"Why should he let someone chop off his head, no matter what he had done?" Lancelot asked, almost choking over the idea that Gawaine had voluntarily stuck out his neck for the blade. "That would be foolish, not noble." Keeping her face averted, she poured water from a jar into a cup and drank it. The practice room was cold, but she was sweating from the exercise.
"I see that you haven't heard the whole story," said Bors, a little offended. "At least the lady's virtue was preserved. Perhaps the Green Warrior was some holy spirit testing Gawaine."
"Don't ask me," Lancelot said, holding back laughter. "You can see that I know nothing about it." Clearly Gawaine had made up some fantastic tale, as he liked to do.
"I see that you don't." Bors nodded. "It's an edifying tale, and no one should make dirty stories of it, although some people are already. Gawaine and the lady exchanged only a kiss, and she gave him a magical green sash that protected him from the Green Warrior's blow. So a woman saved Gawaine's life! Can you imagine that?"
"I can," Lancelot replied, smiling at how Gawaine unwittingly had told the truth. Then the thought struck her that he might be displeased if he ever learned that his life truly had been saved by a woman, and she stopped smiling.
Lancelot decided to tell Guinevere the true story of saving Gawaine. In the flickering candlelight of the queen's room, she could see Guinevere frown.
"I wouldn't much care if the Green Warrior had swung that axe," Guinevere muttered.
Feeling as if she had been slapped, Lancelot stared at her. How could such a beautiful, tender woman speak such cold words? "How can you say such a thing? He is my friend and is a brave man who has saved many lives, mine among them."
"No doubt because he likes fighting as much as he likes whoring." Guinevere's voice was sharp. "He's just a killer."
"Why, so am I, then!" Lancelot cried out, leaping up from her chair. "How is it that you can bear to be around me?"
Guinevere reached for her arm, but Lancelot pulled away.
"Nonsense. You fight only to help others."
"So does Gawaine. If you hate my friends, you must hate me, too." She turned to the hidden door.
"Not so! Calm yourself," Guinevere appealed to her, but Lancelot left, slamming the door to the secret passage.
Lancelot practically fell down the narrow stairs. Angry though she was at Guinevere, her greatest anger was at herself. She was worse than Gawaine, if Guinevere only knew. She trembled at the thought of Guinevere turning away from her if she learned that Lancelot had killed a girl. Perhaps she should just go away and become a hermit. She did not deserve a woman's love and a life full of praise as a great warrior.
She went to her room, but there was no sleep for her that night. As dawn's first rays lit the sky, she went to the stables to saddle her glossy black mare and ride in the woods.
While she saddled Raven, she heard a rustling in the straw near her stall. Ever alert for the slightest sound, she turned and saw Guinevere, standing there red-eyed.
"Please forgive me. I didn't mean to hurt or insult you." Guinevere said in a humble tone that she had never used before.
"I know." Then tears started in Lancelot’s eyes and she turned back to her horse. "We must not be seen talking like this."
"Tonight, then?" Guinevere clasped Lancelot's hand for just an instant.
"Very well." Lancelot sighed. Unworthy though she was of Guinevere's love, she could not bear to give it up. Guinevere could never love her if she knew the truth.
"I told the stable guard I was afraid that Shining Star might not be well. I suppose I should go to her stall," Guinevere said, and slipped away.
Lancelot decided to ask the king to send her on a mission. There had been recent reports of a band of brigands in Cornwall, which was far enough away to help her hide her fears from Guinevere.
Lancelot mounted her horse and rode out as usual. There was little snow in the forest near Camelot, but icicles jutted from some branches. A crow cawed at Lancelot.
On the ground in front of her, she saw the body of the girl she had killed.
Lancelot jerked the reins, stopping her horse. What she had thought were logs were the bodies of dead soldiers. Streaks of blood ran through the snow.
She covered her eyes with her hands. If a Saxon wanted to strike her, let him.
Gradually, she lowered her hands. The snow was white. The logs were logs. There were no corpses.
Her whole body shook. She would never be at peace.
28 The Lady of Tintagel
Lancelot stretched out to sleep under a sycamore in a Cornish forest. The sycamore was a sacred tree in Cornwall, so it might protect her. She had seen no sign of brigands.
