Gawaine shook his head. "I share it only so Lancelot won't drug me, as he obviously did before the fight so he could win."
Lancelot joined in the general laughter. "No, I think you lost the fight because you tarried too long with whatever woman you visited last night." She had not been with Guinevere because Camelot was so full of guests that a night-time meeting seemed more likely to be discovered.
"Last night?" Gawaine grabbed up the goblet, guzzled the wine, and gestured for a serving boy to fill it. "More likely it was because I was with a sweet lady this morning."
"Not even you would do that just before a fight," Lancelot said, laughing.
The serving boy refilled the cup. Taking it up, Lancelot pretended to drain it, though she just sipped.
Gawaine reached out as if to snatch the goblet away from her, and she laughed so hard she almost choked. It wasn't so bad living like a man after all.
Guinevere saw Lancelot share a cup with Gawaine and laugh at his jests. Her stomach tightened and she could scarcely eat the food set before her. How could Lancelot jest with a man who had killed a girl? Surely Lancelot must know what Gawaine had done.
When Lancelot left the table and walked into the courtyard, which was brighter than usual because the king had ordered that many rushlights be placed outdoors to impress the guests, a loud voice called after her. "Lancelot! A word with you."
She turned and saw King Uriens of Rheged, a thick-jowled, massive man.
Amazed that another king would want to speak with her, she bowed to him. "Of course, my lord."
Uriens chuckled. "'My lord.' I like the sound of that, coming from you. May we talk at your house?"
"It is very modest for a king to visit." Lancelot flushed. Indeed, she still had only the simplest wooden bed, chest, table, and two chairs, which was all she wanted. It was no place to entertain a king. Indeed, Arthur had never been there.
"That does not matter. Allow me to come."
"Of course, my lord," Lancelot said again. Uriens had already congratulated her on her victory. What more could he want?
They walked to her house and she ushered him in. "Will you have some wine? Mine is not as good as what the high king is serving at the feast." She began to realize that Uriens must want her to leave Arthur's service and come to his. What a mad idea. Who would leave the greatest king in Britain, if not the world?
"I have had wine enough, and I shall return to the great hall presently," Uriens said, seating himself on one of the chairs though it was small for him. "I witnessed your heroism in the war, and now I see that, though you have lost fingers, you are as fine a fighter as ever." He beamed at Lancelot.
"Thank you, King Uriens." Lancelot bowed her head. She no longer wanted to call him my lord if he thought he might become her lord.
"You are a man of few words, so I shall not prolong mine," Uriens said. "I want you to come to my service and be my war leader. You would have far finer quarters in my caer."
"What a gracious offer. Thank you, but..."
"Please listen to me. I offer you more. I propose to wed you to my daughter. A tie in the flesh is better than a pledge of service." Uriens beamed as if he were offering Lancelot an empire.
Lancelot reeled. "Your daughter? But I am not of royal blood. I am merely a warrior, and my land in Lesser Britain is not extensive."
"I have considered that. But a man who can fight as you can, who is also a man of character, is what I need. My own sons cannot fight as well as you, and I want you to be their war leader, too, after I am gone. But fortunately, I am in good health." Uriens patted his stomach. "I can see that you are amazed, but I assure you that I mean all that I am saying."
"Noble king," Lancelot said, trying to sound as conciliatory as possible. "I will never leave my sworn lord, King Arthur of Britain. I have vowed to serve him, and I shall never consider serving any other man, no matter how great. I thank you for your generous offer."
Uriens shook his head. "Arthur has bewitched all the finest men in the land. I suppose your loyalty is to be commended."
"Thank you, my lord." Lancelot was not overly warm. Uriens was an ally of Arthur's and had only to ask for Arthur's help if there was any difficulty in Rheged. She did not like it that he tried to suborn one of Arthur's warriors.
"I bide you good-night, then," Uriens said, rising and leaving her house.
Lancelot sighed with relief and prepared for bed.
The morning after the feast, Lancelot's head was heavy. As usual at such times, she decided to go for a ride. To her surprise, Gawaine was also at the stables.
