Lancelot- Her Story

by Carol Anne Douglas

  Lancelot rode through the forest near Camelot. It was midsummer, so there were more flowers in the fields than among the trees. Although some birds did not sing as much as they had a month earlier, thrushes and wrens still burst out in song, and a careful listener could hear the chirps of nestlings calling for food.

  But Lancelot heard something else. Someone was behind her – no very strange occurrence – but whenever she stopped, the other horse stopped also. She was being followed.

  Her every muscle tensed, she directed Raven behind a tree and waited to see what would happen.

  In a moment, a rider came into view.

  "Lance? Where are you? Don't hide from me. I just wanted to surprise you."

  "Drian!" she called out with delight and rode up to greet her. Lancelot pulled beside her and threw her arms around her.

  Drian grinned, returning the embrace. "It's not easy to do much when we're both on horses, Lance. Let's get down on the moss."

  Choking with laughter, Lancelot slapped her lightly on the shoulder and moved away. "It's good to see you. I feared we might never meet again. I didn't know how to find you."

  "But I knew where to find you. How could I stay away from such a beauty?" Drian made a face like a love-struck swain, greatly exaggerated.

  "You managed to stay away from our appointed meeting last fall." But Lancelot was too glad to see her to be much annoyed. "I thought something had happened to you."

  "It did. It's a long story I can tell you sometime. But now I've come to visit you and see whether the people here like my music." She patted her harp, which was tied to her horse.

  "You are well come, but I don't think your playing will be quite to the king's taste," Lancelot said, for only the most skilled of harpers played before the king.

  "I don't care about his taste. I think my playing will be to your taste." Grinning, Drian ran her fingers in the air as if she was stroking an imaginary harp – or something else.

  Lancelot felt herself blush. "I am still true to my love, as I've told you. But you can stay at my house. I wouldn't want you to have to sleep in the hall."

  "I'd much rather sleep, or not sleep, at your house," Drian told her.

  "I'll likely be with my sweetheart at night," Lancelot warned her.

  "I can't believe you'd be so discourteous to a guest," Drian chided. "Not even to please the queen."

  "It would be very strange if I didn't come to her tonight. And I'd miss her," Lancelot said.

  "It is the queen!" Drian crowed. "I trapped you! The songs say you worship her."

  Lancelot was angry at herself for letting out her secret. "Don't sing those songs. You must never tell anyone about us."

  "I never would," Drian promised. "So that's what Queen Guinevere is like. I'm eager to see her."

  They talked ceaselessly, both on their ride to Camelot and when they arrived at Lancelot's house. Catwal found a great deal of bedding for the comfort of the guest, the first Lancelot had ever had.

  Lancelot went to Guinevere's room as usual that night.

  "I've heard that a man is staying at your house," Guinevere said, her expression puzzled rather than chastening. "Can that be so?"

  "No, of course not. Don't worry. It's another woman who pretends to be a man," Lancelot told her.

  "Oh, a woman. Then of course nothing could happen." Guinevere's voice was rich with sarcasm.

  Lancelot’s face reddened but she stood her ground.

  "It could not, because I love you only. Drian is a friend and a harper. She doesn't play well enough to appear in the great hall before the king, though."

  "I would like it very much if she would play for me," Guinevere said too sweetly. "She can come tomorrow morning to the room where the ladies do their needlework."

  "Very well. I hope you like her," Lancelot said, feeling that that was not to be.

  The next morning, she told Drian she was to play the harp for the queen. "But remember, she's mine," Lancelot jested.

  "She's not the one I'm aiming for." Drian grinned at her.

  Lancelot brought Drian to the ladies' sewing room. Many ladies looked at Lancelot as if she were the one who had come to entertain them, and some batted their eyelashes. But some of them looked Drian over with more or less modesty.

  "You honor us with your presence, Lord Lancelot," simpered one young married lady.

  "How kind of you," said Lionors, apparently oblivious to any undercurrents.

