Lancelot- Her Story

by Carol Anne Douglas

  The child stared at her, then at the mob of British soldiers, and ran off as fast as his little legs could carry him.

  When she had searched the last hut, she knew she could not postpone the burning any longer.

  "Done, Lance?" Gawaine asked. She nodded.

  "Go ahead," he ordered the soldiers, and, like fire-bearing demons, they set upon the empty village.

  Men shouted with terrible elation when the huts went up in flames, but Lancelot did not share their glee. When the soldiers herded the Saxons' pigs and sheep to feed the British camp, Lancelot thought of Saxon children going hungry. She felt like a brigand.

  As they rode off, Gawaine brought his horse near hers and clapped her on the back. "You're a good man, Lance."

  She had never felt so far from goodness. The image of the women and children running from her had burned into her brain.

  "If it had been your decision, would you have ordered the village to be burned, Gawaine?" she asked.

  He paused. "No."

  "But you did it because Arthur ordered us." Her voice sounded dead to her.

  "Yes, as you did." Gawaine's voice also was flat. "We must trust someone, and he's the best leader we can find."

  Lancelot sighed.

  Gawaine's face sagged as if he had just heard of the death of kin. "Do you understand why we were the ones he asked to do it? Because we'd be less brutal than others would. And that's why we'll have to be the ones to burn other settlements, too, before this war is over."

  Lancelot let out a strangled cry. She could barely keep from falling from her horse. "No! God have mercy on us!"

  "I'm sorry, Lance." Gawaine reached out, but she rode away.

  The only bearable part of the day was returning to camp and seeing that Aglovale's shoulder was bandaged and he was pale but able to walk.

  "I heard you were going to burn a village to avenge the attack on us," he said.

  "We did." Lancelot could hardly speak the words.

  Aglovale sighed and shook his head.

  As the war continued, they burned more villages, and Lancelot continued to search every house. Gawaine insisted that she take another warrior with her in case the hut held a Saxon fighter who might attack her. Sometimes she found an old woman or a child. They cringed when she discovered them, shook while she dragged them out of the house, and were wide-eyed with astonishment when she let them go.

  Once a hut held a Saxon warrior who lunged at her with his axe. She fought and killed him but was not sorry that another British soldier had come in with her and could have helped her if need be. Other soldiers also searched the dwellings, but not to save stragglers. Instead, they looted anything of value.

  At one village, dark-haired people with iron thrall collars darted out of the huts. As the Saxons ran from Arthur's troops, the British slaves ran towards them.

  "British soldiers!" they called out. "Heroes! All hail to King Arthur!" Both slave men and women, and also the children, rushed to embrace the soldiers.

  Tears came to Lancelot's eyes. She joined with the other soldiers in giving the Saxons' food and farm animals to the people who were slaves no longer. She and her men took the freed slaves back to camp, where blacksmiths cut off their iron collars. Lancelot choked at the sight of the raw necks that were revealed, but she reckoned that this day was the best of the war.

  Not all villages had thralls, and then all the goods went to the army. Each day, Arthur presided over the division of the spoils, and saw to it that every warrior had his share of the gold armrings, finger rings, furs, spears, and the finer household goods. But the king kept a large share of the plunder.

  They stopped by a church, and Lancelot gave her share of gold armrings and jeweled finger rings to a young, black-robed priest.

  "I cannot keep for myself the jewels from Saxon bodies," she said, shuddering. "But perhaps the Church can put them to good use."

  "Blessings on you, Lancelot. You're a rare man," the priest told her. She shook her head. Salvation seemed far away.

  One morning, as the troops rode out seeking Saxons, Lancelot spied a mass of British peasants hurrying towards the army. Some had carts, but most were on foot. They were all women, old men, and children.

  They screamed, "King Arthur!" "Thank God!" "We're saved!" "Help us!" Tears streamed down their faces as they rushed to the soldiers.

  The king rode up to them. "Have the Saxons chased your from your homes, my good people?" he asked.

  Many cried out, "Yes. They burned our village."

