Lancelot- Her Story

by Carol Anne Douglas

  "Gods, don't do such a thing," he exclaimed, putting an arm out as if Lancelot were trying to jump at that moment.

  "A camp follower had gone there to do the same, and I took her away. If she had been the one to drown herself, would any of you have cared?" she asked bitterly.

  Gawaine looked taken aback. "Why, of course I would have rescued her from the river," he said.

  "But would you have saved her from what drove her there?" Lancelot demanded.

  Gawaine said only, "If you're well enough to preach to me, you're healing." He did not mention anything concerning the girl's death, but Lancelot thought of it, and said, "I am not worthy to preach to anyone."

  She sought out Father Donatus, who traveled with the troops, and found him in a tent where physicians tended the wounded. Not disturbing him, she stood near until he turned to leave the tent.

  "Please shrive me, Father," she asked.

  "Of course. Come to my tent."

  They walked to the priest's tent, in which a crucifix hung.

  Lancelot slumped down on her knees. "Father, I have killed too many men. And today I did worse than that. I saw a bush moving and struck out, killing a girl who had hidden behind it. I am just a brute. I've killed an innocent girl."

  The priest's voice was soothing. "Don't grieve so. Killing in a just war is no sin, and an accidental killing in these circumstances is but a venial sin at worst."

  Lancelot stared at him. "Surely it is not. I could have stopped myself. I didn't have to strike before I saw who was there."

  "Next time you will not. You must not be so scrupulous," he tried to reassure her. "Think of all the lives you have saved and all the British people who will be safe because you fought the Saxons."

  He blessed her, but she went off feeling no better than she had before. She did not believe that her sin was truly absolved.

  She withdrew into silence again.

  They fought more Saxons the next day, and Lancelot returned to numbness. She no longer saw the Saxon ghosts, but the pale form of the British girl. She took more impossible risks than ever. The more men she saved, the more the warriors praised her and the more she felt ashamed.

  She wondered whether she was under some terrible spell that would not let her die.

  After a time, she began to notice the calls of birds again, and she knew that they were not ghosts from another world, but were calling her to this one. She began to come back to it. At first, the girl listened to the birds with her, then she faded, to return in dreams. The wrens especially seemed to pour out their finest songs for Lancelot.

  One day Lancelot found that she was talking again, giving more than the briefest possible replies.

  A near naked berserker appeared suddenly from behind a bush, and his spear slashed into Arrow. Lancelot was down, still holding her spear, and killed the attacker. Then she turned to her horse. Seeing that he had no chance, Lancelot stroked his forehead, then dispatched him with her sword. Tears burned her eyes. Now she truly had nothing left to love. She might as well die. Loving Guinevere was only a dream that could never be fulfilled. Lancelot slipped in the mud and fell. Then a charge of her own companions rushed around her, and one horse's hoof landed by her left hand, crushing her little finger and the finger beside it.

  Her hand ablaze with pain, Lancelot lay there. Perhaps more horses would trample her. Let them. She was not needed; the battle was already won. It was as good a time as any to die. Let her last sound be the beating of hooves all around her.

  "Stop, fools, it's Lancelot!" cried a voice, and strong arms were there to lift her.

  Quickly, Lancelot moved to get herself up. She looked into Gawaine's face. She could see from the look of sorrow in his eyes that he knew she had tried to die.

  Ashamed, she turned away. "Many thanks," Lancelot said, though she did not feel thankful.

  "Our men are driving off the Saxons. You must go to the tents for the wounded," Gawaine told her.

  "It's good that it's my shield hand rather than my sword hand," Lancelot replied, trying to sound as if she were too strong to suffer.

  "Take this, you'll need it," he said, handing her his flask of northern liquor.

  She reluctantly went to the surgeon, who said that what was left of her crushed fingers would have to be removed. She drank some northern liquor and tried not to scream when the surgeon's knife cut her. She fainted from the pain, but woke again, sorry to be alive. Her hand seemed to be on fire.

  At least it was an injury that did not reveal that she was a woman, Lancelot thought. She still had enough fingers left to be able to hold her shield with her left hand. How mad it was that she had escaped every Saxon axe and spear, only to be injured by a British horse.