"You are going to ride at this hour?" she asked.
Gawaine shook his head. "No. I feared my horse had strained himself in the contest, but I see that he is fine. I'm going to the hall to see what food is left over from the feast. If nothing has been set out yet, I can get some cold meat from the kitchen."
"No doubt the kitchen servants won't mind. They seem fond of you." Lancelot grinned. What an endless appetite Gawaine had! She wasn't ready for another meal. "I had the most amazing evening last night." She went to Raven's stall, and Gawaine followed her. "King Uriens asked me to marry his daughter! He thought he could persuade me to leave Arthur's service for his." She chuckled at the idea. "I never expected to be sought as a husband for a king's daughter! But I suppose he had asked you first."
"I won't deny it. The lesser kings have been after me for years." Gawaine laughed. "Now that they know how well you can fight, of course they will want you for a war leader. But king's daughters aren't necessarily wonderful wives. I've always refused such a match. If I hadn't, who knows? I might have been married to Guinevere! What a terrible fate!" Gawaine clutched his head as if in misery.
Lancelot was so taken aback that she couldn't reply quickly. The thought turned her stomach. "It's good that you aren't," she said. She would have been even more distressed at betraying Gawaine than at betraying Arthur. Eager to change the subject, she added, "Some of our companions also have urged me to marry their daughters or their sisters. Whenever a man mentions his daughter, I know what words will come next."
"Of course they all want you. You'd be a fine husband." Gawaine gave Raven a friendly pat. "If I had a sister, I'd want you to marry her. And because I'm your closest friend, no doubt she's the one you'd choose."
Lancelot choked. She finished tightening the saddle. "If you had a sister, she'd probably be too wild for me."
"That would do you good." Gawaine laughed. "Don't marry some pious girl. You need someone wilder than you are. And no insults about my sister, or I'll have to challenge you to a fight."
Helpless with laughter over this jest, he strode off to the hall, and Lancelot took Raven out of the stable. Was Guinevere wilder than she was? Yes, likely so.
Early one morning when Lancelot was pulling on her tunic, Guinevere said, "You could ride with me at times as my escort, if you would. Will you go with me today?"
"Yes!" Lancelot's heart raced. So excited was she that she ripped her tunic where the sleeve met the shoulder. For once she was not sad to leave the dear room.
It was easy to find another warrior to teach the boys in her place. Bors graciously agreed to take on the task. After all, two of the lads were his sons.
When the sun had risen and begun to warm the air, Lancelot hurried to the stable. Telling the stablehands they could continue the game of dice they attempted to hide from her, she saddled the queen's horse as well as her own.
At Guinevere's arrival, Lancelot bowed deeply, then helped the queen onto her horse. Every touch, no matter how brief, was precious.
They rode down the hill and past the farmers digging in the fields. Some raised their heads to watch the queen go by, and Guinevere waved to them. Lancelot felt a surge of pride that this great woman was her lady.
Soon after they passed the farmers, Guinevere cried out, "Let's race!"
"Agreed!" Glad that Guinevere was such a good rider that there was no fear that she couldn't keep up, Lancelo
t let Raven gain speed.
The two mares galloped. Sometimes one was in the lead, sometimes the other.
As unrestrained as her horse, Lancelot shouted with joy. The fields were green, the larks sang, there was nothing more to wish for. Guinevere's horse won.
The two lovers, flushed, disheveled, and laughing, looked into each other’s eyes. Lancelot reached over and clasped Guinevere's hand. Life was perfect.
One night, when she and Lancelot were stretched out, resting after love, Guinevere asked, "What would your ideal world be like?"
Lancelot smiled and closed her eyes. Although she generally would rather be silent after love-making, the idea of a perfect world appealed to her. "I would ride through forests, climb mountains, and swim in lakes, the birds would always be singing, and you would always be by my side. There would be no fighting, and no one would go hungry." She sighed because that was only a dream. "But I suppose yours would be different." She looked at Guinevere inquiringly.
