Lancelot and Guinevere

by Carol Anne Douglas

  Guinevere's love for her was part of the world she lived in, as large as a great forest. Elaine's love was like a more tranquil lake, and might be as deep, but it was not so deeply a part of her. To leave Guinevere would be like burning the forest in which Lancelot had so often ridden. If the true Guinevere lived at Camelot, Lancelot must return to her. And if Guinevere was hidden elsewhere under a spell, Lancelot must find her.

  Dawn came, and Lancelot returned from her walk with Elaine. The man who looked like Gawaine was handing over his horse to one of Bagdemagus's stablehands.

  He resembled Gawaine so strongly, and he wore a many-colored plaid cloak just like Gawaine's. Moreover, his horse looked just like Gawaine's horse. Could he possibly be the true Gawaine? She stared at him. The red beard was the same, and so were the blue eyes, the nose that was larger than Arthur's, the height and weight.

  The man looked at her. "How are you doing, Lance?"

  His voice was a little too soft, but he was otherwise so much like Gawaine.

  "Will you walk with me in the garden?" he asked.

  She nodded. She had to find out the truth.

  "Pardon me, lady," she said to Elaine.

  Elaine nodded, but her forehead wrinkled.

  Lancelot joined the man, but didn't get as far as the garden. When they had walked a few steps from the stables, she asked, "Are you Gawaine?"

  The man paused. "Of course I am, Lance."

  He sounded sad. But perhaps the true Gawaine would be sad, indeed dumbfounded, if she didn't recognize him. She must question him further, ask him things that only Gawaine would know.

  "I must be sure. When you were held by the Saxons, and attacked with a throwing axe, who saved you?"

  "It was a priest, who later took us to his monastery," he replied promptly.

  Lancelot trembled slightly with hope. "Why did we leave the monastery?"

  "Because Father Paulus preached that women are filthy. I am Gawaine," he said, extending his hand. "Look at the scars on my hand, on my cheeks. Could another man have the same scars?"

  "They are similar to Gawaine's." She nodded. "What is my secret?"

  He grinned at her. "I am not supposed to speak of it, but you are a better fighter than any man."

  The grin was Gawaine's! "No, we are about equal," Lancelot said. "You truly are Gawaine!" Her heart swelled with happiness. A weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

  "Who else could have this ugly face?" His grin widened.

  "I had thought that you were gone, gone forever." Her voice quavered. "And so was everyone else I knew." She paused, hardly daring to hope. "Does this mean that all the others are the same? Are the king and queen real, not hidden away under some enchantment?"

  A sad look replaced his grin. "I assure you, they are the same as ever. Only you have been under a spell."

  Relief flooded her. Tears started in her eyes. "I am the only one who has been under a spell? The world is the same as ever? My friends are still there? This news is so good, so good." She choked on the words.

  "Your spell has ended." His grin returned. He reached out his hands, and she clasped them tightly.

  She would have thrown her arms about him, but she remembered the look he had given her when she went away—which was not so different from the way he was looking at her now—and decided that it was better not to do so. If he had still believed she was a man, she would have.

  She shook her head. "Such a powerful spell. Who could have enchanted me so?"

  "You were perhaps ill. It's good to have you back again." He beamed at her. "Or perhaps you were just pretending to be ill, greatest warrior in the world." His eyes were full of merriment.

  Gawaine was jesting. The world was right again. She laughed with delight. "Indeed, I pretended so well that I convinced myself."

  Gawaine dined at Bagdemagus's hall that night, and Lancelot was eager to jest with him. "Gawaine is the greatest liar in the world," she told the company.

  "You must believe Lancelot. He's the greatest saint in the world, as well as the greatest warrior," Gawaine added.

  Bagdemagus looked befuddled by the jests, as did his blank-faced son. Elaine, although her fey look made her seem not to fit into the family, also seemed little pleased with the new guest. She frowned, looking away from Gawaine.

  "And I have become Saint Gawaine, the holy hermit, so treat me with more respect, Lance," Gawaine said, pretending to growl.

