Lancelot and Guinevere

by Carol Anne Douglas

  Galahad smiled. "He was always concerned about his friends."

  "Hmpf. And who is this young lady?" Queen Morgause asked, looking over Talwyn.

  "This is my wife, Talwyn." Like a proud husband, Galahad put an arm around Talwyn.

  "Greetings, Queen Morgause," said Talwyn, cheerfully but not shyly, curtseying.

  Morgause's gaze went to Talwyn's belly. "Are you carrying a child yet?"

  Talwyn giggled. "Not yet."

  Morgause gave Galahad a look that was sterner than it had been. "Gawaine's wives both had babies after nine months. You don't look much like him, more's the pity, but I hope you will keep up the tradition. Keep plowing the field, Galahad."

  Galahad burst out laughing, but Talwyn did not. Galahad noted that Queen Morgause neglected to mention that Gawaine's wives had both died in giving birth, and the babies had died, too.

  Morgause frowned. "Can you tell me how Gawaine died? I can't believe that Lancelot killed him in a duel, as the stories say."

  Galahad felt a small flash of pain, as she always did when she thought of her father's death. "No, Mordred stabbed him in the back when he was bending over Gaheris, as Gaheris lay dead."

  Morgause groaned and put her hands over her face. "Gaheris wasn't worth it."

  Galahad silently agreed, but thought it was a bit hard for Gaheris's mother to say so.

  Morgause wiped her eyes, which had tears dripping from them. "I knew it must be something like that. No one ever could have defeated Gawaine in a fight."

  Galahad had seen Lancelot defeat Gawaine in contests a number of times, but she said nothing and was thankful that Talwyn didn't contradict her grandmother.

  "Lancelot, Guinevere, and my mother buried him," Galahad said.

  "Do you know where he's buried? Cai didn't know," Morgause asked eagerly, grasping Galahad's hand.

  "Yes, Lancelot showed me, so I can take you there if you like. I have not been to the battlefield to see where Gaheris died." She hoped that the queen had no desire to see it either.

  "Of course I want to see where Gawaine is buried," Morgause said. “I don't want to go to the place where my sons were killed.” Then she pursed her lips and her voice became indignant. "Some conniving woman managed to persuade Gawaine to mention her in his will and is trying to take part of your inheritance. But I won't give her a thing, dear."

  "She's not conniving," Galahad said, suppressing a laugh. "Indeed, she's already said that her share should go to the poor. I think you should let the will be administered the way my father wanted it to be."

  "Don't you believe that she'll give it to the poor," Morgause replied, shaking her handsome head. "And if Gawaine had really cared about her, he would have married her."

  "Perhaps she wouldn't have wanted to marry him," Talwyn said with irritation, although it was obvious that these words would anger the queen.

  "Nonsense. Any woman would have wanted to marry Gawaine," Galahad's grandmother snapped. "Galahad, your wife is impertinent. Be a man, dear. Don't let her."

  Galahad couldn't help but laugh. She said what she hadn't planned to say. "In truth, Queen Morgause, I'm your granddaughter."

  The Queen of Lothian and Orkney pulled away and sank into a chair. Her face sagged, showing more wrinkles than had been apparent before. "Gawaine had no son, then." Her voice sounded old.

  Peering at Galahad, the queen studied her face, then cast her gaze down Galahad's body.

  Galahad flinched. How foolish she had been to imagine that she might have the queen's love.

  Morgause rose from the chair. "Dear Gawaine was so manly that I shouldn't be surprised if his daughter is, too. I understand wanting to be a man, Galahad dear. Anyone with any spirit would." She embraced Galahad again.

  Galahad smiled, amused, relieved, and pleased. She knew that being dear Gawaine's only known surviving child was the reason that she was acceptable.

  Morgause assumed a commanding air. "Of course, you'll have to have the child yourself, then."

  "Child!" Galahad jumped back.

  "To continue the line, dear. But so many fine warriors have died! Where will you ever find a man who is good breeding stock?" the queen sighed.

  Galahad recovered a little. "There's always Lancelot," she suggested.

  Morgause nodded. "That's true. I've heard he's horribly pious, so I don't think he'd be entertaining, but he'll do for the purpose."

  Talwyn gave Galahad a sly smile. "Will you promise that you'll do with Lancelot only what will get you with child? I won't be jealous then."

  "Only that and nothing else," Galahad assured her, not meeting her gaze.

  Morgause gave Talwyn a dismissive look. "Galahad dear, if you let your wife speak so freely, people might guess that you aren't a man."

  Galahad saw the expression on Talwyn's face and knew that Talwyn might never dress like a woman again, no matter how uncomfortable breast-binding was.

  Galahad's raven flew in through the window and perched on Galahad's shoulder.

  Queen Morgause gasped.

  "He's wild but tame," Galahad assured her. "He flew with me from Tintagel. He likes to stay nearby."

  "Of course he does." Morgause had turned pale. The bird flew to her shoulder. Tears formed in her eyes. She sank down in the nearest chair.

  Galahad reached over to touch her arm.

  "Don't worry over me, Galahad," her grandmother said. "At times I see things other people do not." The raven flew to her hand and she smiled at it. "I'm right glad this raven accompanies you."

