Lancelot and Guinevere

by Carol Anne Douglas

  Then when Gareth arrived at Camelot and thought the sun rose and set on Lancelot, that perhaps had been more than Gaheris could endure.

  Perhaps it was too much to expect Gaheris to be fair about the deaths of Agravaine and Gareth.

  Little Gareth! Gawaine saw a child who had run after his horse when he returned home for brief visits to Lothian. "Don't go, Gawaine! Take me with you!"

  He had laughed and called out, "When you're old enough!"

  How could he write his mother the terrible news? It would be better to tell her in person, if Arthur would give him leave to go to Lothian. No, his mother was now still further away, in Orkney.

  But there was someone else who needed his help first. Where had Lancelot gone? Was she indeed mad? The thought that she imagined she had killed him and had therefore descended to madness tormented him. He wanted to tear his hair out. He longed to ride off that moment and search for her, but how could he fail to see his brothers' bodies and learn more about what had happened from men who were not as distraught as Gaheris? And if he immediately went off to look for Lancelot, everyone would be certain that she was a woman. They would also believe she was his mistress, an assumption that would anger Lancelot.

  Gawaine prayed to every god he could name that what had just happened to Lancelot never would happen to Galahad.

  Camelot would never again be what it had been, Gawaine felt sure. How could Camelot be Camelot without Lancelot? Gods and goddesses, let her not harm herself in her madness. And let no one else harm her.

  Arthur stormed off to his room. He had thought Lancelot was the most trustworthy of his warriors. Why hadn't Lancelot told him she was a woman?

  Damn Guinevere, why couldn't she keep her hands off Lancelot?

  Well, he himself had suggested that they lie together, but of course he had no idea that Lancelot was a woman. Why didn't Guinevere recoil when she learned the truth?

  Which one of them had seduced the other?

  Lancelot had deceived him. Perhaps she was not as simply good as he had imagined. Perhaps Lancelot had confused Guinevere, driven her away from her husband. Could it be that Guinevere was not his enemy, after all, and that Lancelot was? Were they both vile? Perhaps one of them was an innocent woman and the other was a fiend, but which was which?

  He poured himself wine and mulled over these thoughts.

  Mordred busied himself talking to the warriors, especially the young ones.

  "Lancelot is a woman," he told most of them. "What kind of shame is that for us? You've been following a woman. What are you going to do about it? What do you think she deserves?"

  The answer to that was generally the same, and very crudely put.

  But when he spoke with the few pious young men who had admired Gareth, Mordred said, "Poor Gareth was so holy, almost a saint, and he trusted Lancelot. She killed him. It was heartbreaking to see it. She must be a witch, and he is a martyr. If King Arthur is truly Christian, he must avenge poor Gareth's martyrdom."

  They assented, strongly, and Mordred could see that it would be easy for his followers and Gareth's to fight together.

  Thinking of Gareth, Gawaine stalked angrily across the courtyard. A gentle rain splashing on him did not cheer him as it generally did, nor did the scent of honeycakes baking in the kitchens. One of Arthur's hounds bounded up to him, but he did not pat it as usual.

  Bors crossed the cobbles and said, "A word with you, please."

  "If you must," Gawaine grunted. He had just seen his brothers’ bodies and had no desire to do anything but mourn-—and go seeking Lancelot. How far had her madness gone? Would he be able to comfort her?

  "Let us go to your house,” Bors said. "It should be quiet there."

  Gawaine agreed readily. Bors's house was always crowded with his many children. His own house felt empty now, and the sight of Gareth's clothes and arms saddened him.

  They entered the house, with its familiar smell of ale. Some well-meaning person had brought Gareth's sword there, and Agravaine's, too, and they lay on the table. The sight wounded Gawaine as if the swords had stabbed him. Thank the gods Gaheris had gone off to his own house.

  Bors's face twitched. "Mordred says that Lancelot is a woman," he gasped in a loud whisper. "Can that be true?"

  Gawaine cursed, trying to make it brief for Bors's sake. "That filthy whoreson. It's true enough, but don't tell anyone else." He picked up Gareth's sword and shoved it into the table's wood.

