At Mass, Lancelot often saw Bors, who was one of the younger sons of King Ban of Lesser Britain. Fortunately Lancelot had never met him before. She soon decided that it was not much of a risk to trust him, at least a little bit. When they were leaving the chapel after an early Mass that no one else had attended, she dared to ask him a question.
"Does the queen have some private sorrow?"
Lancelot nearly shook at asking anything about Guinevere, even of this man who looked too mild to frighten a nervous cat.
Bors's eyes widened.
"The queen is very guarded. Why do you ask?"
Lancelot thought she had to tell a little of the truth. "I saw her weeping once."
Bors shook his head. "I'm astonished by that. She never shows her feelings. The poor lady. She must have wept because she is not able to bear a child for her great husband. May the Virgin Mother have mercy on her and help her bear a child, if it be God's will."
Lancelot nodded. Of course that must be the reason for the queen's tears. And, if Guinevere flirted, perhaps it was because she sought someone to bring her a child. Well, Lancelot could not do that. The queen would have no interest in her if she knew that Lancelot was a woman.
So when the queen's gaze sought out hers, Lancelot felt herself blush and was unable to speak.
But she could not refrain from listening when Guinevere spoke at supper on some learned subject.
One evening, a short, dark-haired warrior named Lucius who often spoke in Latin said effusively, "Lord Arthur, you are another Caesar."
Arthur gave a shake of his head, but he smiled nevertheless.
Guinevere raised her eyebrows and put down her spoon. "That is a poor compliment, for the Caesars were mostly tyrants. Which Caesar did you have in mind? I hope not Tiberius or Nero?"
"Certainly not. I meant Julius Caesar or Augustus, of course," sputtered Lucius.
"What do you know of such as Tiberius? I hope you have not read my copy of Suetonius, my dear," Arthur said, but he grinned. "He details the Caesars' vices most explicitly."
"I have read all of your books, of course," Guinevere answered.
Bors wrinkled his forehead. "You, my queen, are noble enough to read such books, but it is better for most to avoid pagan books altogether, I am sure."
"But why?" Guinevere asked in the mildest of tones. "For the pagan authors condemn sinners, whereas the Christian ones often forgive them. Is it not more corrupting to learn that one can do whatever one pleases and still be forgiven?"
"In Christ, all things are possible," said Bors, bowing his head.
Lancelot had been watching the queen, but when Guinevere's gaze met hers she turned away. Guinevere was more learned than anyone but a priest. How good it would be to listen to her always, Lancelot thought, pretending to have an interest in the salmon on her plate. She dared not speak with the queen lest her voice show how she felt.
One morning as Lancelot walked to the practice field, the king approached her. Although Arthur was not going to participate in the fighting practice, he dressed simply when he watched the men in their exercises. "I've heard that you can jump from your horse to another man's, grab hold of him, and fight."
Lancelot nodded. "I can."
"Very good. You must show the others how to do that."
"Of course, my Lord Arthur, if you wish it."
They had arrived at the practice field and Lancelot swung up on her horse. Eager to work with her as always, Arrow whinnied and pawed the ground.
Peredur, a man of formal manners, was the one chosen for her to jump behind and attack, and he looked not overly pleased at playing this part. Arthur yelled with enthusiasm when Lancelot leapt from one horse to the other, then did the same again, more slowly, showing the men how she did it.
The warriors tried out this new feat, some of them falling, but many landing on the horses, albeit a little awkwardly. After all, they were well-trained in fighting on horseback. Lancelot said that many of them would soon learn well the new skill.
After the practice, Arthur talked to Lancelot about horses, telling how he had only recently been able to breed enough tall ones descended from Spanish stock so that all of his warriors had swift, excellent mounts. They walked off discussing the best way to train a horse, and how much easier it was to guide a horse since the recent arrival of Scythian stirrups.
"Let us ride together tomorrow morning," Arthur said. "There's a horse I would like you to try."
