"No." Drian's touch was far from unpleasant, but remembering Guinevere, Lancelot pulled away.
"How can you have lived so much and still be so innocent?" Shaking her head, Drian laughed. Lancelot flushed.
"I have not met an abundance of women like you."
"That's a pity."
They dropped to the ground and sat a while.
Lancelot had much to say. "How long have you known that you loved women, if I may ask? When did you first... ?"
Chuckling, Drian shook her head. "Always, of course. The first time I held a girl in my arms, I was fourteen. And you?"
Lancelot felt her face flush again. "I didn't realize until I was past twenty, and met the woman I love. And I was closer to thirty than to twenty when we first embraced."
"Pity the poor girls who missed you." Drian patted her shoulder. The pat turned into a stroke. "I could be very fond of you."
Lancelot looked her in the eye. "Drian, I have loved only one woman and I always will."
"What!" Drian laughed. "Lance, nobody is that pure."
"I'm not pure, just faithful."
"Perhaps I could change your mind?" She touched Lancelot's cheek.
"No, Drian," Lancelot said gently, removing the hand. "No one can change my mind."
Drian sighed, but changed the subject, and they talked about many things. Then the afternoon light began to fade, but Lancelot was reluctant to leave. "How can I just go off and never see you again?" Lancelot sighed. "Can we meet some time?"
"That could be arranged." Drian grinned.
"Just to talk."
"Oh, of course. Meet me in this clearing, a week from today, then."
So Lancelot rode off, hoping that she might see this friend at times, for after all there was no one else like her.
Lancelot returned to the clearing in the forest on the appointed day. The trees were bare and Drian was not there.
Lancelot sat on the cold ground, waiting. Early snow flurries came and stung her cheeks, but still she waited until well past dark. Then she departed, worrying that some angry man whose wife or jewels had attracted Drian might have injured her.
One morning at an early hour, Guinevere heard a knock at her door. Bors's wife Lionors entered.
"Lady Guinevere, may I see you privately?" she asked, giving Fencha an apologetic look that nobles did not often use with serving people. Lionors's voice was anxious and her forehead showed more wrinkles than usual.
“Of course you may." Stifling a yawn, Guinevere smiled at Fencha, who bowed her head and left. It was good to see gentle Lionors, but why did she seem upset?
"Lady Guinevere, is everything well with you?"
"Quite well, thank you. Come and have a sip of wine with me," Guinevere said, gesturing for the lady to join her at her table, where she was breaking her fast with wheaten bread and fruit.
Lionors seated herself. Her brown hair was somewhat disarranged, showing its first gray strands. "Please forgive me for repeating this filth, but you should know that malicious people are whispering about you and Lancelot because you like one another." She blushed. "I never heard anything so outrageous! How could anyone imagine anything ill of Lancelot, much less of you?"
Guinevere's stomach muscles tightened. She had heard of such rumors before, and they always chilled her. How many rumors there must be if Lionors had heard them! But it was necessary to maintain her usual calm, so Guinevere did. She shook her head. "How disgusting. It is sad that anyone is so low minded. I hope no one disturbs Arthur with such gossip. Go ahead, have a little wine. It is already watered.
Lionors poured wine into a silver cup. "Thank you, Lady Guinevere. Forgive me if I am bold, and say things I would never have dared to say before." She picked at the skirt of her pale green gown. Apprehension showed in her eyes.
"I am strong enough to bear a great deal. What is it?" Guinevere patted her hand to put her at ease.
"My lady, some people whisper that the king has not come to your room at night in years." Blushing, Lionors looked at the floor. "If that is true, it must grieve you so much. I shouldn't speak, but I know what it is to love a husband. I am so fortunate that Bors never looks at other women.
"Father Donatus is a kind man," Lionors continued. "You could ask him to speak with the king about his duties to his wife. Sometimes a marriage needs help to mend it. Don't be afraid to seek assistance from a priest, my lady."