  When Galahad and Talwyn strolled back into the courtyard, they heard a few bars of harp music.

  "Welcome to Camelot, Galahad," said the harper, who looked familiar.

  "Drian! Greetings. I didn't expect to find you here." Galahad felt her face flush.

  "I come here at times to amuse the Lord Constantine."

  "Talwyn, may I present Drian the harper, an old friend of Lancelot's. Drian, this is my lady wife, Talwyn." Galahad spoke quickly, before Drian could make any more familiar greeting.

  Drian made a sweeping bow to Talwyn, "I am honored, fair lady."

  "And I am glad to meet you." Talwyn smiled, clearly recognizing Drian for what she was. "How many of us are there, I wonder?"

  "Now I also have a wife, though she does not come to Camelot." Drian's eyes twinkled. "I believe you know her. Her name is Creirwy."

  Talwyn clapped her hands. "Oh, how splendid. She's well, then? Please tell her how glad I am to hear it."

  Looking to make sure no one was near, Drian replied, "I've always had a weakness for women warriors."

  Galahad frowned.

  Percy saw a nun ride up to his father's holding. He had never seen a nun ride astride before, and that black horse, which was somehow familiar, seemed a strange mount for her.

  His father hurried to greet the nun, who swung down from her horse like a man and embraced him.

  Who ever heard of a nun behaving like that? Percy stared.

  The nun turned to him and said, "Greetings, Percy. I'm right glad to see you."

  He flung himself on his knees at her feet. Lancelot was a woman, a nun! It was a miracle, the greatest miracle he had ever been privileged to witness.

  "You are a saint!" he cried, filled with awe.

  "No, I'm not." Lancelot backed off. "Get up, Percy. I'm just a woman. Nuns have given me refuge and I call myself Sister Anna, but I'm not truly holy."

  But Percy was not to be swayed. He remained kneeling. Of course she was too modest to admit she was a saint. "You are a saint, come to live among us sinners. Please bless me."

  "No, no, get up off your knees," Lancelot insisted, her voice full of distress.

  Percy's father was choking as if he was attempting not to laugh. He always tried to spoil solemn moments.

  "I won't get up until you tell me what to do with my life. Should I enter a monastery? Can I marry and still be holy? Please tell me." Percy looked beseechingly at her.

  The saint who had been Lancel
ot sighed. "Very well, I'll tell you what you should do. Never fight in a battle. And listen more often to your parents, who are wiser than you think."

  Aglovale smiled broadly. "Thank you, my friend."

  Disappointed, Percy sank back on his heels.

  But he nodded, "Holy Sister Anna, I promise never to fight in battles. May I fight to defend women?"

  The holy woman put one of her blessed hands on his shoulder. "I suppose so. But you should fight as little as possible and try to find other ways to help them if you can."

  Percy began to stand, but he remembered that he had another question. "And can I marry someday?"

  "Of course, if you love truly," she said.

  Her smile seemed almost maternal and he wondered why he had never noticed that before. Perhaps he had not had the grace to see it.

  He couldn't wait to see his friend Galahad and tell him the astounding fact that Lancelot was a woman.

  In the spring, Guinevere was eager to ride out with Anna and learn the flowers and bird songs. Anna suspected that Guinevere was moved primarily by concern for her lover rather than by birdsong, but still it was a joy to be with her there in the green world.

  They raced their horses and laughed, not caring who won. Guinevere's mare was a head swifter.

  "What is winning?" Guinevere asked.

  "I never heard of such a word," Anna answered her.

  Then they tumbled on the grass, calling each other 'Guincelot' and 'Lanevere,' their old pet names.

  In the evening, the women talked about their days, with Fidelia reciting the poetry she had read that day, and Branwen telling her new theories about the meaning of the gospels. Guinevere talked about her idea of a city of women, in which women could do any work they wanted. Ninian told tales in which Christian saints and older gods and goddesses had adventures together, and not too many nuns seemed to take offense. Fidelia and Valeria sang duets, although Fidelia had much the better voice. Darerca told about long-ago battles of words and arms between women and men in Ireland, but Anna told no tales of fighting. Instead, she told about the red deer she had seen that day, and what the deer had said to her. A cat purred in her lap.

  She began to realize how much she liked the sound of Fidelia's voice reading poetry, and the sharpness of Branwen's mind. Anna was even growing used to Valeria, despite that nun's old tie to Guinevere. The abbess's diplomacy when the women quarreled also impressed Anna. She choked with laughter at Ninian's jests, and began to feel that she was not alone. She had companions, and did not even have to fight for the privilege.

  When the abbess died, Guinevere wept. But she could hardly conceal her pride when the nuns elected her the abbess's successor. Some of the nuns objected that she was insufficiently pious, but others pointed out that she would be the best suited to contesting with the bishops.

  One sister was bold enough to ask Guinevere whether she preferred the convent to marriage. Guinevere pursed her lips in a smile. "Yes, my dear, I do. But my marriage was different from most. I remained a virgin throughout it. That is why there were no children."

  "Why, you are a saint, then," exclaimed the nun. "And perhaps King Arthur was, too."