Overwhelmed with the honor, Lancelot said, "Thank you, Lord Arthur." Her heart beat fast with pride.
"You'll need more than one horse, for many horses are killed in battle," the king told her.
Lancelot's heart sank. She would buy more horses if she needed them, yet she prayed that Arrow would be safe.
The next morning, the sun shone brightly, and they went for a ride. Arthur talked about many things, but Lancelot mostly spoke of horses and other creatures.
After a time, she needed to relieve herself. She begged pardon and went off into the woods. When she returned, Arthur chuckled. "Modest, aren't you? Were you taught in a monastery?"
"No, but my teacher was a priest," Lancelot was embarrassed.
That was the best explanation she could think of for her modesty. She knew that not all men went off so far.
They arrived at a lake. The waters rippled, and a fish jumped.
"This might be the lake where I was given my sword. The waters parted just like that," the king said, putting his hand on the pommel of his sword, which was covered by a great amethyst.
"Might be the lake? Surely you would remember which one," Lancelot asked, made bold by the king's graciousness and wondering about the strange story, which was told by every bard at court. "Did an arm really appear?"
Arthur's mouth twitched. "Perhaps the lake was enchanted for one day only. Or perhaps I was under a spell and can no longer remember exactly which lake it was. Kings must put on a show for the people, Lance."
Lancelot looked away, appearing to watch an osprey soar overhead. There undoubtedly were different rules of honesty for kings. She ought to appreciate him. He was a great ruler. She was annoyed at herself for feeling jealous whenever she saw him touch the queen.
Gawaine was drinking with Arthur and Cai late at night in the king's chamber. One of Arthur's dogs begged to be let outside – an exceptionally well-trained dog, Gawaine thought. Arthur sent his servant to take the hound to the courtyard. Yawning, Gawaine thought that if he were married to Guinevere, he too would prefer to drink far into the night with his friends.
"That Lancelot is strangely modest," Arthur said, pouring himself more wine. "He always goes off alone to relieve himself."
Gawaine nodded. "I've noticed that, too."
"He must be a Jew," Cai said, rearranging his embroidered sleeves. Gawaine stared at him. "A Jew? Why? I've never met one, so far as I know."
"None of us have," Cai replied. "I don't believe there are any in Britain. But I think they look somewhat Roman, as Lancelot does."
Arthur shook his head. "Lancelot is a pious Christian."
"Oh, Lancelot's a convert to Christianity, of course," Cai put in, pouring wine into Gawaine's goblet and then his own.
"Converts may be more pious."
"Sometimes," Gawaine said dubiously. "But why do you think Lancelot's a Jew?"
"Jews cut off baby boys' foreskins. That's why Lancelot doesn't want to be seen." Cai smirked at his own cleverness.
Gawaine winced, and he could see that Arthur winced, too.
"That would explain the modesty."
The king spoke slowly, as if pondering the matter. "But are Jews warriors?"
"What about King David? And many other warriors of ancient days. And of course, Lancelot's just part Jewish, and part Roman and Briton." Cai admired his own fine rings, and perhaps his hands as well. "I have also heard that Jews have difficulty growing beards, and that explains why Lancelot does not grow much stubble before his next shave."
"We s
houldn't press him about it," Gawaine agreed, thinking it would be strange to look different from other men.
"Perhaps I should invite some Jews to come here," Arthur mused. "I'm curious to hear about their religion. I know little about it. But no, the bishops are so irritated about pagans that I suppose they'd quibble about Jews, too."
"Christians think they are the only people who can be good," Gawaine complained. "We shouldn't tell anyone else about Lancelot."
Cai sat back smirking more than seemed appropriate for the subject, Gawaine thought. If Lancelot didn't want anyone to know he was a converted Jew, it was best never to mention it.
Despite the songs of harpers, Camelot was not a place of enchantment or of shining holiness, Lancelot discovered. The world of Camelot was the same as anywhere else.