  "Lancelot is always kind," Guinevere said. "Come, harper, let us hear how you play." The queen wore a rust-colored morning gown and no jewels, but she was fairer than ever, with heightened color in her cheeks.

  Drian made a sweeping bow to the queen and less grand bows to the other ladies. "I am honored," she said, and commenced playing.

  The music was spirited, but that was the best that could be said for it. Nonetheless, Lancelot was glad to hear Drian play in a warm room rather than a forest glade. Yet it was more pleasant when there were only the two of them. Drian looked at her frequently, which made Lancelot blush.

  After a couple of songs, both of which told of the delights of infidelity, Drian paused.

  "Is my playing to your liking, your highness?" she asked Guinevere.

  "I thank you for your efforts," Guinevere said, not smiling. "You play with enthusiasm if not great skill."

  "But I think I can play better than you can," Drian said in an undertone, so only Lancelot and Guinevere could hear her.

  "I doubt it," Guinevere said, narrowing her eyes. "You had best just play your own instrument."

  Lancelot broke into a fit of coughing.

  Drian patted her on the back, which did not help matters.

  "Are you well, Lancelot? Perhaps you need to be out riding with the men instead of resting with the ladies," Guinevere said, with a smile that was not one of her warmest. "The harper may stay here and continue to play for us. No doubt he will soon have to leave to play at another caer."

  "Yes, it is best if I return to my duties. Thank you, Lady Guinevere." Lancelot bowed to her and to the other ladies, and retreated.

  That evening, when Lancelot returned to her house to change her clothes before supper, she saw that Drian was drinking freely from some fine wine that Catwal must have procured for her.

  Holding up a goblet as if in a toast, Drian said, "I was not a great success today."

  "You didn't try to be," Lancelot accused her.

  "I was courteous to a fault." Drian shook her head. "I didn't steal a single jewel from the queen."

  "I should hope not!" Lancelot cried. Then she paused. "But Drian, she wasn't wearing any."

  Drian shrugged. "None except her wedding ring, and I don't suppose you'd mind overmuch if I took that."

  "You must not take anything of hers!"

  "I would, but you won't let me." Drian put down the goblet, dipped her finger in the wine, and licked it.

  Groaning, Lancelot put her hand over her face. "You didn't have to flirt with me so much. Now she'll never like you."

  "You don't seem to worry about whether I'll like her," Drian complained, staring at the candle on the small table. "I'll take her hint and go tomorrow. There are too many men here. Every time I walk out of your house, there are mobs of them."

  "I'll miss you, but perhaps that's best," Lancelot said, trying not to show how relieved she was. "I hope we meet again."

  "Away from the watchful eyes of the queen."

  "That won't make any difference!" Lancelot cried, raising her voice.

  "We'll see." Drian reached out to her harp and moved her fingers over the strings.

  Later, in Guinevere's room, Lancelot said, "Drian will leave tomorrow."

  Guinevere nodded. "Very good. She is annoying, but the true reason I wanted her to leave is that when people see the two of you together, it would be much easier to guess that you are women. How could there be two men with such smooth cheeks?"

  "Oh. That's a good point," Lancelot admitted. "Is that truly your reason
for wanting her gone?"

  "I trust you," Guinevere said, kissing her.

  Guinevere fretted over the tax records. Cai was so busy managing the caer that the figures were more often left to her. It was time to train more people to do the task, she thought. But where could she find them?

  Arthur entered the small room, which he seldom graced with his presence. Guinevere inclined her head to him. "I am glad to see you. I wonder whether you might have lessened your objections to asking a monk to help with the tax records."

  He grimaced. "I have not." Sitting on Cai's chair, he glanced at the pile of vellum on the desk. "Clerics are well enough for copying proclamations and so forth, but I don't want them too involved in governing. If you need more help, perhaps one of the men who was injured in the war could be trained."

  "Very well." She smiled. At least he had listened to her.

  "I came to speak with you about another matter. This is a quiet room when Cai isn't here complaining." He paused. "Still no sign of a child?"

  "No, my lord." She averted her gaze.