  A woman carrying an infant called out, "Where can we go and be safe?"

  "You should move around us, and go in the direction of Camelot. Keep as far west as you can," Arthur told them. "But first, we will give you what food we can, and a share of the Saxons' goods. We will make the country safe so that you can go back to the place you came from."

  He then ordered the men charged with keeping his share of the plunder to give the people as many of the Saxons' tools and household goods as they could take with them, and some of the Saxons' gold, too.

  The peasants cheered him.

  Lancelot rushed to help distribute the goods.

  Arthur smiled at her. "That is why I took such a large share of the plunder: to help our people who have lost their homes."

  Lancelot's heart surged with pride, and she vowed that she would keep her share for such purposes rather than give it to the churches. Though she knew that most priests would also distribute the goods to the poor, she guessed that not all would do so.

  "Send those Saxons to Woden!" cried an old peasant man who hobbled with a crutch. "Hell's too good for them," a woman said. "They killed my son."

  "We will bring peace, I promise you," Arthur told them.

  Lancelot was proud of his words, for she recalled that Saxon peasants fleeing to their own fighters must be in similar straits. She knew her king truly wanted peace, not the death of every last Saxon.

  Pausing for breath in a battle, Lancelot saw that two British soldiers were on a hill, where they were cut off from the rest of the troops by Saxons. It was Gawaine and his brother Gaheris.

  "Stay with the men. I'm going to help Gawaine," Lancelot cried to Aglovale. Before he could answer, she swerved and galloped up the hill.

  A Saxon-thrown axe whirled by her head, but she paid no heed. When she had reached the summit, Lancelot saw that two Saxons were attacking Gawaine, who was trying to hold them back with his sword. Another Saxon threw himself at Gaheris.

  She rushed towards Gawaine, but he motioned for her to save Gaheris first. Stifling a cry of protest, she turned to Gawaine's younger brother, who tumbled on the ground with his attacker.

  The Saxon's arm was around Gaheris's throat. Taking a moment to be sure that she hit the Saxon, not Gawaine's brother, she ran her sword into the Saxon's back.

  Choking, Gaheris rolled away from the corpse's embrace.

  Lancelot turned to Gawaine. Blood dripped down his face, but still he slashed at the two Saxons.

  Lancelot leapt to his side and took on one of the Saxons who assaulted him.

  She killed one Saxon, and Gawaine killed the other.

  "You're wounded!" Lancelot exclaimed.

  Gawaine wiped his face with his arm, staining his already blood-encrusted chain mail. "It's not so bad. It'll just be another scar." He gave her a broad grin. "Thanks for helping my brother and me." He turned to Gaheris, who sat on the ground.

  Riding down the hill to rejoin the main battle, Lancelot realized that forcing herself to save Gaheris first was one of the most difficult things she had ever done.

  One night after a battle, Arthur and Lancelot walked about, giving words of encouragement to the wounded. Most of the men with terrible cuts or shattered limbs seemed reassured to have their king clasp their hands and say that their sacrifice had no doubt saved many lives.

  Arthur especially praised those who would not last the night, and Lancelot's eyes filled with tears. She, too, would have been grateful for the kin
g's words if she had been dying.

  They could hear harpers playing. After a battle, Arthur had them play songs that would lift the men's spirits, or at least help them to feel poignancy rather than bitterness.

  She went off to speak with her own men — the ones who were uninjured for the moment — and tried to let the music blot out her memories of the day.

  Later, Gawaine stopped by her tent as he made the rounds of the camp. He looked as grimy as she was with the dirt of the battle, and just as exhausted, but he also had to see to his men before thinking of sleep.

  "How many men died today?" she asked.

  "Twenty-two, including a cousin of mine from Lothian."

  His voice was weary.

  "I'm sorry." She patted him on the shoulder. "And my youngest fighter, that boy from Dyfed. God have mercy on us!" she exclaimed. "Filthy, hell-spawn war!"

  "Filthy, hell-spawn war," Gawaine agreed, taking a drink from his flask. "It's northern liquor. Have some." He extended it to her.

