Lancelot and Guinevere

by Carol Anne Douglas

  Galahad should see the hills of Lothian, Gawaine urged, and Galahad agreed.

  Gawaine told stories, many of which had brave women in them and none had much of bedding. He told the tales about his life that he wanted Galahad to hear, such as the story of how Lancelot had saved him from the Green Warrior.

  "You might have been foolish not to marry the Green Warrior's widow, Alais," Galahad suggested. "It sounds as if she was very fair and exceedingly fond of you."

  "That might be true," Gawaine admitted. "Perhaps someday I'll go find out whether she has married again." He remembered Alais’s warm embrace and, still more, her insistence on sharing the blame for lying with Gawaine, thus leaving herself at her husband's mercy. A fine woman, the only woman—except for Lancelot—who had ever been willing to give her life to save his. Yes, he wanted to see her. She had loved him. Perhaps it would not be so hard to love her, or even to marry her.

  "At the time I last saw Alais, when I tried to save her from her brutal husband, but barely escaped with my life because Lancelot happened by, I was mad about another woman and had no wish to marry. It was Ragnal, who was a serving woman at Camelot. She died a year ago." He looked up to see whether Galahad thought it was odd to care about a serving woman. "Do you remember her?"

  Galahad shook her head. "No, I'm afraid I never noticed her. I'm sorry you lost her."

  Gawaine sighed. It was unlikely that a young warrior would have noticed a gray-haired serving woman, of course, but it saddened him. How little Galahad knew about him, and how little he knew about Galahad.

  He wished he had seen Galahad as a child, the merry girl she must have been. Yes, he wanted children now more than ever.

  At Gawaine's urging, Galahad repeated some of the tales that Mother Ninian had told, full of saints, goddesses, and wild creatures all speaking with each other.

  Soon Gawaine and Galahad were trying to best each other at devising strange tales, such as how Cerridwen and a weasel resurrected St. John the Baptist—many people believed that weasels could revive the dead—but the characters always seemed to be clothed and fairly modest.

  How had Galahad managed to pretend to be a man? Gawaine wondered. There must be many stories, and, because Galahad laughed easily, many jests. He wished that he could ask, but he feared that Galahad would be uneasy with him if she knew that he guessed her secret, but not that he was her father. Galahad might ride off sooner, and Gawaine longed to continue the journey.

  One night Gawaine dreamed of the old nun. Smiling at him, she said, "The grail is not to be loved, but to love."

  He woke with tears in his eyes.

  When the two warriors from Camelot rose one dawn in a hillside camp, Galahad said, "Now that I have seen much of the West, I want to see Eburacum, go north to Hadrian's Wall, and see all that I can."

  Gawaine turned away, trying not to sigh. Much as he wanted to stay with Galahad, he had been wondering whether Lancelot still was happy and whether her mind still was calm. "I have been away from Camelot far longer than I told Arthur I would be. I had better return. I hope you will return soon also." He forced himself to smile.

  Galahad returned the smile. "Not too soon, I think. Many thanks for your lessons and for your good company."

  The young warrior flung her arms around Gawaine. "I'm glad I told you that we are kin."

  "So am I." Gawaine returned the embrace, brief as it had to be. "Enjoy your journey. And you might tell me where that convent is. Your Mother Ninian taught me a lesson once, and I'd like to thank her. Who knows, perhaps she'd teach me another one."

  Galahad rode off to the tune of the skylarks' song.

  As Gawaine went south alone, the skylarks did not sing as sweetly as they had when Galahad was there.

  Gawaine thought he would tell Lancelot about Galahad. It would be amusing if he had guessed Galahad's secret and she had not. He would tease Lancelot about that, and show no mercy.

  And he would tell her that he believed Galahad was his daughter. He did not have the courage to tell Galahad that he was likely her father, but perhaps Lancelot could find the words to tell her. He had no doubt that Lancelot would want to help him.

  Riding through glens, Gawaine thought about the past, which he generally tried to keep as far away as possible.

