Lancelot and Guinevere

by Carol Anne Douglas

  She could not go alone, for she did not know the roads and feared that the king's men would find her and force her to return.

  She went to the house that Gareth shared with Gawaine, and the young warrior answered her knock. His eyes widened at the sight of her.

  Guinevere's voice showed her frenzy. "Have you heard that Lancelot is ill?" she asked.

  "Yes, Lady Guinevere, gravely ill." He sounded weary and there were circles under his young eyes. "I have been on my knees all night praying for his recovery. Poor Lord Lancelot is suffering greatly."

  Guinevere shut her eyes briefly. "Would you take me to Bagdemagus's dun, Gareth?" she pleaded.

  The tall young warrior pulled back. "You must ask his majesty about that, your highness. Surely there is nothing you could do for the lord Lancelot. He is so out of his senses that he did not recognize Gawaine."

  Guinevere staggered back. "Poor Lancelot! I must go to him."

  Gareth stared at her as if she were as mad as Lancelot. "You must go back to your rooms and rest. Prayer is the only thing that will help the lord Lancelot. I shall pray for him, and fast for his sake, and you might, also." He shut the door.

  Guinevere walked unseeingly back to her room. If only she had agreed to run off with Lancelot. Whatever dangers they might have faced, they would have been together.

  Oh, my love, she thought, I would wander in the forest with you and sleep under the hawthorns. I would hunt for nuts and dig up roots, I would even eat bark with you. If you were mad, still I would gather any food I could for you and feed you.

  Guinevere felt as if she were wandering through a desert. Her fine room was only a bleak and barren wasteland. The woods and streams she saw in the room when Lancelot was there had dried up.

  Talwyn entered and picked up her wax tablet from the table.

  The girl asked, "Lady Guinevere, are you ill?"

  "No," she muttered.

  "I had to ask you three times," Talwyn exclaimed.

  "Read your Virgil," Guinevere answered the girl. It was impossible to imagine that anything but Lancelot mattered.

  19 THE MAID ELAINE

  The red-haired lady's voice always sounded sweet, and her touch always felt gentle. Whatever sort of being she might be, she did not mean harm, Lancelot believed.

  The lady brought her water to drink, and Lancelot drank it gratefully. She feared that her food and drink might be poisoned, but she believed the kind lady would prevent that if she could.

  "How are you today?" The lady put her hand on Lancelot's forehead. "Your fever is gone."

  Lancelot thought she would never be well again, in this world of exile from all that she had known, but she said, "I am well. Thank you for troubling about me. Pardon me for not asking your name. What is it, my lady?"

  Elaine."

  "I have always liked that name." Little though she felt like smiling, Lancelot returned Elaine's smile. If she had a friend in the realm of enchantment, she should show her appreciation.

  Elaine blushed. "You sound happier. I hope that you will be happy here."

  Lancelot made an effort not to sigh. Happiness was gone forever, if Guinevere was gone. But at least there was some kindness. It would be wrong to kill herself, for that was a great sin. She must live for the moments that were tolerable. "Your presence makes this world brighter, my lady."

  "Truly?" Elaine's face lit up with a smile. "Your presence also makes this world brighter for me, noble lord." Her cheeks were almost as red as her hair. She brushed some locks back from her forehead.

  Lancelot shook her head. "I am no lord in this world. You should call me by another name." She paused and wondered whether she should give her name, or make up one for this enchanted world.

  "Lancelot," Elaine said shyly.

  "You know who I am." Lancelot was only a little surprised. Of course whoever had put everyone under a spell knew her name, and must have told this lady. Could Morgan, in her anger at being in exile from Camelot, have spun a spell that destroyed it? Lancelot closed her eyes for a moment.

  "Yes. Why do you close your eyes? Does your head ache? May I get you a damp cloth?" Elaine stroked Lancelot's forehead. "I think you are well enough to have candles in your room now. I'll get some."

  Lancelot opened her eyes. She must not be rude to this lady who tried to help her. "How kind you are. I had not thought to find any kindness in this world."