"It would be a city," the queen said. "I am sorry if that disappoints you." She kissed Lancelot's neck to make up for it. "You could walk through the streets and see that the goldsmiths doing fine work were women, and the blacksmiths also. The harpers would be women, and so would the priests. Women would preach and study every kind of text. The farms also would be run by women, and the accounts kept by them, and women would collect the taxes. The warriors contesting with each other cheerfully would be women, too."
"Would there be any men in this city, and what would they be doing?" Lancelot asked.
"The same work they are doing now, if they would let the women do it, too," Guinevere answered impatiently. "I knew that would be your first question. You think so much like a man."
"As I must pretend to be one, that may be necessary. I suppose the ruler would be a woman as well?" Lancelot could not refrain from asking, for she thought Guinevere might like to play that part. Guinevere sat up and replied with some irritation.
"No, women would rule themselves, and would be able to. I am not just thinking of myself."
"If you eliminate your work, can't you end mine also? I see that there would be warriors in your world, but not in mine," Lancelot nuzzled Guinevere's shoulder, but she shuddered inwardly at all the killing she had done, especially the death of the girl.
"In my ideal world, you would have no time for that, but would have to spend all your hours as a lover. And I would, too." Guinevere said, following words with action.
Lancelot wandered to the courtyard, where two girls of noble families stared at her and giggled. Tired of being seen as a potential husband, she sighed.
She saw Ailsa walk across the courtyard and stopped to greet her. The lady's pace was slow and her garb was black. "God grant you good day, Lady Ailsa. I hope you are doing well." Lancelot made her voice sympathetic because she felt sure that Ailsa still grieved over Rhun's death.
Ailsa looked at Lancelot without seeming to see her. "Good day, Lord Lancelot. Pardon me, but I am in mourning." She went on hastily.
Lancelot almost jumped back. Ailsa seemed to believe the only reason a man – or Lancelot – might speak with her was romantic interest. Well, that was what most women thought, and it was often true of men. Lancelot shook her head.
That night Lancelot sat at Guinevere's small table, which seemed still more congenial than the great round one. Lancelot ventured to ask, "What are women's lives like? Now I wonder more about what they are thinking."
Guinevere picked up her cat, which had been rubbing against her ankles, and put it in her lap, where it curled up and purred.
"Which women do you mean?"
"All of them – ladies, serving women, farm women – all." Lancelot took hold of Guinevere's hand – the one that was not petting the cat. "But truly, I can't talk to any other women. If I do, most of them flirt or imagine that I am flirting. I don't know what they are really like."
After kissing Lancelot's hand, Guinevere sat back in her chair and sipped red Gaulish wine from her silver cup. "As things are now, most think much about men, on whom their lives depend. They talk of men, with more or less discretion. Some say how much they quarrel with their husbands, while others remain silent. Some say their husbands lie with them too much, or too little. Some whisper about the looks of this man, or that one – or about yours."
"That much I could guess." Lancelot sighed. "But what else do they think about? Do any of them wish they could ride through the countryside as I can? What was it like being a girl?"
"When I was a girl, I much enjoyed my giggles and confidences with my friends." Guinevere smiled mysteriously and averted her eyes. "But once women have children, many talk of nothing else. Do many women think of living like men? Why imagine a life you can never have? It's more likely that they dream of being wealthy than of having work they might enjoy. Probably many of them imagine they would like to be a queen, and envy me rather than you. Some speak of what is fitting for women to do and are harsh with each other, saying 'How dare she speak so freely, that brazen creature?' and so forth. Some like it not that I read so much, and if I were not a queen I would hear more complaints about it." She shook her head and looked at her books, which were piled at the table's edge. Her scrolls were hanging in bags from hooks on the wall.
"No doubt it is hard to see others do what you cannot." Lancelot took a sip of wine. "Most women's lives seem so dull to me."
"Many are far worse than dull. But they can't think that, or the pain would be unbearable." Guinevere's voice was a little sharper. "You'll never understand what their lives are like because you never had to marry."