  "You have taken vows to embrace a life of purity and self-abnegation. How wonderful!" Lancelot folded her hands as if in prayer.

  After supper, Gawaine urged Lancelot to walk with him again in Elaine's herb garden. As soon as they were out under the moon, looking at the untended rows that Lancelot knew Elaine had neglected planting this spring in her absorption in healing, he asked, "So, you have found yourself a wife?"

  She stopped dead in her tracks. "A what?"

  "Surely you're going to marry the poor girl, after carrying on with her in front of her father?" He sounded almost as indignant as if he were the girl's father.

  Lancelot glanced back at the hall, where Elaine was. "Surely I'm not." Not unless Guinevere no longer loved her. If the true Guinevere was indeed at Camelot, she must go to her.

  Treading on a few stray plants that were starting to spring up, Gawaine professed surprise. "Why, then, you have treated Elaine very ill. What a way to treat a sweet girl who healed you!"

  "Sweet Elaine may be, but I love Guinevere. There's no need for you to meddle in this, Saint Gawaine," she snapped, defending herself as if on the field of battle.

  He caught hold of her arm. "Don't be a fool. Take this chance to be happy. You won't find a better wife. Guinevere's already someone else's."

  She shook him off. "No matter, I am hers."

  "You could still bed Guinevere, of course," Gawaine said with some exasperation. "You can have more than one love. Guinevere is not the only one who loves you." He emphasized this last sentence.

  "I want only Guinevere. I won't marry Elaine." She bristled at the unwelcome advice.

  Gawaine shrugged and sighed. "Then we had best leave in some haste, before her father tries to stop you."

  Surprised, she looked at him. "Why should he?"

  "Fool, don't you see he'll think you've gotten her with child?"

  Lancelot gasped. "That I have not." She hoped the night would hide the blush that she was sure was on her cheeks.

  Gawaine rolled his eyes. "Not even Saint Lancelot's miraculous powers can manage that? Well, love her or leave her. That's your only choice now," he advised.

  "I'll leave," she replied decidedly.

  "Are you well enough to travel?" he asked, for the first time sounding uncertain.

  She nodded. "Surely I am."

  "Then better leave sooner than later, to avoid a fight with the father or the brother. You could hurt them badly. And they would be right. If I were her kinsman, I'd be vexed with you." He frowned.

  Lancelot bit her lip. "Don't be too vexed. I scarcely knew whether she was a mortal woman or a witch or faerie when I first laid with her. I thought I might never see the true Guinevere again."

  "Gods!" Gawaine's eyes widened. "I shouldn't chide you. If Elaine had been a man, I would say he was a brute to take advantage of you when you were mad."

  Lancelot sighed. "She was an innocent girl, so it is very different."

  "No doubt." But there was doubt in Gawaine's voice. He shook his head.

  Lancelot found Elaine that evening and walked with her to the garden. Clouds had obscured the moon.

  There was no way to sweeten the message. "I'll be leaving tomorrow," Lancelot said, somewhat embarrassed.

  "I knew you would." Elaine's voice strove for calm, then failed utterly. She clutched at Lancelot's arm. "I know that you love the queen, but can't you keep on with me, too? I won't be any trouble. I'll follow you, I'll hide away somewhere, and you can see me only when you choose. I'll be so grateful to see you, I'll never reproach you. Just let me love
you."

  Horrified, Lancelot stared at her. She clasped Elaine's hands. "That's dreadful. What kind of life would that be for you? I couldn't treat a woman like that."

  "I wouldn't mind," Elaine begged. "I'll be your mistress, I'll be your servant. I'll make clothes for you—surely the queen doesn't do that. Just let me worship you."

  Lancelot wanted to let go of her hands, but that seemed too cold. "I don't want to be worshiped. I don't want a servant. I am used to loving the proudest woman in Britain."

  But Elaine plunged on, clutching Lancelot's hands still tighter. "I cannot be proud with you. I have no pride. I have nothing but you. I want only to be yours. I am no queen, I am your devoted servant."

  Lancelot shuddered. "I could never think of you as a servant. I have thought of you as a woodland dream, a bed of ferns."