  "But why not speak of it?" Bors cried. "This proves that everything was innocent, and the queen should not be punished. Lancelot was just her friend and slept with her so she would not be lonely. We must tell Arthur that Lancelot is just a woman."

  Gawaine tried to speak gently to the pure-minded warrior. "Gaheris told Arthur that, but he's been angry at Guinevere for years, and I fear he may punish her anyway."

  "Even though she and Lancelot are innocent?" Bors crossed himself.

  "Yes, even though they're innocent." They meant no harm, and he certainly wasn't going to explain to Bors how women might be lovers.

  Bors crossed himself yet again. "So many things are happening that are beyond my ken. Lancelot running off, Guinevere held prisoner, Galahad disappearing..."

  Gawaine froze. "What do you mean about Galahad?" He almost stopped breathing. He could not bear any more grief.

  Bors hemmed and hawed. "I may be mistaken. Perhaps he's still a heedless youth. Young Percy and I met up with him not long ago, and we traveled to a forest, where we came to a wonderful chapel with exquisite music and an unearthly light. Percy and I went inside the chapel and prayed, and I thought Galahad came in behind us, though I didn't see him. We stayed there for many hours. Percy became restless, but I silently reproved him for impatience with the divine. At some point, we left the church, and Galahad wasn't there. Could he have been taken up to heaven?"

  Gawaine's tense muscles relaxed. "Was Galahad's horse gone, too?"

  "Why, yes." Bors nodded.

  Gawaine's voice was restrained. He shouldn't laugh at Bors. "I doubt that the horse was taken to heaven, too."

  "Of course not. There are no such things in heaven," said Bors indignantly.

  "It sounds as if you were in the chapel a very long time. Galahad is just young and restless, as you said Percy was. He'll be all right," said Gawaine, in a calm tone. An afterworld without horses would be a poor one, he reckoned. "If anyone's a saint, it's Lancelot. Hadn't you thought of that?" He had just thought of the idea himself. He pulled Gareth's sword out of the wood.

  Bors's face shone as if a beam of light had just poured through the window and enveloped him, although the day was gray and wet. "That explains everything!" he exclaimed. "I suppose she would have to be that or a witch, and with Lancelot, of course, that must mean sainthood." Then his face dimmed. "But she hasn't taken the holy sacrament in many years. Mordred says that proves she's a witch, because if she had taken the sacrament she'd have been struck by lightning."

  "She couldn't be a witch," Gawaine replied, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. Of course Lancelot did not take the sacrament because she was an adulterer. Bors was only foolish, although Mordred was much worse. "Whoever heard of a virgin witch?"

  Bors was not a worldly man, but he was worldly enough to think that Gawaine would know whether Lancelot was a virgin. He was unworldly enough not to imagine that Gawaine would say anything but the truth about the subject.

  "Of course there couldn't be one," Bors agreed with considerable solemnity. "So she must be a saint."

  Bors was easy to convince because he would rather hear good about people than bad, but unfortunately no one else would be, because most would rather imagine the worst.

  "I suppose Arthur will send Guinevere to a convent," Bors said.

  "What else can he do?" Gawaine agreed.

  After Bors left, Gawaine went to the great hall. In a foul humor, he saw that young Clegis was sitting in the place at the table that was usually Galahad's.

  "Don't sit
in that place!" he yelled, and Clegis jumped up and stared at him. "No one but young Galahad can sit in that place."

  Several warriors shook their heads, as if Gawaine was addled, perhaps drunk, after the deaths of his brothers.

  If they believed he was drunk, then he would be drunk. Gawaine helped himself to some ale, but he downed only a little. No, it would not do to drink himself into a stupor.

  Striding out into the courtyard, he headed for Lancelot's house. Someone might take the opportunity to steal Lancelot's few possessions. He would take them and bring her what she might need, if only he could find her.

  Gawaine pushed open the door, which was unlocked, and saw that Lancelot's foes had already been there. The chairs and table had been smashed, apparently with an axe, and so had the bed. Lancelot's clothes and bedding had been strewn on the floor, and many men had pissed on them. The room reeked with the smell. Lancelot's chain mail, helmet, shield, and spear were nowhere to be seen, doubtless stolen.