  "It seems we both are unable to bring forth new life." Arthur sighed. "Perhaps our blood goes too much to our brains, and cannot find its way to help us breed." He looked her in the eye. "You may do as you please, but you are smiling too much at Lancelot."

  She tensed, but tried to keep her expression from changing. "Indeed?"

  "Yes." Arthur twisted his amethyst ring. "Everyone can see that he is smitten with you, but you must be careful to appear aloof."

  He didn't have to explain that this was an order. She knew it. "Yes, my Lord Arthur. I shall take care not to smile at him too much." She hardened her heart, but not to Lancelot.

  "I know I can count on you, my dear." Arthur's voice held the same amount of warmth it did when anyone at Camelot acquiesced to his wishes. He rose and clasped her hand.

  She smiled at him, but not more affectionately than she would smile at Bors or Cai. "You can always depend on me."

  He kissed her cheek. "I have other business to attend to. You may look for an assistant if you wish."

  "Thank you, my lord Arthur."

  Her husband departed. Husband. How she detested that word. That man even owned her smiles. She looked with disfavor at the ring on her finger. Then she closed her eyes for a moment and thought of Lancelot.

  27 The Green Warrior

  One winter evening the company was seated at the round table. Even the great firepits were not enough to warm the hall, but hot spiced wine sufficed to provide cheer. Lancelot drank more than usual, just to keep out the chill, and noticed that she was not the only one who did so.

  Guards at the door cried out, and a man on horseback rode into the hall.

  Cai jumped up. "Out!" he cried. "How dare you insult the High King by bringing a horse into his hall!"

  "I bring a message to Gawaine ap Lot," called out the rider, who was dressed all in green. "He's to come as soon as he can to the hall of Bertilak, the Green Warrior, whose lands lie to the north of Kledyr of Dyfed's lands."

  There was a great clamor from all the warriors.

  Gawaine rose from his seat at the table. "I am Gawaine. I know where Kledyr's lands are. Your lord's message sounds like a challenge, so I must accept it," he announced.

  "Very good. I'll tell my lord Bertilak." The man rode out of the hall.

  "Your reply was a bit hasty, Gawaine," Arthur admonished his cousin.

  "Not so. We all must be ready to face challenges," Gawaine replied, grinning.

  Lancelot groaned and wished Gawaine were less eager to prove how bold he was.

  Gawaine journeyed through a forest in the chill of winter. It was not the usual season for travel, and he wished the invitation, or challenge, had been issued in milder weather.

  His plaid wool cloak did not spare him from the howling wind. His fingers felt frozen, but he could still move them. Patches of snow lay on the ground and the sky was gray.

  Gawaine tried to cheer himself by thinking on happier moments – the surge in the blood that came from a tumble in the hay or a good fight. When those were lacking, a good tale or jest about them was nearly as pleasing.

  He came upon a place that, strangely for the season, was all green. Pine and fir trees there were, laurel, and holly, growing in unusual profusion and proximity, but no trees that were bare.

  A small caer appeared, jutting out of a hillside among the green trees. The thought of a warm hall cheered him, and the prospect of a hot meal pleased him no less. Gawaine wondered greatly at all the green, but approached the caer.

  A man in mail all of green rode out to meet him. Gawaine had never before seen any man taller than himself, except for Saxons, but this dark-haired man was no Saxon.

  "Who are you?" the man boomed in a voice as deep as he was tall.

  "I am Gawaine ap Lot of Lothian and Orkney, one of King Arthur's warriors." Gawaine bowed his head, but even as he did, his neck felt strangely sore.

  "I am the Lord Bertilak, the Green Warrior," said the man in verdant mail, appropriately enough. "You are welcome to stay at my caer. There is only one condition. You may not lie with my wife. I will cut off your head if you do."

  Gawaine grimaced at this grisly suggestion, but he said, "Of course I wouldn't try such a thing. That would be an insult to your hospitality. It's true that I have no great reputation for purity, but even I don't go around seducing other men's wives."

  "You are well come, then," the Green Warrior said, beckoning him to enter the caer.