Lancelot felt almost as uncomfortable at Camelot as she had when she had met warriors in Lesser Britain. Her nerves were tensed every moment. She could never relax. At any time, a movement of her body or a note in her voice might betray her. Even when she slept, she was on edge, easily awakened by the slightest sound. Nevertheless, she wanted to stay at Camelot, for if she were ever to do great deeds, it must be there.
Every conversation at the king's table turned to the subject of fighting. Boasts were many. If all of the warriors' stories were true, Lancelot was amazed that there were any men left to fight them in the whole of Britain.
Harpers sang of willing women, reluctant ladies, and alluring mermaids, but their most popular songs told of the clash of swords. Hunts and jousts they also praised, but the fight to the death brought the greatest acclaim. Grand it was to spear enemies, and the best death was on the battlefield.
Harpers had a good deal to answer for, Lancelot thought.
Sitting at the round table, she looked at the other warriors and wondered what they would do to her if they learned the truth. She feared that many of them – but which ones? – would be enraged that a woman had defeated them in jousts. Bors seemed unlikely to attempt to rape or kill her, but which of the others might try? They spoke of swords and horses, battles and missions for the king, sometimes jesting and sometimes disputing heatedly. Lancelot sat quietly, for she was taking in every word, and, even more, the tones and gestures, trying to determine which of the warriors might assault her and which would not.
Would a man who drank more be more dangerous? Even if he laughed when he drank? Would a man who shouted much be more dangerous than one who habitually sneered? Did pounding the table indicate a tendency to battery? Would those who were the most boastful be the angriest at being defeated by a woman? Would the better fighters or the lesser ones be most enraged? These were the questions on which she meditated.
"Cheer up, Lancelot, you look too solemn," Gawaine said, downing mead from his gold-embossed horn and putting it back on its stand.
"Listen to Gawaine. He's a famed warrior," Peredur told Lancelot.
"I know," she replied. "Even in Lesser Britain, I had heard of him."
"But do you know what he's most famous for?" Bedwyr chuckled. "Not fighting."
Lancelot looked at Gawaine inquiringly.
"The most important conquests are those of women," Gawaine said, laughing.
What did women conquer? Lancelot wondered. Then she realized he meant that he conquered them. She frowned.
"What has this Lancelot done to deserve a house of his own?" said scar-cheeked Sangremore, loudly enough for Lancelot to hear.
"I fought for the king in his war of succession, and I don't have one. I don't mind Gawaine having a house – he practically won the war for us and he's the son of King Lot of Lothian and Orkney – but who is this Lancelot to be so honored?"
"He's one of the finest fighters I've ever met, and that's enough," Gawaine replied. "I don't begrudge him anything, except the women I'm interested in, and he's made no move towards them."
Lancelot stared at her venison. She was no more at ease with the ladies than with the warriors, although her fears of them were rather different. Many ladies cast admiring glances at her, but she worried that those eyes might see through her disguise more clearly than the men's did. She was courteous but brief when she had to speak with them.
The king invited Lancelot to drink wine in his room with a few favored warriors after they had left the round table for the evening. She felt honored to be asked, but she worried about drinking too much, and took less at the great table so she would be able to sip a little afterwards without ill effects.
The king's chamber was the finest room she had ever entered. Wall hangings depicted hunts and men at battle. Arthur’s bronze lamp, formed in the shape of a dragon, amazed her. His brazier made the room warmer than the rest of the caer, and the wine his body servant poured was even finer than that served at the round table. She was so awed by the setting that at first she scarcely heard what the men were saying.
Camelot was much busier than Lancelot's villa had been in Lesser Britain. She walked from room to room and building to building, looking for a quiet place, but everywhere there were loud warriors, talking, laughing, arguing, and clapping each other on the back. Servants laughed and cursed while they took the old straw off the floor, spread the new, and scrubbed the corners where warriors too drunk to get to the privy had pissed. Harpers practiced their songs for the evening meal.