After speaking so boldly Lionors gulped down the rest of the wine, in a manner far different from her usual modest sips.
Guinevere repressed her desire to laugh. Maintaining her gravity, she patted Lionors's hand again. "Thank you for your concern, but my husband does all that I could wish."
A smile broke out on Lionors's face. "Oh, Lady Guinevere, I am so glad to hear it."
Thinking it was time to change the subject, Guinevere said, "Now tell me, how is your son – is it your youngest? – recovering from his broken ankle?"
Lionors took a smaller sip of wine. "No, it's not my youngest. It's Matthew, my ten-year-old. His ankle is mending nicely, thank you, but he is vexed that it delays his sword practice."
Not for the first time, Guinevere regretted that she could not confide in anyone but Fencha. She was surrounded by women, some of whom she liked, but none could understand or approve of her life.
As the company of warriors feasted at the round table, a harper told of a love so powerful that all the birds in the forest sang to celebrate the lovers' joy. Guinevere noticed how others were or were not affected by the music.
Paying no heed to the words, Arthur was engaged in conversation with Gawaine. Old Merlin rose from the table, as he so often did before anyone else had finished eating and drinking, and walked away muttering as if love were an idea he wanted to escape. Lancelot could hardly conceal her pleasure in the song, but stared smiling at her mead horn.
Guinevere thought of the verses that she could never compose, or never tell about if she did. She would not write of birds and flowers, giants or dragons, but of a woman who was more daring than any man. These harpers could sing what they pleased, and Gawaine could devise any tale he wanted, but she, the queen, could not say what was in her heart. Of course, she could not praise her woman warrior, but neither could she write about an old woman like Fencha, the lines formed on her face from a life of toil, the legs now aching from a life of serving others. No one would want to hear such a tale.
But, glad that the music had brought such a smile to Lancelot's face, Guinevere beckoned the harper. The song was a little too honeyed for her taste, but she told him that she would send him a gift the next day.
"Thank you, your highness." He bowed deeply. In a voice far softer than the one he used to fill the great hall, he said, "I have a message for you as well."
"Give it to my old woman, Fencha," Guinevere said.
She still felt a slight thrill at receiving a message from Morgan, but far less than she had before she had known Lancelot's love. It pleased Guinevere to have harmless secrets from Arthur.
Guinevere sighed. If only she could write little notes to Lancelot. That would have been much more enjoyable than writing to Morgan. But that would have been too dangerous for Lancelot. Do I care more about protecting Lancelot than Morgan? Guinevere asked and easily answered that question.
That night she was with Lancelot, but Fencha brought her the letter in the morning. There was a chill in the room, but Guinevere sat close to the brazier. She glanced at snow that drifted past her window. Drinking hot ale, she opened the letter.
My dear sister,
Perhaps the day is drawing nearer when you could wear a larger torque. Don't you want to wear the gold before your hair turns gray? Your letters show that your judgments are as wise as anyone's. Everyone knows that you are the most learned person at Camelot. Why must you defer and take second place?
Of course you would need a war leader, but I have heard rumors that you might have a good one, the greatest in the land.
It is no vi
rtue to be too modest about your abilities. No doubt you are as brave as you are clever.
You are surely clever and brave enough to find a way to take the famed sword. Who knows what would follow from that?
Your sister
Choking on her ale, Guinevere stared at the letter as if it were written in some language that she did not know. She read it again. It truly said what she thought it did. She shivered. The snow seemed to be falling in her room instead of the courtyard.
The idea of lifting her hand against the man who had snored beside her for a decade turned Guinevere's stomach, even though she did not love him. Perhaps if he had been cruel, she might have been able to strike at him. But she liked Arthur well enough, especially when she did not have to lie with him. And certainly she believed he was a good king.
Morgan had once loved Arthur. How could she think of injuring him, or even rising against him? But Morgan had little to lose, and Guinevere had a great deal. And the thought that Lancelot would turn traitor was mad. Such an idea would be the surest way to lose Lancelot's love. But Morgan did not know Lancelot, Guinevere reminded herself.