  He remembered meeting Keri, a pretty girl who laughed all the time. She had died and the baby boy was born dead, and as soon as the funeral was over, he had ridden home to weep on his mother's shoulder. Then there had been his second wife, who looked a little like Keri. He couldn't believe it when the midwife said that she, too, was dead, and the baby was still alive but weak.

  He remembered that the midwife at his urging had tried to keep her alive. He had begged the tiny thing, "Fight, Girl," but she had not survived, and he had learned from the midwife's surprise at his grief that sometimes baby girls were allowed to die.

  After that day he had thought at times about the missing daughter, and it seemed as if she should be there, and even more so after he had learned that he really had a missing daughter. Then, when his mother told him that he had had a sister whose life she had snuffed out in its first moments for fear that she would have a life of misery, Gawaine had thought about the missing sister, too, and it seemed as if she should also be there. Now perhaps they both had appeared, and he was glad that they were armed.

  He shook his head, telling himself that he had learned more about women's troubles than he had ever wanted to know.

  It eased his mind that Galahad liked women, not men.

  Gawaine liked men very well and thought many were good companions, but he didn't want his daughter to marry one.

  22 DRIAN’S TALE

  Drian strode down the streets of Eburacum, far north of any place she had ever been before. She surveyed the city's crumbling Roman buildings, fewer than half of which looked to be occupied. Her glance, always on the alert for some salable discard, darted amongst the rubble, although many other passersby must have scouted the place out over the years.

  A beautiful lady approached her. Drian smiled—until she saw it was Cecilia.

  "There you are, Lancelot. At last I've found you." Cecilia's eyes gleamed.

  Drian backed off. "Lady, couldn't you see at that fighting contest that I'm not Lancelot?"

  Beginning to run, Drian turned a corner—and encountered several of Cecelia's men, wearing her peacock badges.

  A burly warrior grabbed her. "You're the coward who ran away from our lady's service."

  Cecilia came around the corner. "Yes, he is. Take him to the villa where we're staying and hold him there. He won't escape again."

  Drian cursed her luck. She walked to avoid being dragged by the brute, whose grip was like a fox holding a chicken. She had left her horse, with her harp tied to it, tethered far off. She had no intention of telling them where.

  Galahad entered a tavern. She looked around carefully because she did not much like the company of drunken men, but she was hungry and was unsure where else to get a meal.

  A serving woman batted her eyes at Galahad, and Galahad smiled back. No harm in just a smile. She ordered trout because meat might be who knows what, but fish were fish.

  While she ate, Galahad heard some of the drinkers boasting.

  "Lancelot of the Lake is supposed to be such a great warrior, but we took him easily this morning." The large man who spoke wore rusted chain mail and a tunic with an outlandish badge on it. He slopped some of his ale on the floor, which already had several pools on it.

  "Sure, and I'm holding King Arthur in my cellar," sneered another drinker.

  "No, this is really Lancelot. Lancelot of the Lightning Arm, hah! His arm wasn't so lightening swift today," the man with the badge said. "He just let us take him away. Mayhap my lady's so pretty that he doesn't much mind being her captive."

  Galahad froze. Lancelot a captive! No lady was fair enough to make Lancelot forget Guinevere.

  Galahad rose and strode over to the boaster. "I've seen Lancelot in fig
hting contests," she said. "I'll bet you a barrel of wine that your man isn't Lancelot."

  "He is so!"

  "Then take me to see him. I'll buy you a barrel if you're telling the truth."

  "And you think I'll take your word for it that he's not, and buy you a barrel, even though I've never seen you before? I'm no fool." The man laughed.

  "Oh no, you would pay no penalty if he's not Lancelot, but you would get the wine if he is." Galahad tried to give him her most winning smile. "You have nothing to lose."

  "I'm no fool, but you must be one. But why shouldn't I take advantage of that?" The man gulped down his ale.

  "Perhaps I am. Let's go before I change my mind," Galahad said.

  The man with the strange badge led her to a villa that was old but looked solid, as did the walls of the outbuilding where they stopped. A short warrior in chain mail and a similar badge guarded an iron door.

  "This young man will pay me well to see our prisoner," the warrior with rusty mail said.