  She shook her head. "No, thanks. Drinking that is like being hit by a throwing axe. I'll get some ale instead."

  Gawaine laughed and poured some more liquor down his throat. "Here's to another rotten day tomorrow," he said. "I hope I see you again tomorrow night."

  "You will," Lancelot said, though she knew there was a chance that one or the other of them, or both, might not live through the next day. Watching him walk away, she wondered whether she was seeing him for the last time – a thought she now had whenever she parted from anyone she liked.

  "A messenger with the Pendragon banner is riding up the hill," a guard told Guinevere and Cai as they sat worrying about how to send enough supplies to Arthur. They had set men to building more wagons because the Saxons had burned many that had been sent to the king's troops.

  They both leapt up, almost colliding, but Cai let Guinevere precede him as they hurried to the courtyard.

  Guinevere's heart pounded as it always did when Arthur's messengers came. Lancelot, Lancelot, she thought. May Lancelot be safe. And Arthur. And Bors. And all the Britons.

  She met Lionors in the courtyard and they clasped hands.

  Lionors, as usual, was followed by a couple of her children.

  The messenger rode through the gates and called out, "The king is safe, never fear," to all the people of high stations and low who were waiting to hear him.

  The small crowd cheered. Guards clapped each other on the back. The messenger handed a packet to Guinevere. She opened it in front of everyone, and hoped the rest of the news was as good as his announcement. She first looked for names.

  "Gryffd, Aglovale, and Sangremore have been injured, but the king mentions no other names," she told the crowd. She heard a collective sigh of relief. She thanked God that Lancelot's name was not there.

  Claudia, Aglovale's sister-in-law, groaned. Guinevere gave her a gentle smile. "The king says the wounds are not grievous," Guinevere told her.

  "The king writes that our troops are making progress,"

  Guinevere told the assembled people of Camelot, then turned to go back with Cai to his office to discuss the rest of the letter, which was not as full of optimism. Supplies were still not as plentiful as they should be, and Arthur had to requisition more from the peasants than he had wanted to do. The Saxons were killing too many horses, and farm animals were not good substitutes.

  Guinevere sighed for the horses, and the men who had lost them. More could be sent from Camelot, but the court needed to keep a good number in case a retreat was necessary. Arthur assured her that the Saxons were far from Camelot, but she knew that some could have sneaked past his army.

  "Are you sure we have enough men to defend Camelot?" she asked Cai.

  "I believe so." Despite those words he gave her a look that said of course no one could be certain. "Arthur left the finest archers here."

  Guinevere sighed. "He could use them in combat."

  "So he could. But they are our best defense."

  "If they stood on the walls, the Saxons would kill them."

  "At least we have a spring here, and enough food for a long siege." Cai gave her a reassuring smile.

  "Ah, Cai, when there is no sarcasm in your speech everyone knows that you are anxious. Try to pepper your remarks as usual," Guinevere told him.

  He scowled enough to make all the serving people cower, if they had believed that he was angry. "Very good. I shall chide everyone so much that they long to hang me from the battlements."

  "Not quite that much." Guinevere tried to smile.

  18 The Otherworld

  One early summer day the Britons passed through a village burned by the Saxons where women's bodies lay, naked or with their skirts up, some with parts cut off. Dead children also littered the ground.

  Lancelot nearly fell from her horse at the sight.

  Many of the soldiers cursed and some wept. Arthur ordered that they bury the women and children. Men rushed to dig the graves, and Arthur himself dug some shovels of earth. Lancelot insisted on being one of those who gently lifted the bodies into the graves. She found it difficult not to throw herself in after them. The stench from the bodies nearly overpowered her. A priest who traveled with the army said a Mass for the dead, and a thousand voices joined in the prayers.

  A few days later they came to a Saxon village, and saw a similar sight. The village had been burned, the women had been raped and murdered, and the yellow-haired children, too.