The courtyards were full of wagons coming and going with ducks and geese, stones and rushes, wheat and hay. In the practice yards, warriors' swords clattered. Boys who were training to become warriors shouted as they fought with their wooden practice swords. Ironsmiths worked loudly, repairing shields and swords and making new ones. A thousand smells, from the urine in the ditches to the turnips cooking in the kitchens and the wastes from hundreds of horses, pressed in on her.
Lancelot carried the forest in her head and tried to keep out the noise and smells. Having to greet so many different people was a strain. Any one of them might discover her secret and endanger her. But she wanted to be a hero, to hear bards sing her name in praise. That would not happen if she lived her life in some remote retreat. And if she left, she would never see that lovely face again – Guinevere's face.
Lancelot tried to find the forest at Camelot. The robin redbreast in the garden cheered her. Swallows and swifts swooped around the caer, and doves pecked at grain spilled on the cobbles.
As she passed the kitchen building, which smelled of baking bread, Cai walked out and greeted her. His smile was not unfriendly, but his mouth twisted as if he might be laughing at her. "Good day, Lancelot. You really should have a serving man as every other warrior does. It seems odd not to."
"I need no one to serve me. I can dress myself," she protested, putting out her arm as if protecting herself from a blow. She had no desire to have another pair of eyes observe her.
Undaunted, Cai continued, his voice as smooth as his handsome face, "There is a very good serving man who was blinded helping a cook when a pot of boiling water overturned. No one else wants him, but you are so kind that you might. He knows the caer well and could be a fine body servant. I am sorry to keep him in the kitchens."
Lancelot hesitated. A blind man might not be so bad. "I suppose he might look after my clothes and my chain mail. Yet I would prefer to have no servant at all."
"You can say what his duties would be," Cai assured her, patting her shoulder. "I know that you are pious and would want no lewd man around you. Catwal is good-hearted, and I assure you that even before he lost his sight, he never looked at women."
"Very well, send him to me and I shall think about it." Lancelot agreed because she could think of no good reason to refuse.
Catwal came to her small house, in which she wanted no decoration. There was only her chest of clothes, a small bed, a small table, and a stool. The serving man was not especially young, but his features were handsome.
His light brown hair was plentiful and his face was clean-shaven. "The Lord Cai said that I might work in your service, Lord Lancelot," he said in a pleasing
voice.
"I want no one to dress me or wash me, but you might look after my clothes and my mail and weapons if you will," she said.
"Of course, and I can have the water brought for your bath and have it taken away. I can keep the fire going and keep the thatch in the roof in good repair."
She showed him her tunics, so that he might learn from the feel which was which. "Here is my best, the crimson, and this one is the green. This wine-colored one is somewhat older. And here are the ones that I use only for riding or sword practice."
Catwal learned them immediately, and seemed swift at other matters as well. He went through the things in her chest.
"It's wise of you to use extra cloths as padding in case you might be wounded," he said. He was holding the cloths that she used to flatten her breasts, and she sighed with relief.
To her surprise, she found that her supply of clean rags was soon much increased. Catwal said, "I thought you might need small cloths to polish your chain mail and your sword when you go off from Camelot and I am not there to polish them."
She of course disposed of her own rags as usual. She usually buried them in the forest, for fear that they would be discovered if she washed them and set them out in her room to dry.
Catwal never commented on Lancelot's returning to her house during the day to use her chamber pot instead of going to the privy where the other warriors went. But she still feared that even a blind servant might observe too much about her. Could he perhaps detect her sex by her smell? Weren't blind men's other senses more acute? Even if so, there seemed to be no malice in Catwal, so she decided to trust him.
At twilight, Lancelot walked through the courtyard and passed a lady she knew was married. Before Lancelot could even incline her head, the lady smiled at her and touched her hand.
Lancelot raised her hand and made a gesture in the direction of the chapel, so it would seem that she moved only for that reason and not just to take her hand from the lady's.
Lancelot- Her Story Page 17
