Lancelot- Her Story

by Carol Anne Douglas

Perhaps the nun did know of a daughter. "Where is she? Do you know?"

  "She's in a place with many other women, I can't tell you where," the old nun said solemnly, a stern look on her wrinkled face. She now seemed as cheerless as her black robes.

  The old woman appeared to be so certain. A place with many other women? That sounded bad. Perhaps that was why the nun's face was grim. "Oh Gods, I must find her." He groaned. "The poor girl must be in a bawdy house." His feeling of elation vanished. His stomach heaved. He realized what he had never admitted before: Many whores – he did not know how many – must be forced by panderers to do what they did.

  "How can I find her? Does she look like me?"

  "Only around the eyes," the nun told him. "Blessed are they who try to right every wrong, especially their own."

  Then she turned to Arthur. "You also have children. If you don't find them, it will lead to their destruction and yours."

  "A girl?" Arthur asked. "In some low house, like Gawaine's daughter?"

  "Yes to the girl. And, yes, one child is in a low house."

  "I have no great interest in a bastard daughter, and certainly not one like that. That's no child fit for a king. How could I take her to the court?" Arthur shook his head. "She would disgrace me."

  "But surely many men would be glad to marry a king's daughter, even a bastard," Gawaine said, stunned by Arthur's response. "You might make another ally by such a marriage."

  "Not with a girl who has been raised as a whore." Arthur shook his head. The nun cried out in anger at his words and, turning away from them, stalked off into the trees.

  They did not try to detain her.

  Arthur looked not sorry to see her go. "The old woman was raving. It's clear that I cannot father any child. Would you really look for a girl who's ruined just because that madwoman told you to?" he asked Gawaine.

  "What does ruined mean in a daughter?" Gawaine asked. "She would still be my child." He was already imagining what he would do if he found her. It wouldn't be possible to get her the kind of husband he'd want. No nobleman would wed her. "I could get some old Roman villa for her, and provide for her, so she could take only what lovers she likes."

  Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Are you truly going to search bawdy houses for a daughter you've never seen? It's an impossible task – you'll never find her. And if you did, what do you think she'd be like? Glad to have a rich father, no doubt, but not likely to be fond of you."

  Gawaine grunted, not pleased at the thought of being seen only as a source of wealth. "That's not the point. Of course she might be numb, hardened, or embittered, but she'd be free."

  Perhaps the nun was mad, but she had seemed sane. She reminded Gawaine of the holy men and women of the old faith he had encountered as a child. She did not hide away in tremulous modesty, but issued orders. That was how a holy woman acted.

  Would he search for this daughter, who might be only a phantom? Why, it was better to search and be mistaken than to refrain and always fear that he had a daughter living in misery. He knew that he could never forget the nun's words. If only she had told him who the mother was, so he would know where to start looking.

  The joy between men and women was fleeting, Gawaine thought. But the bond between parent and child, that was far stronger. At least his bond with his mother was, though he never thought of his long-dead father with much affection. But some children must love their fathers, even if he had not.

  Of course if he wanted children, he did not need to search for this girl. All he had to do was marry. But the thought of marriage made him recoil as it always did. He imagined being tied to a woman whose face he was tired of, whose voice made him weary.

  Of course he probably would marry again someday, but only if he found a woman who would always interest him, or if his longing for sons became stronger. A man of almost any age could have sons.

  So they rode on. Arthur mused, "In the unlikely event that this tale is true, and there is a girl in a brothel who is identifiably my daughter, no doubt you'll find her and help her discreetly. There is no need for the king to be involved."

  "Of course I shall look for her as I search for my own daughter," Gawaine agreed, amazed that Arthur cared so little about this possible child. Any child of Arthur's would be Gawaine's kin, too, so he wanted to find her, though not with the same passion he felt at the thought of finding his own child.

  Passion? Yes, he felt more stirred by this daughter than he had been by anything in years. Though he knew she might not care about him, he hoped she would.