Lancelot nodded, shuddering slightly at the thought of being married, as well as at Guinevere's annoyance. How strange that Arthur had chosen to marry Guinevere without even asking Guinevere whether she wanted him. How could a man lie night after night, year after year, with a woman who did not love him? Even if his wife did not tell him that, couldn't he guess the truth? No, she must not think too much about Guinevere's suffering in her marriage, or it would be impossible to endure speaking with the king.
Lancelot thought about how easily she could have been forced to marry. And how had she escaped? Because of her mother's death. If her mother had lived, her father never would have disguised her as a boy or hired the fighting teacher. The price of her freedom was her mother's death. Perhaps it was morbid to think that, but of course as a child she had had no choice, would never have said, "Let my mother be murdered, so I can become a warrior," but her life was founded on that terrible beginning.
"It's true, I know nothing of marriage, but I hope some women – and men – love as much as we do," Lancelot said.
"No other woman is as fortunate as I am." Guinevere leaned over and kissed her mouth, and solemnity vanished. The cat jumped indignantly out of the queen's lap.
"I have devised signals we can make to communicate with each other at the round table and in other public places," Guinevere said. She made a small motion with her fingers. "This is for saying, 'I can't wait until we can be alone.'" She moved her fingers in a different way. "And this is for saying 'I won't be able to come to you tonight,' which I hope you won't use often."
Lancelot laughed with delight at the queen's ingenuity. "I surely won't."
"We must use the signals sparingly. We can't be always moving our hands. But still it is better than nothing," Guinevere said.
"Far better." Lancelot tried copying Guinevere's motions. "You are the cleverest woman on earth, as well as the dearest."
Guinevere rewarded her with a kiss.
Someone knocked on the queen's door in the middle of the night. Guinevere woke in Lancelot's arms. Opening her eyes, Guinevere saw that Lancelot was already awake and clasped her tightly. They both froze. What if it was Arthur?
"Lady Guinevere!" called a woman's voice in tones more peremptory than usually were addressed to the queen. The locked door rattled.
Lancelot leapt out of bed as quietly as possible, grabbed up her clothes, and fled
into the secret passage.
Silently cursing, Guinevere pulled the wall hanging over the passage door behind her and called out in a sharp voice, "One moment, pray. Who disturbs me at this hour?"
"Claudia," came the reply. It was Peredur's wife, the senior lady at court, gray-haired, rather stern, and pious.
Guinevere flung on her white woolen bedgown and unlocked the door. In her most regal tones, she demanded, "What is it that brings you here so untimely?"
Claudia's countenance was severe and her voice dared to show displeasure. "Why lock your door when you have so many guards, my lady? Back in Dyfed, when I was a girl, the queen slept with her ladies when her husband was not with her."
"And why should I care what your queen's custom was?" Guinevere frowned. It was clear that Claudia thought only of propriety and had no idea that Guinevere might actually have a lover.
Undaunted, Claudia pursed her mouth and said, "A messenger has come from Powys. He brings an urgent message from your father and says that he cannot give it to anyone but you. They let him through the gate this late at night only because he wore the wildcat badge of Powys."
It was no time for formality. Throwing a green wool cloak over her bedgown, Guinevere bade her, "Take me to him."
"Will you not dress first, Lady Guinevere?" Although Claudia also just wore a bedgown and shawl, she looked even more scandalized than she had been.
"I will not." Guinevere was out of the door and on her way to the great hall. Claudia trailed after her.
In the hall Guinevere found her father's man-at-arms Rhys, who looked tired, grimy, and pale. Some of the king's dogs had wakened and were sniffing Rhys. The great fire that had blazed earlier that night had left only glowing embers among the ashes.
"What message from my father?" Guinevere asked, hastening to Rhys, whose face had wrinkles it had not worn when she last saw him.
"I'm sorry, Lady Guinevere. He is gone. His heart failed." Rhys looked as desolate as might be expected in a warrior who had lost his king.
Lancelot- Her Story Page 32
