"Fortunately," the magistrate said, "the man you describe was a rogue from many miles away who has plagued us with attacks. I have heard that his father disinherited him. So you won't have to pay the father much, if anything."
That night Lancelot shared a straw bed in the town's inn with her father, who lay as far from her as possible. She lay awake wondering whether Braca could sleep. How did she bear what had happened? Lancelot thought that she would rather die than be touched as the man had touched Braca.
Reaching up to her face, she found it still the same, though her name was new. It seemed right to have a name to denote her transformation to a killer. She had changed from Anna to Antonius, and now she was Lancelot. In her short life, she had been three people.
What would it be like to be Lancelot? If she wounded and killed, it must be only to help others, she vowed. She would have to risk her life many times, but if that was necessary for her to fulfill her role in life, she would accept the danger.
Mother, help me to save others, though I could not save you, she prayed. Let me never fail again. Tears dripped down her cheeks.
After this, Lancelot often was asked to help people when a sword might be of use.
Marcus shook his head and said privately, "What life have I prepared you for, my daughter?"
"A better one than any other father would have." She smiled and pressed his hand.
2 The King’s Daughter
"One day I shall be Queen of Powys," Guinevere mused, sitting on her gray pony at the top of a hill where she overlooked the woods and farms of her land. All of this would be hers someday, when she was grown. The oaks and the beeches, the rowans and the alders and the elms, all were her trees. The glens were hers, and likewise the lakes and streams and the golden fields of wheat. The people in the mud-daub huts and the stone caers were to be her subjects, and she would care for them. Her chest swelled with pride.
Sion, the pockmarked stableboy who accompanied her on a slightly larger bay, nodded. "I don't doubt you'll be queen, Lady Guinevere."
"I shall be a kind queen, a just queen," she announced, letting her pony, Bramble, eat some of the summer's lush grasses. Her people would call her Guinevere the Generous.
If she had been a boy, she could have talked openly about her desire to rule, but because she was a girl and her father, King Leodegran, still hoped for a son, she knew instinctively that she could talk about it only with the stableboy. "I shall put you in charge of all my father's horses."
Sion whistled. "They say your father has the greatest herd in Britain, so that's no mean gift, Lady Guinevere."
"You may also have someday a tunic embroidered with gold as thanks for teaching me to jump Bramble."
He gave her an impish grin. "I'd get that fine tunic terrible dirty looking after the horses."
She wrinkled her nose. "For feast day use, of course."
Rain started to drip on them and a cloud of mist began to rise over the countryside she surveyed.
"I suppose we had better go home now." She rolled her eyes to show that she would rather not. "My mother will be expecting me. I'll race you down the hill."
"It's too rocky for a race, Lady Guinevere," he reproached her.
"So it is. Very well. I'll race you when we get to the glen." She urged Bramble down the narrow path through the heather. A startled grouse flew up on whirring wings, but Guinevere was able to keep Bramble from rearing.
Guinevere loved the motion of the pony. Sometimes she wished she could be a centaur, and have hooves instead of feet with silly toes. Then she would never have to worry about tearing her clothes, because she wouldn't wear any. But if she were a centaur, she couldn't become a queen.
She slowed Bramble's pace as they approached the caer. Even with the drizzling rain, she had no great wish to go indoors.
Her father's huge timber hall with its high thatched roof loomed before them. They passed through a gate in the stone wall that surrounded the caer. Smiling, Guinevere answered the guard who greeted her. Surely her father's wall was tall enough to keep out any invaders, and all of the buildings were in fine shape, their thatch roofs as well repaired as the very roof of the hall. No one lived meanly at Leodegran's caer, she thought with pride. She had visited other caers where the servants were too thin.
"Guinevere! Your mother wants you!" called Gwynhwyfach, a serving girl of her own age, as soon as they reached the stable yard.
Guinevere reluctantly dismounted and handed Bramble's reins to Sion, who grinned with sympathy. She drank in the scent of the damp pony and patted her in parting. Her mother sometimes complained that Guinevere smelled too horsey.
"Very well, Gwynhwyfach," Guinevere replied in a voice that was sharper than she had meant it to sound.