Guinevere still wanted to rule someday, but now that she had love, she was far less anxious about the prospect. Her heart was too full to spend much time lusting for the throne. And she had no desire for the sword, either.
She thrust the letter over the flame of one of her beeswax candles. She could not burn it quickly enough. The ashes that fell on the table she swept onto the floor.
The snow outside the window was falling harder, but she thought it was not as cold as Morgan's heart had become. Yet why not? Arthur had cast her off.
Guinevere thought of making no answer to the letter, but she feared that Morgan might mistake silence for consent.
The letter that she was wrote was as brief as possible:
My dear sister,
I am content as I am.
Your sister
Morgan flung the letter on the ground. Guinevere must love someone else, probably the warrior Lancelot whose name was often mentioned as the queen's champion.
It had been foolish to appeal only to Guinevere's pride. When Guinevere was a girl, she had clearly been smitten with Morgan. She should have pretended to desire Guinevere and written letters full of love. That way she could have bound Guinevere to her more closely.
Guinevere had just finished dressing and Fencha was fastening a lapis brooch on her gown. There was a knock at the door, and Guinevere called out, "Come in." She didn't want Fencha to go to open it because she could see that walking was becoming painful for the aging woman, although Fencha wouldn't admit it.
Enid, a pretty girl whom Guinevere had never liked – who had, in fact, giggled when the queen quoted long-dead poets – asked to come in. Her eyes were red and her mass of light brown hair looked scarcely combed.
"It's a trifle early for a visit," Guinevere said, but her voice was not harsh.
"Your highness, I beg you, could I speak with you alone?" Enid could scarcely keep the anguish out of her voice.
Guinevere could not refuse that tone. "Of course. Fencha, please leave us alone for a time."
Fencha eyed the young lady carefully, and left.
"Please be seated."
Enid sat down and began to weep. "Your highness, I have been very foolish, and I am with child. But that is not the worst. A warrior I am fond of, Gereint, has asked for my hand, and my father has agreed to a betrothal. Gereint believes that I am a virgin, and I'll lose him if he learns that I'm not." She let out a loud sob and wiped her face with her sleeve.
"I have heard that there are ways to escape bearing a child, but I don't know what they are. Do you know any wise women who have such remedies? Will you help me?"
Guinevere felt only a moment's hesitation because she had never liked Enid or thought that Enid liked her. She went over to her and took Enid's hands in hers.
"I know one who can help. Don't be afraid. I'll send for you as soon as I have the remedy. You can take it here in my room and rest."
Enid, like other unmarried girls at the caer, shared a bed with another girl. She wept and kissed Guinevere's hand.
"Thank you. You are so good. I really want to marry Gereint."
Guinevere patted her cheek.
"He's not too bad, as men go. Don't worry, all will be well."
Guinevere spoke with Fencha.
The next morning, Enid returned to Guinevere's room.
"You'll have some pain and nausea," Fencha told her. "But I'll be here with you."
"I shall think about you and come to see how you are doing," Guinevere said, squeezing her hand.
"I can never thank you enough." Enid clung to the hand that was offered.
Fencha, who was well schooled in all of these matters, seemed calm, but Guinevere worried about Enid all day.
Hearing that Enid did not feel well by evening, Guinevere insisted that she stay in her room for the night. Enid slept on a pallet that Fencha sometimes used when Lancelot was not at Camelot.
The next day Enid was better, though still a little weak. Guinevere said that she could stay another night if she wanted.
Enid looked at her fondly, but there was fear in her look, too. "Thank you so much for everything, Lady Guinevere, but I can't do that. No one must ever suspect what I've done. It was the king who got me with child, and he would be angry."
Guinevere felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her. She was more frightened than she had ever been. "He would be. You must never, never tell anyone about what we have done. It would be much worse for me than for you. It would look as if I had made you do it."
Tears formed in Enid's eyes. "I know. I won't tell. I'm sorry to put you in this position, but I thought that you were the only one who would help me."