  "What about me?" The guard looked around to be sure that no one else was around. "He'll have to pay me, too. If our lady catches us, we'll both feel the whip."

  "I'll give you a jar of the wine I'm getting," said the rusty-armored man. "Come on, let us in."

  "Take a look inside, but be quick about it," the guard said, unlocking the door.

  "Don't get any ideas, Lancelot," he called inside, drawing his sword and entering with them. "This man is just here for a look at you, though I don't think you're a sight worth paying for."

  "Our lady thinks otherwise." The man in rusty mail chuckled coarsely.

  The room had little furniture, but it couldn't be called a cell. Galahad stared at the person sitting on a stool in the corner. It wasn't Lancelot. But it was another woman dressed as a man. Galahad held back a gasp. The woman was about Lancelot's age and build, with a handsome face and short hair that was a dark brown, not black like Lancelot's. She wore a russet tunic that was made of good wool, but far from new.

  The short-haired woman grinned. "Look at me all you like." She rose and turned about, as if on display. She might have recognized Galahad for what she was.

  "That's not Lancelot," Galahad told the warriors. "Lancelot has much larger muscles. But I'll pay you for your trouble anyway." She pulled out of her pouch enough for a barrel of wine and then some. "Since he isn't Lancelot, you might as well let him go."

  "Ha!" The man with the long-worn mail grabbed the money from her. "Our lady'd skin us alive. She fancies him for some reason."

  "But she wouldn't want to be fooled when she finds out I'm not Lancelot," the woman in the russet tunic said. "She'd be in a temper then, and she'd probably make everyone around her feel her wrath."

  "Not half the temper she'd be in if she found out we let you go," the guard replied.

  While the warriors were looking at the woman—she really was as handsome as Lancelot—Galahad drew her dagger and hit the guard's head with its blunt end.

  He crumbled to the ground, and his fellow warrior whirled around. "What the hell are you doing? You're in league with our prisoner." Drawing his sword, he advanced on Galahad, who jumped out of his reach.

  The handsome woman grabbed the stool, crept up behind him, and hit him over the head.

  As he fell, she said, "Amazing that such thick heads can crack so easily, isn't it?"

  "Let's go. We have no time to waste." Galahad hurried out of the door. She was followed by the handsome woman, who took the guard's key, pulled the door shut behind them, and locked it.

  She then put the key in her tunic. "For a keepsake," she said.

  Galahad hurried to her horse, followed by her new companion. Galahad mounted, and the woman swung up behind her. "I have my own horse, tethered at the edge of town."

  "Good. Direct me there."

  Galahad made her horse hasten. She was proud that she had saved another woman. My, those arms around her felt warm.

  "I'm Galahad, trained at Camelot," she said. "I know Lancelot, and you aren't he."

  "You aren't he either." The woman laughed.

  Galahad frowned. "Don't mention that."

  "I'll keep the game as secret as you will, for many good reasons," the woman said. "I'm called Drian, my fine rescuer."

  They reached Drian's horse, and she dismounted, sighing as she let go of Galahad.

  Galahad started to ride away, but the handsome woman rode off with her.

  "So you're Galahad," Drian said as they rode off. "May I call you Gal?"

  "You may not!" Galahad snapped, eyeing Drian with suspicion. "What are you doing posing as Lancelot? Lancelot trained me, and I resent your impersonation."

  Drian looked her in the eye.

  "I'm not posing. A lady named Cecilia mistook me for Lancelot, and imprisoned me once because of it. I got off once before she found out what I am, but I thought I wouldn't succeed a second time. Lance is my friend, and would be glad you've helped me." She grinned. "I suppose she's proud of you."

  Galahad gulped. Her voice became anxious. "Lancelot hasn't observed what you have. Please don't tell her."

  "What, she doesn't know that she's trained a girl like herself?" Drian howled with laughter.

  "I'm not a girl," Galahad snapped.

  "I'm just as glad I won't have to make love to the not-so-kind lady Cecilia," Drian said, ignoring Galahad's irritation.