Gywnhwyfach flinched, and Guinevere felt a trifle guilty. It was the need to go indoors that bothered her, not the serving girl. Gywnhwyfach's plain, undyed gown was so tight that she seemed to be bursting out of it. She was growing and should have a new one.
Aware that her own wet black hair must be tangled from her ride, Guinevere patted it down.
"Tomorrow we'll jump more ditches, Lady Guinevere," Sion promised.
Gwynhwyfach stared with evident longing at the stocky pony.
"You may pat my pony," Guinevere told her.
Gwynhwyfach gave the pony's side a quick, awkward pat. "It would be grand to ride." She sighed.
Guinevere frowned. Should she ask Sion to teach Gwynhwyfach how to ride, too? But why should she grant such a favor to a serving girl? Bramble was hers and she didn't want anyone else riding her. Why was it that however kind to Gwynhwyfach she was, it never seemed to be enough?
"Perhaps someday when all of your chores are done," she said, thinking that magnanimous. "On one of the old horses that have been put out to pasture," she added, so Gwynhwyfach would know that riding Bramble was Guinevere's prerogative alone.
"Thank you, Guinevere." Gwynhwyfach dared to pout and her voice held a hint of sarcasm. "But when are my chores ever done? There's always something else to do. Never mind, I don't care."
Annoyed at this ingratitude, Guinevere bit her lip to keep from making a retort.
How strange it was that Gwynhwyfach's face looked just like her own. She hadn't realized it until recently, when she started using her mother's copper mirror. The black hair was the same, and so were the nose and the mouth. The main difference was that Gwynhwyfach, like most of the serving people, had gray eyes, whereas her own were blue like her mother's. They were both short like the serving people, some of whom were descended from the Old Ones.
Guinevere wiped her face with a bit of linen, then dropped it in her hurry to leave the stableyard. With a resentful air, Gwynhwyfach picked it up, as usual. Why was Gwynhwyfach more sullen than the other servants? Guinevere wondered.
"I'll race you to the door," Guinevere said as she headed for the fine thatched-roofed building where her mother sewed.
Guinevere sprinted forward, running with all her might, but the serving girl outpaced her and reached the door first. The girl laughed triumphantly. How simple it was when they were younger and just played tag, before Gwynhwyfach had become her servant. Catching her breath, Guinevere patted her hair down again, and entered the room where her mother, Rhiannon, was generally to be found weaving or spinning with her women.
Rhiannon was sitting near her loom, tying a thread on a piece of blue wool in her lap. She raised her head and smiled, and Guinevere wished that she could be tall and fair-haired like her mother.
"Your new gown is finished. Let me see how you look in it." Holding the gown up to a window's light, Rhiannon’s eagerness was much greater than Guinevere was able to feel. A gown was all very well, but dull stuff compared with her pony.
Nevertheless, the deep blue wool was very fine, she had to admit, and her mother had embroidered some pretty flowers on the sleeves. Guinevere thanked her and carried the gown off to her own room, down a passage from her mother's.
Macha, Guinever
e's gap-toothed old serving woman who had been nurse to her mother before her, helped her out of her riding breeches and into the gown.
"About time you dressed like a daughter to the king of Powys, now that you're ten summers old," Macha scolded.
When Guinevere ran back to her mother's room, her father, Leodegran, was there with a hand on Rhiannon's shoulder. Rhiannon was now embroidering designs on a tunic intended for him.
"Isn't our Guinevere beautiful? She's the loveliest girl I've ever seen," her mother exclaimed.
Leodegran smiled and twisted his long black mustaches. "You're very pretty, Guinevere. No doubt every king's son in Britain will seek your hand some day."
"But I'm not any prettier than Gwynhwyfach. She looks just like me," Guinevere said.
She was glad that her parents liked how she looked, but she thought it only fair to point out that Gwynhwyfach looked the same.
Rhiannon dropped her needle. "No, she doesn't, child. Your eyes are much bluer. Hers are gray."
Guinevere shrugged. "My eyes may be bluer, but what of it? She looks just like me."
Rhiannon pulled away from her husband and retrieved her needle. "You see, Leodegran," she said, in a voice much bolder than usual, "it can't be hidden. It will shame Guinevere when she is older."