  He pictured a girl who looked rather like his mother, only with bluer eyes like his own, throwing her arms about him and sobbing on his shoulder that she was glad he had come to rescue her. Although he couldn't imagine most of the whores he had known acting in such a way, he nonetheless thought his daughter might.

  Gawaine took on many small quests looking for the daughter. He first went to all of the bawdy houses anywhere near Camelot, to see whether any of the girls had his eyes. In the first brothel, he looked at the girls, whose eyes were all kohl-darkened. Only two had blue eyes, and one was a woman too old to be his daughter. The other had eyes of a pale, watery blue, nothing like his. Seeing him look at her, she winked in an attempt at flirtation that was clearly half-hearted. She seemed too young to be a whore, only about thirteen. Gods, the girls seemed so much younger than they had before he had begun looking for a daughter.

  An older redhead with large breasts whom he had been with before said, "Stay back, girls, he's come to see me. Haven't you, Gawaine?"

  He nodded and went with her. But once in her room, he told her that he was tired, and just sat on her bed and rested. He paid her anyway, of course.

  At the next bawdy house, most of the girls looked too young for whoring. His gorge rose and he chose none of them. He realized that he would never again want to lie with a woman he had bought.

  The panderers and the customers gave him sneering smiles because he did not choose any women. He could bear their disdain only because he was so used to having men envy him for all the women who flocked to him.

  Then he searched out women he had been with, at least the lowborn ones, because it was their daughters who might find themselves in brothels. He knew it was an impossible search. He had no idea how to find them all, but the thought of the daughter, perhaps with his mother's face, impelled him to try. He imagined a girl like his mother being pawed by drunken men.

  He rode to a dusty farm and wandered through the pigs and fowl to the thatch-roofed farmhouse.

  A dark-haired woman heavy with child was weeding a vegetable garden. "What do you want here?" she demanded.

  "I came to learn whether you ever bore a child of mine," he asked, as courteously as possible.

  She put her hands on her hips. "What do you care? No, I never did, and a good thing, too. Now, get off before my husband sees you talking to me. You warriors are all worthless louts, taking all you can get."

  "Good day," he said, making a circle around a pig and swinging back onto his horse.

  He hadn't remembered her name. He hoped that not all the women would curse him. Would a daughter curse him, too?

  He rode to a goldsmith's shop in a nearby town. Dogs and children played in the muck of the street. The clatter from a blacksmith's shop filled the air. At the goldsmith's, a young sandy-haired apprentice sat at a bench.

  "Is your master's daughter Erith about?" Gawaine asked, though he feared that she had long since married and moved away.

  A large, buxom woman with a neat brown braid hurried in from a room at the rear of the shop. She called out, "Gawaine! I'd know your voice anywhere. Go off, lad, and let me talk with the noble warrior."

  The apprentice darted out into the bustling street.

  "It's good to see you, Erith. You're still as pretty as ever." She was not. He wondered how much banter would be needed.

  "Still the same flatterer you always were. Well, I'm no young thing to listen to it now," she said, but she grinned
at him.

  "I know this is a strange question to ask after all these years, but did you ever bear a child of mine?" he asked, feeling like a fool.

  Erith's smile faded and tears came into her eyes. "I did indeed, a fine strong lad. He died in a Saxon raid."

  Gawaine shook and put an arm out to her. "Oh, Erith, I'm sorry."

  "I wish you had seen him." She dabbed her eyes with a cloth.

  "So do I," Gawaine replied, realizing that he was telling the truth. "I wish you had sent me a message about him."

  Tears dripped down her cheeks. "I should have. But my father urged me to because he believed you would give me money, and I couldn't bear for you to think that's what I wanted."

  He took hold of her hand. "I wouldn't have thought that of you, but I owed it to the boy to provide for him. Do you have other children?"

  "Aye. I married my father's apprentice, who was good to me, but him and my father both died of a fever. He left me with a boy and two girls. I have the shop, and a fine apprentice, but I'm so lonely."

  She gave him a look that he knew well. Though she was no longer as pretty as he had recalled, he spent the night with her. He knew she wanted him to visit again, and so he would. He realized that it was unlikely that any daughter of Erith's would be in a brothel; perhaps he had just been drawn to see her again. Some of the women who were too lowborn for a king's son to wed were more pleasant than the women he could have married.