  "Has no one been kind to you?" Elaine's eyes widened. "Never fear. I shall always be as good to you as I can. Just tell me what you want, and I will do it."

  Tears started in Lancelot's eyes and began to drip down her cheeks. She reached up her hand to dry them, but Elaine's hand was there first, wiping them away.

  "Don't weep, Lancelot. I shall always be with you. You will never be alone." Elaine put her arm around Lancelot.

  Lancelot rested her head on Elaine's shoulder. The pretty lady—for she was pretty—brought a welcome smell of the forest to the musty room. But if only Lancelot could smell Guinevere's familiar scent! Was Guinevere gone forever?

  Elaine could think of nothing but Lancelot. Never had she seen anyone so handsome, so gentle. It mattered not whether Lancelot was a woman or a man, only that she was so appealing. Lancelot was so sad. Perhaps the queen had been cruel to her. It must be strange to love a married woman. Wouldn't it be better for Lancelot to love a woman who was unmarried?

  Elaine sat with Lancelot and told stories that took her away from her misery for a few moments. Lancelot listened avidly.

  Looking into Lancelot's eyes, Elaine said, "The first people were trees, who spoke and felt something like we do, but they could touch each other only when the wind blew their branches in just the right way. They longed to touch, and begged for the power to do so, and so one day their wish was granted, and some of them had flesh, and legs, and could reach each other, but they had to accept a much shorter life, and much wandering, in return."

  Elaine touched her hand, and Lancelot trembled. She longed to kiss Elaine's hand, and her gentle mouth. She had never imagined that she would embrace anyone but Guinevere, and the knowledge that she could made her ashamed.

  But she would likely never see the true Guinevere again, so perhaps it would not be so wrong to embrace Elaine. Must she pine for what could never be?

  "I should try to walk," Lancelot said, raising herself from her bed. After weeks of sitting and lying in bed, walking was difficult. Her legs felt stiff as spears. Elaine took hold of her arm, and Lancelot shook for many reasons. She slumped into an old wooden chair and looked at Elaine.

  "Perhaps you aren't ready to walk yet. You need not force yourself," said Elaine, though surely she guessed that was not the reason why Lancelot had moved away from her.

  Elaine was gentleness, nothing but gentleness, and Lancelot ached to immerse herself in Elaine as if she were a bed of ferns. What would it be like to meet nothing sharp or angry in one you loved?

  Lancelot spoke softly. "I don't mean to offend you, but I must find a way to do these things for myself. When you touch me, I fear that I shall return your touch in ways that I should not."

  Elaine looked longingly into her eyes. "I wish that you would touch me. You are very dear to me."

  Lancelot sighed. She saw that she had been wrong to say anything. Of course saying the words would lead to more. Admitting any feeling betrayed Guinevere. If the true Guinevere were under an enchantment somewhere, Lancelot should be true to her.

  "I have no right. My heart is pledged to one I love dearly."

  "Pardon my boldness. I have heard that your life is entwined with the queen's, but I beg you to spare some love for me." Elaine held out her hand.

  Lancelot took the hand.

  She drew Elaine beside her and Elaine kissed her fervently. Lancelot felt a surge of warmth. She could enjoy kissing a woman other than Guinevere.

  Elaine pulled her to the bed and Lancelot reclined willingly.

  Elaine took off her clothes. Her body was pink and sweet. She look
ed so vulnerable that Lancelot took off her clothes also. Anything else would seem like an insult. Elaine pressed herself against her.

  Lancelot was shy about touching a virgin, but Elaine was so eager to be touched and to return the touches that Lancelot stopped holding back. Elaine seemed so completely sweet and affectionate that Lancelot kissed her everywhere, and found that Elaine learned such kisses very quickly.

  When they were lying on the bed afterwards, Elaine said, "I fear that you will leave someday, but I love you nevertheless."

  Lancelot then felt nearly as guilty toward Elaine as she did toward Guinevere. She was more divided than ever. How did she dare to claim the love of two women, even if one of them was under a spell?

  Lancelot gained strength, and she and Elaine walked together in the woods near the dun. Spring was coming, and they spent hours watching the first birds return.