Leodegran grunted and frowned. "Of course you're much fairer than any serving girl, Guinevere. You mustn't say such things."
The next morning, Gwynhwyfach burst into Guinevere's room and dared to knock the gold-tasseled cushions off the bed.
"I hate you!" Gwynhwyfach cried, glaring at her.
Guinevere stared at her. "Why ever would you?" she gasped.
"We have to go because of you! My mother and I are being sent away to some old farm of your father's because you said I look like you."
"Why? I don't understand." Guinevere shivered at the idea that she was hated, but Gwynhwyfach just ran off and wouldn't say anything else. No one had ever said they hated her before. Guinevere had always believed that everyone liked her, and the thought that they might not made her blink away tears.
She hastened to her mother's room and asked, "Why are Gwynhwyfach and her mother Effrdyl being sent off?"
Her mother only said, "Never mind." She wouldn't look Guinevere in the eye. Guinevere ran outside and saw pretty, red-haired Effrdyl and Gwynhwyfach climb into a cart. Effrdyl's face showed no emotion, but Gwynhwyfach was pouting.
"You can have my old shawl," Guinevere said on impulse, taking it off her shoulders and handing it to Gwynhwyfach. Its red color was faded, but it was good, warm wool. Her new plaid one was enough for her.
"I don't want it."
Gwynhwyfach wouldn't reach out her hand, but Effrdyl received the shawl and said, "Thank you, Lady Guinevere. We are grateful."
Then the cart rolled away, taking them out of sight. Guinevere shrugged. She would not miss them. No matter how generous she was, Gwynhwyfach dared to resent her kindness. She was sorry that she had given the girl her shawl. But who would she run races with now?
The great hall was warmed with cheerful flames in the fire pit. Leodegran's men jested and jostled each other at trestle tables, but they subdued their voices a trifle while Guinevere poured mead for them. The scent of mutton whetted her appetite.
She slipped back to her place beside her mother at the great oak high table and took her share of mutton stew, which she liked exceedingly.
Soon she saw that it was time to pour for the men again, and took up the jar to fill their drinking horns. She paused by Gwythr, her father's chief man at arms, a grizzled veteran who often told her stories about giants.
"I'll tell you another story tonight, princess, about a giant who made a coat of the beards of men he had killed," Gwythyr said softly while she poured his mead.
If only she were a giant, instead of being short, even for a girl.
A harper sang her father's praises. Leodegran had led his men to take many of the fat cattle of Gwynedd, the song proclaimed.
Why was taking your neighbors' cows so glorious? Guinevere wondered, but she enjoyed the spirited tune.
As she walked past the firepit, the hem of her gown caught fire. Guinevere screamed and dropped the jar, which broke on the floor. Gwythr grabbed her and beat out the fire with his leather cloak.
Guinevere exhaled. She must not cry. She was a future queen. She could see that only a bit of her skirt was ruined.
Her father and mother rushed to her. Her father reached her first. He squeezed her hand. "Stay away from the fire, my usually clever girl," he said. "Gwythr, I'll give you a fine new horse for your quick action."
"Thank you, my lord." Gwythr bowed his head.
"Thank you for helping me," Guinevere said to the warrior.
Her mother hugged her. "Your skirt can be mended more easily than you can. Be careful around fire."
Leodegran resumed his seat at the head table. He signaled the harper, who had stopped playing, to begin again.
"Go and change your gown," Guinevere's mother told her.
Rhiannon then resumed her seat and smiled at the company as if to say that all was well. A serving woman began to clean up the mess from the broken jar. The door to the hall opened and a dirt-streaked warrior entered. He motioned for Leodegran to come aside, so the king went off with him.
Guinevere lingered because she sensed that something unusual had happened and she wanted to know what it was.
When Leodegran returned, his face was grim. His eyes were narrow and the veins bulged on his forehead.
"The Saxons have raided my old farm on the eastern part of our lands. They burned it to the ground and killed everyone there." He called out to the men eating at the trestle tables, "Come off with me, we must plan a raid to retaliate."
The men leapt up, waving their arms as if they held swords.