The night was not cold for winter, but still it was not so pleasant for sleeping under a tree. She told herself that she should have stayed at the last farmhouse she had passed.
A fox barking in the night made her smile. In her dreams, the fox came up and sniffed her, then bit her neck.
She woke to find a knife at her throat. Every muscle in her body prepared to strike. If she must die, she would not be slaughtered like a sheep. She kicked the brigand who was attacking her, so his knife slipped and cut her shoulder instead. Then another brigand lifted a cudgel over her head.
When she woke again, it was daylight. Her head ached more than it ever had and her shoulder bled profusely. Her sword and purse had been stolen. She felt for the bag of small treasures that she wore around her neck. It was still there.
Her pearl from Guinevere was safe.
Her horse was nowhere in sight.
She tried to bind up her own wound as she usually did with cuts. However, this one was the worst she had ever received when she was alone. The blood was not easily staunched. The pain and loss of blood made her almost unable to rise. The throbbing in her head from the cudgel's blow made thinking difficult, and when she tried to walk she staggered. She called her mare and, miraculously, Raven soon trotted up to her. Raven must have run from the brigands.
When Lancelot tried to mount her horse, she swayed and almost fell. Finally, she rode off through the forest to look for help.
As the sun grew brighter in the sky, she barely clung to Raven's reins. She prayed for deliverance, though she thought God had little reason to save an adulterer. She would not promise to give up Guinevere, nevertheless. The thought of never seeing Guinevere again made tears pour down her cheeks. If she died there in the forest, Guinevere would never know what had happened to her. The bare trees seemed to be portents of death. There might never be another spring for her.
Too weak to keep riding, she almost fell off Raven and lay down under an oak tree that was covered with lichens. She told herself that a rest was all she needed. However, she said some prayers before she lost consciousness. She feared to join the souls of the men she had killed. It seemed too much to hope that she could join her mother instead.
Guinevere fretted over her scrolls. How many times could she read Ovid? And she did not care to read about Aeneas and all the dangers he faced. She knew that Lancelot had gone off to fight brigands because she was angry at Guinevere for criticizing Gawaine. Cursed red-bearded lecher! Guinevere was tired of Lancelot risking her life to save him. Indeed, she was weary of Lancelot risking her life for any reason. And if this was Lancelot's way of punishing Guinevere, well, Guinevere did not like that either. She reached for another honeycake, though she was careful not to let any crumbs fall on the scroll or to handle it with sticky fingers. Why could she not protect Lancelot better? If that meant her own words should always be more honeyed than the cakes, she should speak thus, Guinevere thought. She wished she could have followed her lover and guarded her.
Lancelot dreamed that she was carried off by a lady she had never seen before to a caer, and held there. The lady was stroking her, but Lancelot kept saying, "I must be true to Guinevere."
"Be true to Guinevere – I'm only dressing your wound. Hold still," a commanding but sonorous female voice said, and a lady was i
ndeed rubbing some smelly herbal substance onto Lancelot's wounded shoulder. The touch made her wince, though the lady was not ungentle.
Lancelot's eyes dimly saw a long and elegant face and flaming red-gold hair. The lady wore a fine russet gown, a string of amber beads, and a large garnet ring.
Lancelot lay in a bed covered with embroidered coverlets. A tapestry depicting a warrior and a lady kissing decorated the wall facing her.
"Let me out of your caer," Lancelot demanded, appalled at how feeble her voice was.
"You can leave any time you wish, but I don't advise it if you want your shoulder to heal. You are welcome to stay after you are healed, but you should not travel at the moment."
"My lady, I must not linger," Lancelot said solemnly.
"A little pompous, aren't you, but rather sweet," the lady said.
Lancelot drifted off to sleep.
When she woke again, the lady was still there, accompanied by a hare-lipped serving woman. The lady motioned for the serving woman to leave them.
"How are you, Lancelot of the Lake?" the lady asked, rising from her chair.
"You know who I am?" Her voice was distraught. Who was this lady who knew about her, and how discreet was she? Would she tell that Lancelot was a woman?
The lady looked rather like a forest creature, reminding Lancelot of many she had seen. Not a deer – something wilder.
"Are you surprised that a witch knows about you?" the lady said, with an ironic smile. "No, I'm not a witch, unless praying to the goddess Cerridwen makes me one. Or knowing the healing arts. I have heard it prophesied that someday every woman who knows them will be called a witch."