  Drian was riding in the forest when she saw Lancelot and Elaine in the distance. She was ready to shout with joy because Lancelot could walk in the forest again. Then she saw that they were holding hands, and Elaine kissed Lancelot.

  Drian turned her horse away. Of course the nobles would go to each other. Was Lancelot recovered enough for love? Well, these noble ladies had no decency. Imagine throwing yourself at one so recently mad. Drian rode off towards the north. She forced back tears.

  Lancelot and Elaine went to the bog pond and watched herons stalking fish. Snipe and curlews flew up as the two walked through the reeds. Lancelot had not been able to share such things with Guinevere as often as she had wished.

  "My mother and I walked here often," Elaine told her. "She knew which birds would arrive each week of the spring, and when they would leave at the end of the summer. She could find remedies from leaves, roots, or bark for every illness, and she taught me all of these things. She had learned much from the Lady Morgan, who was her cousin and came here to visit us. I think of my mother every day. I thought of little else until you came here."

  There were tears in her eyes, and in Lancelot's as well. She thought she should not be surprised to hear that Elaine was related to Morgan. The spell was doubtless Morgan's after all, but Elaine must be innocent of all wrongdoing.

  "I walked in the woods with my mother, too," Lancelot said, "but she died when I was very young. I have always missed her so much. It is good to meet someone else who loved her mother as much as I loved mine." Somehow she could not bring herself to tell Elaine what she had told Guinevere, the story of her mother's rape and murder. It seemed indecent to weep about the same thing with Elaine.

  They seemed close on their walks, but when they made love, Lancelot called out Guinevere's name. And when she woke in the middle of the night, she wished that Guinevere was beside her.

  "Come and watch the moon with me," Elaine said when the moon was full, and took Lancelot by her hand. Together, they slipped into the woods and stood beneath the ghostly trees.

  "Women have drawn comfort from the moon and the stars since time began," Elaine told her. "This is good, this is holy. The night is a time to listen to heaven and earth."

  "There are many kinds of nights," said Lancelot, staring into the darkened woods. Once she had loved the woods at night, but now they seemed strange to her. Bats flew by, and they seemed like beings from the world of enchantment. "There are nights in the woods when you feel that thieves may attack at any moment. There are nights before battle, when you know that many men will die in the morning. I pray then, but find no comfort."

  Elaine exclaimed with distaste, "How could you be comforted when you are going out to kill? That would be inhuman."

  "Yes, I do not really want comfort then. Just courage—and a sense that I may be doing right." She paused. "Elaine, would you kill for the things you believe? Do you know whether Morgan would? Do women have the same thoughts of killing that men do?"

  Elaine gasped. "Look at the moon. Look at the stars. Do they kill?"

  "No, but the owls do." An owl had just swooped down on an unlucky mouse and was carrying the squealing thing away. "Rivers, the sea, blizzards can kill."

  "For food. Or in accidents. The sea is not moved by malice." Elaine's voice sounded like a teacher's. "But if an evil warrior had burst into the chamber where you lay sick and tried to kill you, I would have grabbed your sword and struck him."

  Lancelot stared off among the trees where the owl had gone.

  "You care about me. If you do, please tell me the truth." She turned to Elaine and looked into her eyes. "Is this an enchanted world or the real one? I long to know whether the Guinevere at Camelot is the true Guinevere."

  "What other Guinevere could there be but the queen?" Elaine trembled. "Of course this is the real world. Are you still ill? I had thought otherwise."

  "No other Guinevere?" Lancelot shook. If that were true, then she had betrayed Guinevere terribly. "But she has been so strange that I hardly knew her. Can I trust Guinevere, though she speaks of ruling after her husband's death? She sounds as if she looks forward to the day Arthur dies."

  Elaine sighed with exasperation. "Can't you just look at the moon with me? What can I say? Perhaps King Arthur might die before Queen Guinevere and she could hold the throne, with your help. If you go back to her." The last words came in a sad little voice.