  A camp follower bandaged Lancelot's hand. The women did much work helping the surgeons in the tents for the wounded. How strange, then, that men did not treat them with respect, Lancelot thought.

  The surgeon told Lancelot to stay in the tents for the wounded, but she refused. How could she piss unless she got back to the privacy of her own tent?

  Gawaine was waiting when she staggered out of the surgeon's tent. "Even you are not invulnerable, Lance," he said, sounding as if he regretted the fact. He looked at her bandaged hand.

  "It's nothing," she insisted, trying to keep her voice and her feet steady, though she feared there were still tears in her eyes from the pain. "The storytellers have always claimed that I could fight with only one arm. I'm fortunate. I could have lost my entire left hand, as Bedwyr has through wound-sickness." Her voice faltered and she permitted Gawaine to help her back to her tent.

  "You still could get wound fever," he warned her.

  "Losing Arrow was worse than losing my fingers. It was like losing kin," she told him. Her voice was breaking. She could not hold back her tears.

  "I know. It grieved me greatly when my horse was killed last month," Gawaine said, pressing her shoulders.

  He left her at her tent, and she collapsed onto her wolfskin. She thought the pain would keep her awake, but she soon fell asleep.

  In the middle of the night, the pain woke her. To her astonishment, Gawaine was sitting near her.

  "What are you doing here?" Lancelot asked.

  "I'm worried about you, of course. So are all your friends." He extended his flask. "You might want some more liquor."

  She accepted the drink. Anything that might distract her was appealing. But she needed to be alone, and drinking only made that more urgent. "Many thanks, but please leave now."

  "Very well."

  Gawaine left and she was able to relieve herself.

  She slept, and when she woke again, Aglovale was there, sitting where Gawaine had been before.

  "Am I a baby that I need watching?" Lancelot grumbled, for she again felt a great need to relieve herself.

  "At least you don't seem to have a fever," Aglovale said, but he left as she wanted. When she woke to the sounds of the soldiers clattering about in the morning, Bors was in her tent watching her and praying.

  Her friends' concern brought tears to her eyes, though she felt she was not worth caring about. She passed several days in like manner. But the wound did not fester.

  One morning, Arthur called Lancelot to his tent. There was a low mist covering the first few feet of ground of the tent city, giving the illusion of tents in clouds, which made her think of a city of ghosts. A pretty camp follower was leaving the king's tent.

  The woman smiled at Lancelot in a friendly manner, not leering. Ever since she had helped Maire get away, the camp followers had smiled at her. Of course she had told them what had become of Maire, so they would not think it was something worse.

  As Lancelot walked into the tent, she noticed the meadow flowers that had been crushed, perhaps by the royal feet. Stepping around a half-crushed cornflower, she tried to smile so Arthur wouldn't guess that she was in pain.

  The king was solemn. He gestured for her to sit on the pile of rugs next to his own pile. "Lance," he said, speaki
ng in a quiet tone of command, "Gawaine has told me that you have been trying to get yourself killed."

  Lancelot gasped. She wanted to avert her face, but she knew that as his sworn warrior she had no right to look away.

  "That kind of behavior must stop." Arthur of course did not smile, but neither did he frown. "You are one of my finest, and I can't afford to lose you. I think one more decisive battle will drive away the invaders, but I will need you by my side for many years to come. Either you will swear that you won't try to get killed, or I shall order you to return to Camelot to lead its defenses in case of attack."

  Lancelot could hardly breathe.

  She felt as if she were drowning and floundered for a response. "But there are no Saxons near Camelot."

  "That's true." Arthur twisted his ring. "But it would be an honorable assignment. No one but Gawaine and I would know the reason for it. I would never let you be dishonored. It is not dishonorable to be grieved by war, but you must not let the grief overwhelm you." He gestured to a wine jar. "Have some wine. You look as if you need it."

  Lancelot shook. She couldn't bring herself to reach for the wine. Being forced to return to Camelot while others fought sounded as terrible to her as being put in a dungeon.