Guinevere froze. She imagined the fire that had just frightened her, magnified a thousand times.
She went up to Rhiannon, who sat frozen, holding her spoon in her stew. "Mother, does that mean Gwynhwyfach and her mother were killed, too?"
"Yes, child." Rhiannon's shoulders sagged; her eyes were dull.
"I hate fire!" Guinevere exclaimed.
Rhiannon rose from the table and wrung her hands. "Oh, Blessed Mother, it was the only time I ever stood up to my husband, and I was wrong! We should go and pray for them. It's all that we can do now." She grabbed Guinevere's hand and dragged her to the chapel.
Guinevere paid little heed to her mother's prayers. What good were prayers? They couldn't bring people back from the dead. Somehow she had caused Gwynhwyfach's death by saying the girl looked like her. Gwynhwyfach had burned to death. No one had saved her.
"Remember Gwynhwyfach in your prayers," Macha admonished Guinevere when she knelt by her bed that night.
"I didn't like her so very much," Guinevere admitted. "She was always sulking. But of course it's terrible that she's dead."
Macha frowned. "Do you think it was easy for her, looking like you and always being reminded that she couldn't have what you have? It's always hard for lords' bastards, but not all of them wear their breeding on their faces."
Guinevere felt dizzy. Her voice was shrill. "What do you mean?" Macha grumbled and fussed with the bed covers. "Now, don't tell me you didn't guess. She was your father's daughter, of course. And don't say I told you, unless you want me to get in trouble."
Guinevere held onto the side of the bed to keep from falling. "She was my sister? A serving girl?"
"I just said she was, didn't I?" Macha snapped. "She was your father's daughter. Most men take their pleasure where they will. That's a serving woman's life."
"My father loved Effrdyl?" Didn't he love her mother, then?
"Love's rather a fancy word for it. Don't carry on so, child."
Macha squeezed her shoulder. "Mayhap I shouldn't have told you."
"So I have a sister? I had one," she corrected herself, dazed at the unfamiliar thought. "Why didn't anyone tell me? I always wan
ted a sister to play with."
"You did play with her. Then she waited on you, as was only proper," Macha explained.
"But if I'd known she was my sister, I would have treated her differently," Guinevere protested. "I would have let her ride my pony." Oh, why hadn't she allowed Gwynhwyfach to ride Bramble? Was she mean and selfish?
"What's done is done." Macha's withered hand patted her small one.
"My father couldn't have loved Gwynhwyfach. He treated her just like the other servants, as far as I could see."
Guinevere tried to imagine what it would be like if Leodegran never smiled at her or told her how proud he was of her. "What if I had been born a servant? I could have been, couldn't I?"
"Nonsense, you mustn't have such thoughts. Your mother was daughter to the king of Dyfed." Macha's arms enfolded Guinevere.
Guinevere buried her face in Macha's shoulder. "I never even knew she was my sister. I just gave her orders. I don’t blame her for saying she said she hated me."
"She said that? She'd have gotten a beating if you had told anyone. It was good of you not to tell. Now, be calm, my girl." Macha rocked Guinevere as if she were still little.
Guinevere clutched Macha – how she wished she had given Gwynhwyfach her new shawl instead of her old one, even though the Saxons would have gotten it. If only Gwynhwyfach had owned just one thing that was new and beautiful.
Gwynhwyfach's resentment at being a servant looked different to Guinevere now. It was just how she would have felt if she had been in Gwynhwyfach's place. Her half-sister had been bold and restless, as Guinevere was herself. She resolved that she would always be kind to serving women, in memory of her sister.
She looked at her father in a different way. He had always seemed so fond of her, but he must be cold to have ignored his other daughter. How could men love some children and not others? She wondered. Didn't they have the same feelings she did?
Guinevere still kissed her father dutifully, but she no longer ran up with excitement when he rode into the courtyard.
She wondered whether he had other mistresses, and whether her mother was angry and ashamed. How could her mother bear it? Rhiannon was so meek around Leodegran. Macha said many men did the same, but Guinevere vowed that when she married, she would never let her husband be unfaithful.
Lancelot- Her Story Page 4