  His veins almost bursting with rage, Gawaine cursed loudly. He saw another pile of clothes in a corner. No, it was Catwal.

  The serving man lay there, bruised and bleeding. Gawaine went down on his knees and turned him over. Catwal was unconscious, but still breathed.

  Brutes! Beating a blind serving man because they could not get to Lancelot! If Gawaine discovered who had done it, they would long regret their savagery—but this was not the time for that. He must find a healer for Catwal.

  26 QUEEN OF FIRE

  The door of Guinevere's room opened, and Arthur appeared. Guinevere tensed. However ravaged and desolate, this room was her territory and she would defend it. Twilight had come, and the room was full of shadows. She could imagine that Lancelot's shadow was among them.

  Arthur shut the door behind him.

  "So, Guinevere." He wore a fine white tunic with red trim. His gray eyes probed her. There was no hint of gentleness in them or in his voice. Well, she had expected none.

  She remained seated. Anticipating this interview, she had dressed in one of her finest blue gowns. Her golden torque hung around her neck, but she did not wear her crown.

  The king paused, letting her wonder what he would say. Standing, he towered over her. The only sound was the drip of rain falling past the window. She waited.

  Finally, Arthur broke the silence. His voice was calm and patronizing, the tone of one in a superior position who might be generous to an erring inferior. "I recall that you were a good wife for many years, until you met that creature. No doubt she deceived you at first. I suppose that you have never been with another man after all. Do you repent of this folly?" His hand reached out to her.

  Guinevere smiled, but without affection. Did he believe that she would let him embrace her again? His perfectly sculpted though lined face, his scent, everything repulsed her. After Lancelot's touches, anyone else's would be unbearable. "Certes, I have never been with another man. I have always known that Lancelot was a woman. All of my love is for Lancelot, and I shall never repent."

  Arthur jerked back his hand. Her words angered him, as she knew they would. His face reddened. "So you are the one who corrupted Lancelot and made her a traitor to me."

  "I seduced her, and I am glad of it." She let her pride show in her voice.

  "Do you understand what this means?" he demanded, glaring at her. The wrinkles stood out on his face, but women still found it handsome. However, none could have failed to be chilled by the expression that was now in his eyes. Perhaps only captured Saxons had seen it. "If you send me away now, I will never speak to you again, and you will face death."

  Guinevere had suspected she would, but she would rather die than crawl back to his bed. She kept her voice calm. She would never plead with him. "Don't try to touch me, or you will regret it. I learned from Lancelot how to kill a man if I have to." She was prepared to press his veins in a vulnerable spot if need be, though she had no wish to kill him. Fear belonged to the past, to the time when she had much to lose. Now there was only her life.

  Arthur recoiled. "So you are the monster, and she was the innocent one."

  Pulling away from Guinevere as if he had discovered she had leprosy, he looked at her with loathing.

  She nodded. "Yes, I am the monster." It was a great relief to say that to him. If that was how men saw her, let them. Lancelot was her love, loving Lancelot was her life's meaning. She had no life without Lancelot. Being a queen depended on being Arthur's, so it was worthless.

  He clenched his fists. "Be damned, then. You'll burn at dawn for this treason against your husband. No one shall talk to you before then."

  Guinevere froze. How could he hate her enough to decree such a terrible death? He knew well that she had always feared fire. But she managed to keep some vestige of calm in her voice as she said, "Burn me, then, if that is the kind of king you are, if that is the kind of man you are."

  The door thudded behind him.

  Guinevere shuddered and slumped in her chair. Looking out of the window, she saw that the rain had ceased. There would be no impediment to the fire.

  Her beeswax candles burned on her table. She reached out a finger to one, then drew it back quickly.

  She worried about Talwyn's grief, and of course Lancelot's. She tried to distract herself from fear, but she could not bear to remember happier times. All she could do was pray for Lancelot.

  Creirwy carried a trencher to Guinevere's door, but a round-faced guard stopped her and demanded it from her.

  "Only the guards are allowed to see the queen. I'll give her that supper."

  "What do you think I've got, some potion to make her small enough to slip through the keyhole? Or perhaps I've got Lancelot hidden under the mutton," Creirwy snapped. "Lady Guinevere may need a woman attending to her."