  Elaine grasped eagerly at the words. "Then let me be your woodland dream forever. I shall be the bed of ferns, and you may crush them."

  "No." Lancelot finally pulled away. "I am very fond of you, you know I am. But I love Guinevere and I want only to be with her. Please forgive me for hurting you."

  "I knew all along that you would leave and never return. It's not your fault," said Elaine, but she began to weep.

  Lancelot felt that she had to put her arms around her and comfort her, but she saw that she had been wrong ever to imagine that she wanted a woman who was not as strong as Guinevere. Her mind was full of Guinevere, and how the queen was both proud and tender.

  Lancelot wondered what, if anything, she could do for this woman who wanted only love. "I cannot keep you as a mistress, I cannot be your lover, but if I can be your friend, I would be glad to be."

  "A friend? What is that? I have never had one." Elaine spoke as if the offer were nothing.

  These sad words gave Lancelot an idea. "Then let me take you to a convent where you surely will find friends. That's the only place I can take you."

  Elaine jerked away from Lancelot. "Never will I go to a place where I would be shut in forever with a lot of old women. Is that where you send all of your castoff mistresses? I won't go!"

  Lancelot flinched at the insult. "You know well that there aren't any others. I have been only with you and Guinevere. The convent I mean is a good place."

  "I shall never leave my home except to be yours. But even though I never stir from this place, I shall follow you always, on the hills and through the woods, as a hunter follows a deer," Elaine sobbed.

  Lancelot hid her anger. Guinevere was the one who followed her to the remotest mountains, Guinevere was the one whose absence she felt more keenly than most people's presence.

  She was worried that Guinevere might never want to touch her again after she heard what had happened. For of course she would confess it all to Guinevere.

  Elaine fled, and Lancelot retired to the old building where she stayed. It was not long before she heard pounding on the door.

  She opened it to find Bagdemagus's beefy face, twitching more than ever, staring into hers. "I saw Elaine weeping. What does this mean?" he demanded. "Are you going to ask for her hand at last, or not?"

  Lancelot simply stood there, as if she were still too weak to talk.

  "You had better decide before morning, or I'll apply to the king to make him force you to marry her," Bagdemagus threatened and slammed the door.

  Lancelot shook her head. Bagdemagus was deluded. He was certainly much less important to the king than Lancelot was, and Arthur would never do such a thing to Lancelot unless the girl had a father who mattered a great deal, such as King Maelgon of Gwynedd or King Uriens of Rheged.

  Lancelot wandered off to the stables, as if on a nighttime stroll. A bat flew over her head, but having no fear of the creatures, she barely noticed it. The bat was only a bat, not enchanted.

  One sleepy boy generally guarded Bagdemagus's stables, but he was nowhere to be seen that night. Lancelot pushed open the creaking stable door, and found Gawaine, with both of their horses saddled.

  "Ready to flee, Saint Lancelot?" he whispered in a tone that was almost as loud as his voice usually was.

  She didn't look at him, but swung onto her horse.

  The day had dawned and they were still riding, now slowly across a moor. Their eyes scanned the ground for possible treacherous bogs.

  They rode through the gorse, and an occasional violet showed itself. Here and there a pipit sang, or a hare broke its fast, watching to be sure that all foxes had retired to their dens. A male grouse drummed, and females watched from not far away.

  Gawaine broke the silence. "It's all very well to say that you love Guinevere." His voice was gruff. "But you deserve to be loved by someone who cares more about you than about anyone else—as this Elaine does. And others might also." He glanced at her, then looked away.

  "You think that Guinevere does not?" She closed her eyes briefly and prayed that the fear that Guinevere did not love her was just another illusion from her time of madness.

  "She does have a husband, after all, so she cannot put you first. Others might." Gawaine paid scrupulous attention to his horse, as if it might stumble if he did not. "Of course you love Guinevere, but perhaps you could love someone else also."

  Lancelot shook her head. "I don't want to be divided. I don't want to be torn."

  Gawaine nodded. "It is like you to do whatever you do with your whole heart. But anyone can see that you have been unhappy. Perhaps that is what led you to madness."

