story."

  Bors crossed himself. "You know well that I don't mean any such pagan tale. It is Christ's cup from the Last Supper."

  "You think that is easier to find?" Gawaine couldn't refrain from smiling, although he didn't want to insult Bors. "I think this grail is like young Percy's caer of the fisher king—a fine story, but nothing to be found in this world."

  "I saw the grail with my own eyes, and so did you!" Bors exclaimed indignantly.

  "If I saw it, then I didn't recognize it," Gawaine replied with as much courtesy as possible.

  Surely Lancelot was not pious enough to go on such a fool errand. She might have done so when she was young, but now a different reason was more likely, Gawaine thought, sighing inwardly. Doubtless she was sad. There had been dark shadows under her eyes lately. Had that cold Guinevere driven Lancelot to leave?

  Not daring to look out of the window, Morgan waited in her room. As always on these most important of nights, the room was cold. That was just as well, because fevers consumed her. Perhaps this year the flush came from her aging as well as her desire.

  She thought only of Arthur. His body, still as strong as ever, even though he came to her as almost a specter. His face—no other man was as handsome. She remembered his touch, though she had not felt it for a year.

  Surely it was later than usual. He should have arrived by now. Her heart raced, but she chided herself. One should not expect enchantments to be prompt, like a servant summoned.

  Although she did not look towards the window, Morgan could see rosy streaks streaming across the floor. She shuddered.

  He had not come. He would not come. How could he bear to stay away? He had said he never would, that he would always come just this one night a year.

  Arthur must be angry at her, angrier than ever. He would never come to her again.

  Morgan howled.

  16 GUINEVERE’S TEST

  After Lancelot had told the young warriors who studied with her that she would be going off on a quest and advised each of them about what he should practice, Gawaine joined her on the walk back from the practice field. The sky was bleak and they could see their breath in the cold air. Two hounds raced play-fighting about the field.

  Gawaine paused as if reluctant to go to the warm hall, rather than hurrying on for some hot mead as he was wont to do. He turned to Lancelot.

  "I'd like to accompany you on your quest for the grail," he said.

  She stared at him. Gawaine wasn't even truly Christian, and he surely couldn't have believed that the vessel they had seen had been what Arthur claimed. Perhaps he was jesting, so she decided to respond in kind. "Don't tell me that you want to look for the grail, you old sinner."

  "How do you know I don't?" he asked quietly. The expression on his face was unusually thoughtful. "I wouldn't look for it by myself, but I would like to go with you. And you aren't really going on a pilgrimage. I think you're going off because you're unhappy here."

  Lancelot tensed. His manner was too quiet and serious and his eyes were looking into hers in an unfamiliar way. "Even if that were true, I have to go alone."

  "I'm not such a bad companion, surely." Gawaine sounded as if he made an effort to speak lightly. "I laugh more than Guinevere does."

  "Gawaine, you have more reason to laugh than she does." Lancelot frowned. "How can a woman whose husband lies with her sister be expected to jest?"

  "No doubt you're right." He accepted the reproach. "But it is madness to travel alone in winter if there is no need," he protested, putting out his hand as if to keep her at Camelot.

  She moved away. "There is a need."

  "If you say so," Gawaine said, his face becoming as blank as the shield of a warrior who was keeping his identity unknown.

  Walking to her house to change to a clean tunic for supper, Lancelot marveled at the strange expression that had been in his eyes for a moment. No, she was not imagining things. He was wondering whether she would ever... How could he? Surely he could not imagine that they could be more than good friends.

  She remembered Gawaine's jest of some months ago that he would have to marry the only woman who wouldn't fall in love with her. Belatedly, she guessed that he had meant Lancelot herself. It was a jest, but perhaps not only a jest.

  How could she ever feel about Gawaine the way she felt about Guinevere? She shook her head. She felt neither attraction nor repulsion, only amazement and grave misgivings.

  Pulling off her stained and sweat-smelling leather tunic, she could think only about Guinevere. To be away from Guinevere's kisses would be a terrible penance. She did not want anyone else's.

  Shortly after Lancelot donned her scarlet tunic, Catwal entered, carrying wood that he began to feed into the fire. "How can you undertake a spiritual journey when your heart is so unquiet?" he asked in a somber voice.