  Lancelot groaned. Again, talk of Arthur's death. What would Guinevere want her to do, fight any of her brother warriors who did not want a woman ruler? "She might hope for that. She doesn't like him, much less love him, but she won't leave him. It must be because she thinks she can rule some day. I don't know which is worse, her letting him kiss her or her wanting him to die. The combination drives me mad." She shuddered. "I think her hopes are vain, in any case," Lancelot continued, though she sensed her listener was not pleased with the subject. "I don't think the warriors would serve a woman ruler."

  Elaine looked at the ground. "They wouldn't have to have 'only' a woman. You could marry her, and then they'd think they had a man, too."

  Lancelot shivered, though the night was not cold.

  Could she and Guinevere possibly go through with such a spectacle without discovery of her sex?

  And how could Elaine bear to speak of it?

  "Would anyone hasten Arthur's death? I would rather die than be part of such a scheme." Lancelot flung herself on the ground. The night seemed to enter her very being. Perhaps it would have been better if she had died of her illness. But she could stay here, with Elaine, and never have to face the court again, even if the true court was still at Camelot. Would it be better never to see Guinevere again than to chance learning that she plotted against Arthur?

  Elaine sat down beside her. "Why do you ask me, not Guinevere?"

  "I have trouble believing her. I am afraid that she wants me to kill Arthur." The words made her voice shake. "I don't think I could touch her again if she said such a thing. I can't bear to hear people talking about Arthur's death. Why should Guinevere mention it? Why should anyone? He is strong. He is only a little beyond forty. Forgive me for telling all of this to you."

  Elaine's face shone pale in the moonlight.

  "You expect me to be wise beyond my learning. I have never lived at court, but I do know that people always talk about who will succeed kings, whether they have one year to live or twenty. You may be doing the Lady Guinevere wrong to doubt her." Elaine's voice sounded forced. She twisted her hands. "I think you may have these thoughts because you are angry at the king yourself."

  Lancelot closed her eyes briefly. "Could that be true? I should not blame her, when I am the one who has wronged her," she said, angry at herself—then even angrier when she realized how Elaine must feel about what she had just said.

  "Wronged her, with me?" Elaine's voice shook. "I am sorry that I have grieved you. Of course it must be so. I have injured a great queen who has done no harm to me."

  "Forgive me. You're so sweet. I didn't mean to hurt you." Lancelot took hold of Elaine's hands, which were cold.

  "I know you don't want
to hurt me, but I can see that you are constantly thinking of Queen Guinevere." Elaine choked on the words.

  She turned her head away from Lancelot. "Let's look at the moon and be comforted. There is more in the world than our passing sorrows."

  Lancelot put an arm around her. She knew that she was selfish in her love for Guinevere, but she felt tenderness toward this young woman. "I would like to comfort you, too, Elaine. You are always comforting me."

  "Just being near you comforts me." Elaine smiled but her voice hinted at forced-back tears. "Please, let's just look at the moon."

  Lancelot kissed her cheek and sang a song about a beautiful woman who lived in the woods, going to sleep in the winter and waking in the spring.

  Elaine clasped Lancelot's hands tightly. "Sometimes people wish they could be trees again, and feel cool sap running through their veins instead of blood, and have skin of bark that does not tremble at a touch, and grow beside each other without joining. But they forget that trees can also be cut, and trees can also burn. And sometimes a tree that began as one is split by lightning, while others that grew at first apart become entwined."

  She led Lancelot to a pond sparkling with moonlight. "You love the water so. Do you think that what we see there in daylight are our own faces reflected? No, they are ourselves leading other lives. Your likeness and mine have entered this water together, and you will live there with me."

  Lancelot could marry Elaine. There would be much joy in being with this gentle woman, and so much less fear of discovery than there was in the adultery—she would always think of it that way—with Guinevere. Elaine loved wild things as much as Lancelot did, and they could be together freely.

  Then Lancelot thought of her years with Guinevere, of Guinevere's voice, and scent, and sorrows, her courage, her passionate touches, and her no less passionate beliefs. Everything from her eyebrows to her toes seemed particularly delightful, more interesting than anyone else's. As for Guinevere's anger, how could she not be angry, after having to pretend for so many years that there was love where there was none?