  Bertilak's great hall was well appointed, mostly in green, and a great feast was set on the table. Venison, hares, and a roasted boar were almost enough to make the great oaken boards groan. The aromas were so enticing that Gawaine wanted to pounce on the meats.

  "Thank you," he said, bowing his head. "This feast is fit for a king." He drew near to a blazing fire and gladly received a cup of hot mead from a serving man. He savored the taste.

  Then the Green Warrior's wife entered the hall, and Gawaine saw that she was beautiful. And even more familiar than beautiful, for she was Alais, a lady with whom he had had a very pleasant interlude a few years earlier, when she was unmarried and he had stayed at the holding of her father, Kledyr.

  She nodded to him, but only politely. Her eyes did not meet his. Her glossy black hair shone in the light from the torches.

  He bowed to her and greeted her formally, asking her how her father was.

  "I have not seen my family in years," she sighed, regarding the rushes on the floor.

  Gawaine found her words strange, for her family lived not many miles away.

  After supper, the Green Warrior showed Gawaine to a fine sleeping room that, like the rest of the caer, was decked in green.

  The next morning, just as Gawaine was waking, his host knocked on his door and entered.

  "We finished the venison last night. I'm going out to hunt for another deer," he told Gawaine.

  "Very good, I'll hunt with you," Gawaine said, stretching.

  But Bertilak shook his head. "No, you'll stay here and rest. I insist." And he went on his way.

  Dawn had scarcely appeared in the sky and Gawaine was not fond of waking early, so he went back to sleep.

  When he awakened, he found that the sun was streaming in the window, and Alais was sitting on a chair beside his bed.

  "Dear Gawaine," she said, and sighed.

  He remembered what his host had said about beheading, so his voice was less warm than it might otherwise have been. "How good to see you," he said to her. "Are you well?"

  "No," she replied, shivering, which was not so strange in the middle of winter. "My husband is a hard, cold man, although he acts polite enough to other men."

  She leaned towards Gawaine, but he leaned away from her.

  "Indeed." He tried to be cool himself. He could well believe that the Green Warrior was cold, but it was no concern of his.

  "Oh, Gawaine, if even you are cold, what shall I do?" Alais exclaimed, her lip trembl
ing as if she was about to weep.

  "He learned after we married that I wasn't a virgin, and he has hated me ever since. I'm so miserable." Her voice broke.

  Gawaine felt a knot in his stomach at the idea that some of Bertilak's coldness was his fault. "I'm sorry, but what can I do to repair the past?"

  Alais sat on the bed. "I'm afraid of my husband," she whispered. Her eyes looked like those of an ill-treated dog. "He's jealous of me, but he cares nothing about me. I was distressed when you went away, but now it seems to me that the time with you was golden. I've never had any pleasure except with you. I want to be in your arms again." She put her face close to his.

  He kissed her, and she snuggled up to him.

  "You'll feel pleasure now," Gawaine murmured. He decided not to keep his promise to the Green Warrior.

  After they had lain together, she clung to him.

  "Please take me away with you," Alais begged.

  Gawaine guessed from the tone of her voice that she wanted to be with him always. He did not feel the same about her, but he hated to deny her anything at the moment. Still, he could not make false promises.

  "Where could I take you?" He could not carry off a noble's wife to Camelot. Arthur would be furious and would not want her to stay, and no one would befriend her. Lancelot might be able to get away with rescuing an unhappy wife, but if Gawaine did, everyone would know that the woman was his mistress.

  She sighed as if she knew that he did not mean to keep her with him. "You could take me back to my father's dun."

  He stroked her dark hair. "I am willing, but your father might send you back to your husband. If your father does not receive you well, I could take you to Lothian. My mother, Queen Morgause, would let you stay as one of her ladies." He knew that his mother would do anything he asked, and would think no less of a woman for preferring him to her husband.

  "When my mother sees the scars on my back, she'll persuade my father to let me stay," Alais whispered, looking down as if she were ashamed.

  "Scars on your back!" Gawaine had not looked at her back.