  Arthur poured some wine into a cup and handed it to her, a move she had never seen the king make with anyone else.

  Hand trembling, she brought the cup to her mouth and drank. "My Lord Arthur," she managed to say, "We all must risk our lives if we fight."

  The king nodded. "Of course. I do not charge you to be anything other than brave, but you must not deliberately try to be killed. Will you swear to do that?"

  "I swear I will try to preserve myself in battle," Lancelot stammered. That was the only choice she could make.

  "Very good. Go now and rest, for we must prepare for a great battle at Badon Hill." He touched her hand briefly.

  Lancelot walked back out into the mist. There was no escape from her life as a killer. She wanted to cover her face with shame because the king knew she longed to die, but she had gathered from Arthur's manner that Gawaine had not told him the reason for it. If Arthur had known she had killed the girl, surely he would not have been so gracious.

  The fog had not lifted, so the army stayed where it was. Gawaine found his brother Gaheris sharpening his sword in front of the tent he shared with Agravaine. Gawaine thanked the gods he had his own tent, not shared with them.

  Gaheris was a fairly tall man, but shorter than Gawaine and Agravaine, and his beard was skimpier than theirs. Gaheris never had the full measure of anything, including wits, Gawaine thought. He was not simple-minded, but neither was he clever.

  Gawaine squatted on the ground beside his younger brother. The smell of roasting sheep that soldiers had procured – never mind how – permeated the camp.

  "We'll have a good supper tonight."

  "And none too soon," Gaheris grumbled, scraping his sword against a whetstone. The noise was not pretty, but Gawaine was used to it.

  "I'd like to speak with you. It might be best if you did not follow Agravaine too closely." Gaheris had tagged after Agravaine as a child, and had never changed the habit.

  Gaheris scraped the sword with a screech. His eyes, which were a duller blue than Gawaine's, glared at his oldest brother.

  "You do not treat Agravaine like a brother," he charged. "I like it not that you took away his position and gave it to that fool Christian, Bors. You may not have feeling for your kin, but I do."

  Gawaine rolled back on his heels. He had known that Gaheris would not be pleased at his words, but he had not expected this accusation. "You don't know the reason that I demoted Agravaine," he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

  Gaheris gave a sharp, unpleasant laugh. "Of course I do. It was because of what he said about those Saxon bitches."

  Gawaine reeled. His head spun as if he were falling. "He told you he said there was nothing wrong with the massacre?"

  "He told me that was why you took his position away. Not a good reason, if you ask me, not that you ever do. We're supposed to be killing Saxons." Scowling, Gaheris ran his finger along his sword.

  Gawaine's stomach heaved. "Not women and children."

  "Why not? The Saxon whores are just raising their brats to kill us when they're grown, as Agravaine says." Gaheris's face was now as unpleasant as Agravaine's ever had been. Like their father's.

  Gawaine shook with rage. "You saw the bodies, you saw how they had been raped and sliced. If we kill women and children, we're no better than the Saxons."

  "They slaughtered our women and children first. Maybe we taught them a lesson, and they'll think before they do it again." Gaheris made gruesome gestures with his sword.

  "No doubt that's what Agravaine told you." Gawaine could not keep the fury out of his voice.

  "It is. Don't get angry at me. I didn't kill them. And don't pretend that you're so much better than the men who did. You killed a girl, too. A British girl, and that's worse, to my way of thinking." Gaheris used an insolent tone that he had never tried with Gawaine before. "Wouldn't she give you what you wanted?"

  Gawaine almost fell over. He put a hand on the ground to steady himself. "Gods! You can't believe I'd do such a thing! She died by accident, and I greatly regret it." He had never imagined that his own brother could charge him with such brutality.

  Gaheris snorted. "No, you're too good. You like to hang about with pious fools like Lancelot and Bors, rather than your own brothers. But the story you gave out about the girl isn't true. I can tell that you're lying. You look too nervous when you talk about it."