  Lancelot gasped. Even a blind man could tell that she was in turmoil—perhaps because she paced around the room. "That is why I must go," she told him.

  "You might let me go with you to look after you," Catwal said. He addressed her without title because she did not like him to call her "lord" or "master." "My horse has good eyesight and can find his way although I cannot guide him."

  "Thank you for your concern, but I must go alone," she said, holding herself back from pacing any further. "All will be well."

  "I hope so." Catwal leaned away from the fire as it flared up.

  That evening, when Gawaine, Lancelot, Bedwyr, Bors, and Peredur sat in Arthur's room after supper, Lancelot said, "I'd like to tell a story."

  Gawaine raised his eyebrows and watched her carefully. Lancelot never told stories. What meaning did she want to convey, and to whom?

  Tewdar the serving man poured another round of wine.

  "I suspect this won't be much like Gawaine's bawdy tales," Bedwyr sighed, signaling to have his cup refilled. "No doubt it will have a moral."

  "Perhaps it will," Lancelot admitted. "Once there was a lady who was betrothed to a lord whom she did not want to marry, so she decided to run away." Avoiding her friends' faces, Lancelot looked out of the window into the night. "She asked a warrior who was her friend to help her. It was dangerous to oppose this lord, but the warrior agreed."

  "Of course he did, if she was beautiful. You didn't say whether she was," Arthur commented, quaffing his wine.

  Lancelot shrugged. "People said that she was handsome. Very well, I suppose she was beautiful."

  "You don't know how to tell a story," Bedwyr complained.

  Gawaine could barely refrain from ordering him to be silent and listen.

  "The lord sent many warriors in pursuit of them," Lancelot said, "They had to go to distant forests, and had many adventures, which they faced together with good cheer. They liked each other."

  "This sounds like the tale of Grania and Diarmuid. Of course she ran away only to seduce him." Bedwyr snickered.

  Gawaine listened attentively, for he did not think it was Grania's tale. The expression on Lancelot's face was hard to read.

  "This is a different story. Then, one day," Lancelot continued, still looking out of the window, "the warrior suggested that they should be more to each other, and the lady was distressed. 'You don't understand,' she said. 'I didn't just want to avoid the lord I fled from. I don't want any man.'"

  "Coy, was she?" Arthur asked.

  "No," Lancelot insisted, shaking her head. "She meant what she said. But the warrior said that she didn't understand these things because she was a maiden, and that she would be very happy with him.
She doubted that, but after a time she let him persuade her."

  "Obviously," Bedwyr said.

  "But she found that she had been right. She was not happy. And because he was clever, and she was not able to hide her feelings, he soon saw that she was not. And everything was dust and ashes for him because she was unhappy. It was hard to say which of them was the more miserable. Finally, one day she said, 'Please go off and find another woman, who could love you in the way you want,' but he said, 'I can't leave you.' She insisted that he should. Then, after some time, he did leave, and one day he returned, bringing another lady, and he introduced his old friend as his sister. She was happy, and said, 'I am glad that my brother has found someone,'" Lancelot concluded, and took a drink of wine.

  Gawaine took a large drink himself and almost choked.

  "That's the most ridiculous story I have ever heard," Arthur scoffed, setting his silver goblet firmly on the table. "She was a foolish woman, but she got what she deserved. I certainly don't believe she would be glad that he'd found another woman. Even if she didn't want him, she wouldn't want anyone else to have him."

  "No one could be that selfish," Lancelot said, sounding appalled. She now looked at the king instead of the dark outside of the window.

  "Don't judge by yourself," the king answered, patting a dog that was curled at his feet. "No woman is as noble-hearted as you are, Lance."

  "You didn't say whether they were married," Bors reproached Lancelot. "Of course the lady was unhappy and ashamed if they were not."

  "It doesn't matter whether they were married," Lancelot replied, sighing.

  "Of course it does," Peredur said, turning the goblet in his hand with annoyance. "Honorable men can't just go off and leave women. He would have gotten her with child, and they would have had to wed whether they were joyful or not. Marriage isn't just about kisses, it's about raising a family."

  "A child!" Lancelot exclaimed. "How horrible to have to marry because of that." She gulped down some wine.