  In another town, Gawaine went to a tavern, and found a thin woman who frowned at him. Only one customer sat at a table near the fire.

  "Greetings, Senara," he said cordially. "So you still own this tavern."

  "I do. The ale's good, if you want to buy some. You wouldn't much like the wine." Senara, whose fair hair was bundled in an untidy braid, seemed indifferent to him.

  "Ale, then."

  She poured him some ale. It didn't taste too bad.

  "I have been thinking about my life and wondering whether I have any children. Did I leave you with child?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "I had a daughter. I suppose she was yours."

  "And where is she?" he asked. Perhaps she might be the girl in the brothel.

  "She died in childbed at thirteen." Senara's face was expressionless.

  "I'm sorry." He tried to imagine what it must be like to die at thirteen.

  She stared at him with cold gray eyes. "If you're so sorry, you might give me a little for the cost of raising her."

  "Of course." Gawaine pulled off a gold armring, one taken from a Saxon he had killed, and gave it to her. He had many others.

  She fingered the gold.

  He was just as glad that Senara's daughter wasn't the girl he was seeking. He was hoping for a girl who was much warmer-hearted than Senara. But why should Senara be warm to him? He had simply used her and ridden away.

  Gawaine kept on searching, but there was no sign of a living daughter. He would go back to court, or on his more usual missions for the king. Then, after a while, thoughts about her nagged him. He could imagine that being required to see many men in a night was not pleasant, so he searched some more.

  Lancelot's muscles ached from teaching riding maneuvers to aspiring warriors. As she walked across the courtyard, she thought only of the pleasures of rest. A whirlwind threw itself at her. Talwyn, hair tangled as usual though she grew taller and taller, grabbed her arm.

  "Lord Lancelot! Look at my essay." She thrust a wax tablet in Lancelot's hands.

  "You're writing essays now! Splendid!" Lancelot smiled at her.

  "Do you like it?" Talwyn looked at her with imploring eyes.

  "I haven't had a chance to read it yet." Clearly Talwyn expected her to read it while standing in the courtyard. Lancelot obliged. The essay, which touched on farmers and weather, seemed charming to Lancelot, although she was not certain whether all the verb tenses were correct.

  "It's wonderful," she proclaimed, beaming at Talwyn, who took a little leap, presumably of joy.

  "Oh, thank you! Queen Guinevere said I shouldn't use the expression 'mirabile dictu' three times in such a short essay. But it sounds so grand."

  It was an expression that Talwyn used frequently in speaking as well. "Probably the queen is correct, but it's a pretty expression, and I don't mind hearing it often." Lancelot returned the tablet. The girl darted off.

  When Lancelot visited the queen's room that night, Guinevere's greeting was more restrained than usual. She bade Lancelot sit and poured her some wine.

  "I am sorry to say this," Guinevere said, taking hold of Lancelot's hand, "but Talwyn is growing up, and you will have to be more formal with her to preserve her reputation."

  Lancelot pulled away, knocking over her winecup. "What! She's still a child."

  She grabbed a cloth and mopped up the wine she had spilled.

  "Yes, she's an innocent girl, but some of the ladies complained about her earnest talk with you in the courtyard. They thought it improper for her to be so familiar with an unrelated man." Guinevere made a face as if she were tasting something bitter.

  "She's like a daughter to me!"

  "I know, dearest, but no one else will see it that way." Guinevere took her hand again. "You seem to be a man, and young girls cannot be too friendly with men or gossips will say they are loose. I had to tell Talwyn she must be more distant with you."

  "That's awful." Tears formed in Lancelot's eyes.

  "Yes, it is." Guinevere kissed her, but the kiss did not soothe away the hurt.

  After the king had played a board game with Lancelot and defeated her as usual, Merlin walked in without knocking.

  Although Lancelot usually was not especially glad to see Merlin, she was not sorry to see him at the moment. She preferred to have other company around when she was with the king. Impatient to visit Guinevere, she stared out of the window at the moon, only half of which was visible that night.