Guinevere touched her hand.
"Well, if neither of us tells, and I know Fencha won't, there's no harm done. But you had better go back to your own quarters now."
After Enid left, Guinevere trembled. Her heart raced. She did not think she could have helped Enid if she had known that the child Enid had carried could have been a rival heir to the throne. Arthur would never forgive Guinevere if he believed that she, out of envy, had prevented another woman from bearing his child. If there were an actual child, he probably would have tried to dismiss his nightmares and rear it proudly. Surely Arthur could have persuaded Gereint, or someone else Enid could like, to marry her afterwards. Surely Arthur would not have put Guinevere aside and married Enid.
Guinevere was sitting at her table with her head propped in her hands when Fencha returned.
"Oh Fencha, it was the king's," she said in a shaking voice.
Fencha touched her shoulder. "Yes, but we prevented it, my lady. I have managed to give potions to all of his mistresses for years now, but I didn't know she was one. I'm glad that she came to you." The old woman chuckled.
A shiver ran up Guinevere's spine. "How could you do such a thing to women without their knowing it?" Fencha's eyes widened as if she were surprised that Guinevere did not approve.
"Why, I've done it ever since he sent the Lady Morgan away. He deserves it after what he did to her."
Guinevere now trembled with anger rather than fear. "But the women do not. Let them decide whether they want to bear children. Morgan should have no say in it."
"But, my lady, of course they can still have children by other men. They all marry someday, if they aren't married already," Fencha explained patiently, trying to touch her shoulder again
Guinevere pulled away from her. Had she been foolish to imagine that she had any friend? "And if I had wanted to bear a child, would you have secretly prevented me from having one, too, for Morgan's sake?"
"My lady, how can you think it?" Fencha's voice was grief-stricken. "You must know that I love you. I thought it was better for you also if he had no children by other women."
Guinevere was touched by the imploring look in Fencha's eyes, but did not soften entirely. "Did M
organ order you to give a potion to the women?"
There was a look of confusion, true or feigned, in the aging face. The old woman's hand flew to her mouth, a gesture that seemed to show she was concealing something. "I thought she would have wanted it, but no, she didn't tell me in so many words."
Not knowing what to believe, Guinevere pressed on. "Are you my woman, or Morgan's? How can I spend my days with you if I don't know? Should I tell you to leave my service and go to hers?"
Tears dripped down Fencha's cheeks. "I don't want to leave you, Lady Guinevere." Her voice shook.
Guinevere still held back. "I have trusted you. It is as if my mother betrayed me. How shall I ever trust you again?"
Fencha cringed. "My lady, I have sat by you when you were ill, and you have sat by me when I was ill. How could I not love you? You have cared more about me than the Lady Morgan ever did. She left me here to be her eyes and ears at court. She cared more about that than about having me with her."
Guinevere studied her face but was not convinced. The woman had shown how underhanded she could be. "You must prove that your allegiance to me is greater than your loyalty to Morgan."
"Trust me, please, Lady Guinevere," the old woman begged. "I thought the Lady Morgan told you all, but perhaps she does not. I know her messengers. She sends messages to others besides you. Do you want to see such of them as I can get?"
Guinevere closed her eyes for a moment. What, after all, had she known of Morgan? That she was beautiful and clever, and had at least one woman at Camelot. Were those reasons enough to trust her? Did Morgan care about other women, or just about her own power? Her last letter had been frightening. It might be well to know what she was writing to others.
Guinevere opened her eyes, and was determined to keep them open. "Take no risks for yourself," she told Fencha, "but if there are any such messages that I might see, perhaps it is well that I do."
Then she embraced the old woman. "Oh Fencha, I would have been sad to lose you," she said at last.
After Fencha left the room, Guinevere stared unseeing out of the window. Even her old serving woman was full of secrets. Could anyone ever truly know anyone else? Could she trust anyone?
Lancelot- Her Story Page 40