  Lancelot gasped. "Are you saying you think Guinevere drove me mad?"

  "In a sense, yes." Gawaine eyed her warily, as if he expected her to be angry.

  "You have no idea of all that Guinevere has done for me." Lancelot abandoned all discretion, for what was the good of it now? She spoke as much to convince herself as her friend. At least Guinevere had loved her, whether she still did or not. "When Arthur sent me back to Camelot after the battle of Badon, mad Gryffyd imagined that I was a Saxon, and rushed at me with his sword, but Guinevere put herself between us."

  Gawaine's eyebrows shot up. "Guinevere did that? Little Guinevere?" Gawaine exclaimed. "Truly, she loves you."

  Lancelot sighed. "If only I could take her far away from Arthur."

  "You want to leave us all?" Gawaine's voice was not as hearty as usual.

  "Of course not." How selfish she was, thinking only of her love for Guinevere. "But I do wish I could be with Guinevere openly, with no husband nearby." She sighed. That was impossible, because Guinevere was unwilling to go away. But she so longed to see Guinevere and felt so guilty that she could forgive even that.

  The sun was high in the sky and fewer birds were singing. Lancelot's stomach rumbled, but she had not thought to bring any food, and probably Gawaine hadn't either.

  Gawaine said, "I brought some oat cakes and cheese with me."

  Lancelot grinned at these welcome words, which cheered her more than the sunlight. "What a good friend you are. Let's break our fast. What are we waiting for?"

  So they rested their horses by a little pond and munched on the oat cakes and cheese. Raven shat copiously, so the warriors moved their repast a little further away.

  Lancelot sighed. "I hope that Guinevere will forgive me for betraying her with Elaine."

  Gawaine shrugged and cut himself a slice of cheese.

  "Almost no one would be foolish enough to break with you over that, and no one ever said that Guinevere was foolish. If you're so worried about it, don't tell her."

  "Of course I have to tell. I could never keep such a thing secret." She felt herself blush, and Gawaine rolled his eyes.

  "It seems that you keep a good many secrets, though your love for Guinevere is completely unconcealed. What was your given name?" he teased. "Judith, perhaps? Or Scathach?" he asked, naming the woman fighter who had taught the legendary Irish heroes. "Or perhaps Diana the huntress?" He bit into an oatcake.

  "Well, it was a good deal pleasanter than Gwalchmai," she replied, mentioning his childhood name. "I suppose I can't
convince you that I was baptized Black Warrior, so I must admit that it was Anna. Lance, to you."

  Recalling that Gawaine had not asked what had happened to her, Lancelot explained what she could remember about Bellangere and Drian.

  Gawaine swore a great deal, calling Bellangere every name that ever was and inventing several. When he had exhausted all possible curses, he admitted, "I'm right glad that Drian the harper saved you. If I ever see her again, I'll thank her. And even try to be polite." Then he added, "Of course I never believed that it was Guinevere who tried to poison me."

  "I should hope not," Lancelot chided him. "It never entered my mind that she could have." She suspected that he was lying as much as she was. She certainly wasn't going to admit to Gawaine that she had at first suspected Guinevere, and had even feared that Guinevere would plot to kill Arthur.

  "So you love Guinevere. But you might think a little more about Elaine. Her father will try to marry her off now, as he no doubt fears she is carrying your child. It's strange that he didn't get her a husband when she was younger," Gawaine mused, brushing crumbs off his chest.

  "Marry her off? By the Virgin, I never thought of that," Lancelot groaned, dropping her oatcake and retrieving it just before it hit the ground. She supposed that she would have to visit Elaine again, a thought she did not much relish, to be sure that she was not married off to a man she did not want. Perhaps Elaine might find the convent more appealing if her father pressed her to marry.

  “Couldn’t you be happy with Elaine—or someone else—if it weren’t for Guinevere?” he persisted.

  “I’m tired of being asked who I’d love if I didn’t love Guinevere,” Lancelot complained. “How can I possibly know?” She sighed. Trembling, she asked, "Do you think Guinevere could still love me even though I have been mad? For I know this spell was truly madness."