  "Give me the trencher, Creirwy," he sighed. "It's orders. The queen's goin' to be burned at the stake in the mornin', and no one can see her 'til then."

  Creirwy thrust the trencher into his hands. "May you be kept from all that cares about you when it's your turn to die." She spat at him.

  He made a sign warding off evil with one hand while he took the trencher with the other.

  Creirwy stormed off, not to Luned to commiserate, but to the house where the young ladies slept.

  Felicia was weeping and Talwyn was saying, "If Queen Guinevere has to go into exile, I'll go with her, but surely the king will pardon her."

  Wanting to box her genteel ears, Creirwy snapped, "Surely he won't. Lady Talwyn," she said with exaggerated politeness, "May I speak with you?"

  Talwyn nodded and patted Felicia on the back, then slipped out to join Creirwy in the courtyard.

  Creirwy felt no urge to mince words. "She's to be burned tomorrow at dawn."

  "No!" Talwyn staggered as if she might faint.

  Creirwy spared her no sympathy. "So, do you mean to use those fighting lessons to some purpose? I do. I'll save her, or die trying, more like."

  "So will I," Talwyn asserted without hesitation.

  Creirwy felt a moment of grudging respect for her.

  Arthur stood poised to enter his chamber when Bors and his wife hurried up to him. Lionors threw herself on her knees and clasped her hands as if in prayer.

  "Lord Arthur, I beg you. Hear a woman's pleas and let Lady Guinevere live,” Lionors gasped. “She is a kind woman."

  "Get off your knees, lady, and leave me be. You know nothing of vice." Disgusted at Lionors's emotional display, Arthur remembered the last time a woman went down on her knees to him, when Enid told about her abortion. Bors's wife had been too modest ever to speak much to the king, and she should remain silent.

  Lionors did not rise. "Please, lord. In your noble heart, remember her service to you and have mercy on her."

  "For the love of God, Arthur, spare Guinevere," Bors said, his hand on his wife's shoulder. "Forgive us our trespasses as we..."

  "Take charge of your wife, Bors. Remove her from my presence. Guinevere will die as I decreed." Arthu
r swept into his room. How dare they question his judgment?

  Guinevere heard pounding on her door. Let them leave her alone. She had no thoughts left for any man. No woman knocked that loudly. She patted the cat that curled in her lap. Grayse raised her head at the sound.

  Guinevere might have wanted to see Talwyn, but that would have been too painful. She hoped the girl would stay in her room in the morning and not see the burning.

  "Guinevere! Answer me!" Mordred's voice demanded.

  "Be gone!" she responded, even more imperiously.

  Mordred's voice insinuated its way through the strong door.

  "Guinevere, I'll help you escape. I've wanted you so long. I'll take you to Londinium and make you my queen. I'll defeat the old man and succeed him soon enough. You can help me."

  His message turned her stomach. Could he possibly think she was degraded enough to lie with her husband's son? "Be gone, you rotten adder. I'll go nowhere with you. Leave me to rest in peace."

  "So loyal to my father? He'll burn you. Or to that strange bitch? She can't help you now. And neither will Gawaine. He’s back, but he isn’t running to save you, is he? I'm the only one who cares about you.”

  Gawaine back? No, he wouldn’t save her, but perhaps he would look for Lancelot. Guinevere prayed he would.

  “No answer?” Mordred kept on urging her. “There are warriors who will follow me. Come with me, and you'll be safe. Stay and you're dead."

  "Go away, Mordred. I'd rather burn and kiss the devil." She rose and walked as far as she could from the door.

  "Burn then, fool. I'll take your sister as my queen instead."

  She heard his steps pounding away and hoped that Gwynhwyfach would never trust him.

  The thought that Mordred was the only person to try to save her life made Guinevere want to weep, but she did not. Did she matter so little to the people she had known? She must think not of herself, but of Lancelot.

  Perhaps Gawaine truly cared for Lancelot, even though she had killed Agravaine. Lancelot would not be alone, Guinevere hoped. But she knew Lancelot would not be willing to stay in this world if her beloved was burned at the stake.