  "That would be quite an exaggeration," Guinevere replied. "I was just willful. A willful virgin." She laughed to herself.

  Anna let herself become more and more a creature of the wild woods. Though the nuns were pleasant, she felt more akin to the wild beings. She sometimes thought she might have lost her ties to human life altogether if Guinevere were not here. If she had never met Guinevere, she might have become a saint—by good fortune, she met Guinevere, and was spared that fate.

  At Anna's urging, no one told novices new to the convent about her past, but of course they know that Guinevere had been a queen.

  Once a novice asked Anna, "You have known the Abbess Guinevere for a long time, haven't you?"

  Anna smiled and said, "Yes."

  "Pardon me for asking, but there are rumors that when she was married to King Arthur, she had a sinful liaison with another man. That couldn't be true, could it?"

  "No, it couldn't," Anna said with a twinkle in her eye. "She never would have touched another man."

  Anna rode alone. The very moss on the trees was not as green when Guinevere was not with her. Guinevere remained at the convent, which she did increasingly of late. There were so many reasons. Sick novices, visiting priests, newly arrived books. Today there was an old book that one of the convent's patrons had willed to the nuns, and Guinevere had immersed herself in its pages.

  A wren sang and its song's sweetness pierced Anna. The notes trilled up and down. Anna spotted red mushrooms, beautiful but poisonous. It had rained the day before, but there was little mud. The sun shone as much as it could through the dense trees.

  Screams drowned the wren's song. Anna made her horse race down the road til she turned a bend and saw a man carrying off a girl.

  Anna's arm was stiff, for she was three score and ten, but she grabbed a dagger from her skirts and flew at the man.

  He stared at her in amazement, which gave her time to come close enough to slash deeply into his sword arm. Now he was the one who screamed.

  “An old nun! The legend is true!”

  Anna pulled the girl from his horse to hers. “It is true.” Anna spoke in her military officer's voice. “Go from here and never come back. Tell everyone you see that the ghost of an old nun still haunts this forest and protects all women.”

  “Will you help me bind up my wound?” he asked.

  “No! Be gone!” Anna yelled.

  He rode off quickly enough.

  The girl Anna had saved gasped, “Thank you, sister.” She crossed herself. “My father is a mile or so down the road. He tried to fight off that man, but the wretch unhorsed him.”

  “I'll take you to your father,” Anna said, heading in the direction from which the girl had come.

  “Everyone has heard the tale about the old nun who rescues women, but I hadn't believed it could be true.” The girl's voice still shook.

  “It is,” Anna told her.

  Anna's muscles ached. But she knew that Guinevere would rub a soothing potion on them that night. All was well because she was still with Guinevere.

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I express my gratitude to the writer whose story about Lancelot as a woman I read as a college freshman. I have searched for many years to find the story or the writer but have not been able to do so. That story inspired this book, and I have drawn on aspects of it, such as Lancelot's friendship with Gawaine.

  I want to thank many people, especially Sherwood Smith, who has given me years of encouragement while I wrote these books, and Katherine V. Forrest, for a wonderful review of Lancelot: Her Story.

  I thank all the friends who read the manuscript, especially Tricia Lootens, who read several early drafts, and Ken Louden, who read a very early draft when he was dying. I thank Betty Jean Steinshouer for reading more than one draft and for the considerable work she put into designing the books. I thank Virginia Cerello, Russell Cox, Liz Quinn, Victoria Stanhope, and Stephanie Wynn for reading the manuscript. I thank Amy Hamilton for helping me find the wonderful listserv ARTHURNET and for her encouragement of my writing.

  I thank Viable Paradise for providing a great environment for writers, and everyone at VP XV, especially those who provided comments, including Stephanie Charette and LaShawn Wanak. I am particularly grateful for comments from Debra Doyle and Jim MacDonald, and to Debra for her editing.

  I want to thank the wonderful friends and family who have given me emotional support over the years: Lois and Nancy Brown, Ned Cabot Sr., Suzie Carrigan, Tacie Dejanikus, Beth Eldridge, Colleen Flannery, Daniele Flannery, John S. Flannery, Carolyn Gage, Barbara Gardien, Julie Gerard Harris, Alice Henry, Marlene Howell, Jackie Hutchinson, Edward P. Jones, Sue Lenaerts, Vickie Leonard, Elizabeth Lytle, Colise Medved, Trudy Portewig, Luanne Schinzel, John Schmitz, Delores Smith, Liz Trapnell, and Judith Withe
row. Above all, I am grateful to my wonderful mother, Joan Flannery Douglas, who always gave me love and encouraged me.

  I am also grateful for the kindness of Mary Frances Moriarty, who has been like a second mother to me; Jim Bethea, who was my first unrelated male friend; Tom Field, a King Arthur who reigned with genius and compassion; Dean Ahearn, who was a true knight, loyal and excellent in all he did; and Lissa Fried, the bravest knight of all.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Carol Anne Douglas is a lifelong student of Arthurian and Shakespearian lore. Please review this volume and its prequel, Lancelot: Her Story on Amazon and Goodreads, and subscribe to her blog at CarolAnneDouglas.com