  "What, would you have made love to her and let her know that Lancelot is a woman?" Galahad frowned and her face reddened.

  Drian hooted. "How green are you? I wasn't going to take my clothes off. She might have guessed I was a woman, but she couldn't know for sure."

  Galahad's eyes widened. "Make love without taking your clothes off? Why would you bother?"

  Drian eyed her in an intensely personal way. "You've never made love to a woman, have you?"

  "No." Galahad stared at her horse's mane. "But I don't think I'd want that Cecilia."

  "No more did I. A more equal match is better. I'd rather spend the night with you than Cecilia anytime." The sky was reddening, but probably no more than Galahad's cheeks. "How about it, Gal?"

  "There's a lady that I'm fond of in Camelot," Galahad said stiffly, trying not to look at Drian.

  "That's a great many miles from here. Does she love you?"

  Galahad hesitated, then said, "I'm not sure, but I really do like her."

  Drian shook her head. "If that's your reason, all right. But if it's that I'm not high born enough for you, it's your loss, Gal."

  Galahad flinched.

  Drian added, "At least we might do what Lancelot and I did, which is not so bad."

  "What is that? Don't tell me some unlikely story about Lancelot." Galahad's voice was full of suspicion.

  "We slept in each others' arms without doing anything more."

  Galahad gave Drian a sidelong glance. "Lancelot can perform many feats that I cannot, and that may be one of them."

  Drian laughed. She touched the harp that was tied to her saddle. "Tonight I'll play the harp and sing to you. Has anyone ever sung just for you?"

  "No. That would be splendid." Galahad thought of playing the pipes in return, but they were not so good for soft songs. The only one she knew she planned to play for Talwyn, and that, at least, she would save.

  Drian woke in the middle of the night, warmed by the feel of Galahad in her arms. She kissed Galahad's cheek, but Galahad did not stir. She smelled horsey, but still delicious. The stars smiled down on them.

  Galahad was sweet, and her looks were winsome if not handsome. But in a few days Galahad would doubtless go away.

  Drian wouldn't tell Galahad about Lancelot's madness. Lancelot had seemed far better when Drian saw her walking with Elaine, and Lancelot could tell Galahad what she pleased.

  Nor would Drian tell Lancelot about what she did with Galahad.

  Galahad, like Lancelot, belonged to a world that was not Drian's. But Drian would keep the nobles' secrets as well as her own. She feared that their liv
es might be as perilous as hers.

  After she and Drian had parted some days later, Galahad saw two warriors riding in the distance on the wind-swept moor. As they approached, it became clear that they were Bors and Percy. Not having seen anyone from Camelot except Gawaine in months, Galahad galloped up to them and greeted them with hurrahs.

  "Have you found the grail?" Bors asked immediately, in a voice that sounded almost envious.

  Galahad shook her head. "No, have you?"

  "No," Percy replied, wiping the sweat from his grimy but handsome face. "But we're glad to meet up with you, because you are becoming famed for purity and we might find it if we travel with you." There was a hint of boasting in Percy's voice, suggesting that perhaps he was a little less pure than he had been a few months before.

  Galahad mumbled that the idea that she could help bring them to the grail was nonsense. She was herself a bit less pure than she used to be. She regarded the yellow gorse.

  "I think we should head for the forest. That's the most magical place," Percy said. "I mean the holiest," he added quickly when he saw Bors's look of reproach.

  It was a hot day, so the others quickly agreed that the cool forest would be the best place to look. By evening, they were in a forest, and Percy warned Bors that it was better to sleep far away from Galahad because Galahad screamed loudly throughout the night.

  Galahad noticed that although their conversation was pure, Bors and Percy were not nearly so modest as Gawaine, who always went off behind rocks.

  When the two younger warriors were off together gathering firewood, Percy whispered to Galahad, “I wish I still were pure. I tried lying with a lady, and she laughed at me because I was not able to...” His voice trailed off and his face was red as an apple. “So don’t be too eager to sin.”

  Galahad felt her cheeks flush. “That’s too bad. Don’t worry overmuch about it. I, too, have been with a woman, but it was good."