  Arthur greeted Merlin warmly. "How good to see you. Please join us."

  But the old sage declined a chair. "I worry about the young men who have been coming to you since the war," he said, his voice even more somber than usual. "It is not enough to teach them to fight. A teacher must love his students and show them how to live."

  "As you taught me." Arthur looked up at Merlin, for all the world as if he were still the old man's pupil.

  Lancelot put away the game pieces in a carved wooden box that belong to Arthur.

  "Now that we have vanquished the Saxons for some time, how can we give the young men a goal, so they don't just rush around the countryside testing their prowess in needless fights?" Merlin asked.

  Lancelot seldom said much around Merlin, but now she felt moved to speak. "I have been thinking about that problem. Perhaps we could hold a religious ceremony when a young man vows to join the king's service, so that he might be inspired to do good deeds. The young men could hold a vigil in the chapel the night before the ceremony."

  Arthur nodded. "A religious ceremony. Yes, I like that idea. We must foster the young men carefully."

  "That will do for a beginning," Merlin said. "But I fear the next generation. I fear them." Then Merlin left the room in his usual abrupt manner.

  Perhaps the old always fear the young, Lancelot thought.

  The owner of this brothel didn't even take care to hide the whores' bruises. Most of them had at least one eye blackened. Thank the gods none of them looked in the least like himself or Arthur, Gawaine thought, turning away, only glancing briefly at the proprietor's mocking look because he didn't choose any.

  There had been a widow in the next town who had liked him. Perhaps she still did, and had not remarried. He went on his way.

  The boy in the kitchen watched the proprietor, Dunaut, who was well enough dressed to pass for nobility, come laughing to the back room. As a servant, the boy needed to watch every movement, for he never knew when the panderers might strike.

  "These great warriors from Camelot are nothing as men. We just had one here: Gawaine, who's sup
posed to be famous for womanizing, but all he wanted to do was look! And only at their faces! All talk and no action! So you can see you're better off with us," Dunaut said, kicking the boy, who was carrying food to the other panderers.

  "Don't drop that, or I'll take your hide off!" Tudy, a heavier panderer, yelled at him, but the boy had learned how to carry things without dropping them while receiving a moderately hard kick.

  He drew on all his strength, for he knew that as soon as he put down the food he would get a harder blow. And, just as he anticipated, Tudy gave him a shove that would have knocked him helpless onto the floor just a year ago. He was stronger now, but he pretended to be unable to keep from falling, as they wanted to see him do.

  "Hey, king's boy, pretty face! Come here and beg, and I'll give you a fine crown," jeered Coan, the youngest panderer, holding up a plate covered with gravy.

  The boy lifted himself up gradually. He would be hit if he rose either too slowly or too fast.

  "Don't dirty his pretty red hair," said Dunaut. "Let's not spoil his looks. He's not bad when all of the girls are busy... you pleased me last night, Mordred, so I'll reward you. You can have one of the girls for a while. Aelmena has been sullen today, so she needs to be beaten. You punish her, then you can have her for a little while."

  He turned to the other panderers and said, "You know I don't like boys usually, but who could pass up a chance to have a king's son? Pity we can't get money from the king for you, Mordred, but by the time we could tell you looked like him, we had beaten you too much for you to be worth much."

  Mordred had heard those words many times. He tried not to show how eager he was for the girl, because if they knew he really wanted something, it would be taken away.

  "Thank me prettily, now, Mordred."

  "Thank you, noble sir," said Mordred, giving the deep bow they wanted, and calculating for the thousandth time which kitchen knife was the sharpest and which of them it would be most prudent to kill first. Probably Dunaut.

  "If only King Arthur could see him now!" laughed Coan.

  "He doesn't want to see you, he'll never want to see you," Dunaut jeered. "Your mother was nothing, just another whore, and your father knows nothing about you and cares less. We're your only family, and never forget it. Who knows what would have happened if Gawaine had asked to see the boys? He might have killed you because you'd be a rival heir to the throne."