  "This is monstrous," Arthur called out in a thunderous voice to the assembled troops. "I know that some of you must have done this. If anyone knows who it was, he should tell me so the killers can be punished. You are only supposed to burn down the villages to drive away the Saxons, not kill the women and children. You must let them flee. Any man who kills a woman or child will be executed."

  Arthur paused. "We must also bury these bodies," he said. "The Saxon custom is to burn their dead, but there is already enough smell of death here." But this time there were not so many volunteer gravediggers. Gawaine and Peredur were the first to call for shovels and begin the work, and then some of the men followed, as did all of the senior warriors.

  Lancelot again lifted the bodies into the grave. Only a few others shared this task. She stooped to lift them, and even the smallest children seemed a weight heavier than she could bear. Her knees almost gave way.

  The priest said a brief prayer for the pagan souls, and a few voices joined in. She felt even more like casting herself into the graves this time than she had before, when Saxons had been the killers.

  She was not surprised that no one spoke up to tell the king who had murdered the women and children.

  Riding away from the scene of the massacre, Gawaine drank from his flask. The northern liquor was not enough to settle his stomach. It had been difficult to keep from vomiting or weeping, neither of which he wanted to do in front of his men.

  Agravaine rode up to him. Gawaine faced him reluctantly. It was not a time when he wanted to listen to his brother's usual complaints. "Those Saxon bitches deserved what they got," Agravaine said. He spat and his eyes narrowed.

  "They were raising their little bastards to kill us someday. Why not kill them now?"

  Gawaine felt as if he had been dealt a mighty blow, mightier than Agravaine had ever been able to strike in fighting practice. It was a moment before he was able to speak. "You countenance slaughtering the women and children? You saw how terribly they were mutilated."

  "Why not? Only a fool is tender with his enemies." Agravaine snorted contemptuously.

  "Are you calling our High King a fool?" Gawaine was so angry that he couldn't see the men riding ahead of him or the fields on the side of the road.

  "Oh no, he's clever." Agravaine chuckled. "It adds to his power to be called Arthur the Just. Give me a swig of whatever you're drinking." He reached for Gawaine's flask.

  For an instant, Gawaine wondered whether Agravaine had taken part in the massacre, but then he remembered that his brother
had not left the camp in days, until the troops rode out that morning. "Do you know who the killers were?" Gawaine kept his voice steady, though his veins were almost bursting with rage.

  "Nah, probably men from one of the lesser kings' warbands. Shit, I'm tired of riding. I wonder how long it'll be before Arthur decides to camp for the night. How about that drink?" Agravaine's arm was still extended.

  "You'll have a chance to rest." Gawaine did not keep the bitterness out of his voice. He poured the contents of his flask on the ground, and Agravaine stared with disbelief. "As of this moment, you are no longer my second in command. I'm going to appoint Bors to the post."

  "What!" Agravaine yelled. "You can't do that! You're my brother."

  "Unfortunately, I can't expel you from that position."

  Gawaine trembled with anger, but he did not shout.

  "Because of what I said about those Saxon bitches and whelps? I didn't kill them." Agravaine clenched his fists, as if he might try to strike Gawaine.

  "You are unfit to command. I say no more. If you have any sense, you won't complain to anyone." Gawaine rode off ahead of him. All Gawaine wanted was for night to come, so that he could be alone in his tent and drink enough to weep.

  Would his own brother be willing to carve women's bodies? Gawaine remembered when they were boys together, throwing food at each other at supper – only when their father was not present — and dunking each other in lochs. But as Gawaine had grown to abhor his father, Agravaine had become more like Lot with every passing year. Was there some curse in the blood that had escaped him but come out in Agravaine?

  And how good was he himself? Gawaine wondered. It had occurred to him that he could have saved at least one of those girls in the town his father had taken years before. Not the one his father had, but he might have been able to command some of the warriors who held the girls down in the streets. All he had thought of at the time was getting away, but now he reckoned that if Lancelot had been there, Lancelot would have thought to save a girl or two. Lancelot – now there would be a brother worth having. If only his brothers were more like him. But how could any son raised by Lot be like Lancelot?