  Gawaine wanted to strike out. Instead, he spoke as calmly as possible, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "I swear by the blood of our clan that I never touched the girl, nor tried to. Her death was accidental. There are details that I can't tell you, but they are not as bad as you imagine." The price for protecting Lancelot was higher than he had reckoned, but he couldn't tell Gaheris that Lancelot had killed the girl, for Gaheris would tell everyone. Lancelot might kill himself from shame and grief.

  "For certain you're as pure as Bors," Gaheris mocked him. "That Bors has never had any woman but his wife. And you prefer such a weakling to Agravaine. And that Lancelot never even looks at a woman. Why would you want a friend like that?"

  Gawaine grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. Gaheris dropped the sword. If this had been any man other than Gaheris, Gawaine would have struck him.

  "How much of a fool are you? How dare you criticize a man who saved your life! When you've saved as many lives as Lancelot has, you can perhaps criticize him. Lancelot and Bors are good men, both kind and brave. What difference does it make what god they pray to or how many women they've had?"

  He let Gaheris pull out of his grasp.

  "Of course I'm a fool," Gaheris said bitterly. "Everyone is better than your brothers. It's just as I've said – you care little about us."

  "If I cared little about you, I'd have beaten you 'til you had to go to the tents for the wounded." Although Gawaine was more sad than angry, he shook his fist at Gaheris because the angry gesture would be more likely to gain his brother's respect than clasping his hand. "That's what our father would have done if you'd ever dared to be half this insolent to him. I am the head of this family and you should listen to me."

  "Lot wouldn't have demoted Agravaine. He'd have agreed with him," Gaheris objected, but his voice was calmer.

  Gawaine shuddered. "Indeed. But we are fighting for Arthur, not for Lot. Thank the gods."

  An orderly walked up to them and said nervously, "Pardon, Lord Gawaine, but the king is asking for you."

  "Then I'll come." Gawaine nodded to his brother, who sullenly returned the gesture, and walked away. Did he prefer Lancelot and Bors to his brothers? By all the gods, he did! Lancelot was worth facing his brother's insults. But Great Daghda's Cauldron, it was hard to lose authority with his brother because of taking the blame for Lancelot.

  Gawaine t
ried to control his face so the king would not be able to see his misery. He hoped that his little brother Gareth, who was being raised just by Morgause, without Lot's influence, would become a better man than Agravaine or Gaheris. Perhaps better than Gawaine himself.

  But what if he had sons? Could he guide them to be good men, or was there a curse in his blood and might they be like Agravaine and Gaheris? Or Lot?

  For Lancelot, Badon was just another battle. Blood, blood, blood. Blood, death. Blood, death. But not her own. Almost numb, she lifted her sword again, and again, and yet again. She moved like one in a dream, a nightmare that would never end.

  When no more Saxons attacked her, she looked about and realized that they had fled – those of them who lived, that is. Although the British bodies on the ground were many, the Saxon dead far outnumbered them.

  Had her friends survived? Was Arthur alive and unhurt? That was all she could think of. Staggering through a hillside covered with as many corpses as stones and passing many soldiers as dazed as she was, Lancelot looked for the faces she most wanted to see. She steeled herself not to respond to the calls of the wounded – there were too many to help. Instead, she listened to hear whether any of the voices were her friends'.

  She peered up the hill, and there, still on his white horse, was the king. Seeing Lancelot, Arthur rode to her.

  She lifted her hand, "Hail, Pendragon!" she called out, as loudly as she could, though her voice faltered.

  "Victory!" he cried. "The Saxons have gone to meet Woden. They won't trouble us for some time to come." His eyes glowed with triumph.

  "And on our side? Who lives?" she asked. That was easier than asking who had died.

  "Gawaine, Bors, Peredur, Bedwyr." He recited the names proudly. Each name made her sigh with relief. "All alive? Truly?" she choked.

  "Truly." He flashed a smile at her and rode on to congratulate as many soldiers as he could. Now Lancelot could look to her own troops, count the dead and help the living. Where was Aglovale? Alive, she prayed.

  Not far away, Sawyl lay, wounded but alive. She hurried towards him. Arthur turned his horse back in Lancelot's direction. "You are the one who will carry the news of our victory back to Camelot. It will take some days for the rest of the army to follow you."