"Surely not," Lancelot said, beginning to guess who the lady was.
"I am Morgan of Cornwall, Arthur's sister. He it was who let me be called a witch. But I am a friend to Guinevere. She and I have exchanged messages for many years, so do not fear me. You kept calling her name, so I guessed that you must be one of Arthur's warriors. Lancelot is reputed to be the handsomest, and to be very fond of the queen. I had never imagined that you were a woman. Now rest. My serving woman is bringing you some food."
"Thank you, Lady Morgan," Lancelot replied, wondering whether the lady was truly a friend of Guinevere's and could be trusted.
The lady laughed in return, and her serving woman brought delicacies including fish and oysters, and Lancelot realized that she could hear the sound of the sea and smell its salt breath. She was hungry and ate eagerly, hoping that these were not magic viands that would change her into a dog or some other creature, but they did not appear to do so.
She slept again, and the next time she woke she felt much better. She heard shrieks and thought that they might be coming from prisoners tortured in the caer, then realized that they were the calls of gulls. Morgan again sat beside her.
"Thank you for healing me, Lady Morgan," Lancelot said, bowing her head as much as she could while lying in bed.
"I am glad to help you," Morgan replied, but her look appraised Lancelot coldly. "Are you my brother's lover?" she asked in a bitter tone.
Lancelot gasped and pulled the coverings even further over her than they were already. "No! I have never thought of him, or any other man, in that way. He does not know that I am a woman."
Morgan shook her head and smiled differently. "Have you never been with a man? What a strange woman you are."
"Why must a woman lie with a man?" Lancelot asked, just as cold as the lady had been.
Morgan smirked. "So, do you think you are one of them? I must say that's not how you look to me."
Lancelot felt her face grow hot because this lady had seen her undressed. "I am not a man, and I do not want to be one, but only to seem to be one."
"And what is it like to love a woman? Is Guinevere still beautiful?"
Lancelot stiffened. "She is more beautiful than a meadow in the dawn. But I cannot discuss these things with you or anyone."
"Now you must rest," Morgan told her, and went away.
Lancelot felt anything but rested after this discussion.
When Morgan left, Lancelot tried to get out of bed and walk, but her body was not ready. Tomorrow, she told herself.
The next day when she woke, Morgan was there again, looking at her closely. Her green eyes seemed to see completely through the bed coverings to Lancelot's body.
Unwilling to lie there and be watched, Lancelot tried to stand, and found that she could, a little. As she was wearing only a woolen bedgown, she asked the lady to leave while she dressed.
"You want to fly away," Morgan said in a soft voice. "But why? We have barely met."
"My lady," Lancelot said, "I am not sure I want to know you better."
Morgan only laughed. "As you are not comfortable with me here, come out and join me on the rocks."
As soon as Morgan left, Lancelot dressed in her customary clothes, which were lying on a nearby stool. They had been cleaned considerably since she last wore them. In addition to a tunic, she put on her mail, and even her crimson cloak.
Reminding herself that Morgan was her king's enemy, Lancelot left the caer and found it surrounded with rocks. Green waves, with white caps gleaming like soldiers' helmets, assaulted the rocks, leaving strands of seaweed in their wake.
Morgan sat on a rock with gulls swirling around, screaming like charging Saxons. Further down, a regiment of sandpipers rushed by the edge of the water, then flew up in a cloud. A cormorant's snaky head emerged from the sea. On rocks further out, a seal basked like a warrior guarding his hill fort. At the base of a cliff, a pied oystercatcher battered oysters.
It all looked rather sinister to Lancelot. There were no decent trees for cover in case any danger appeared. There was only a long, steep causeway joining the caer to the mainland. Morgan rose and offered her a hand to help her footing on the rocks.
Lancelot did not take it. She sat on a rock at some distance from the lady's.
"Isn't the sea beautiful, like a woman who might enfold you in her arms?" Morgan teased.
"I have never been fond of the sea," Lancelot said, dismissing Morgan's flirtatious tone.
Morgan sighed with exasperation. "You should love all things from the gods. The sea is the domain of the god Mannawydden."
"I do not believe in these gods and goddesses of yours," Lancelot replied.
Morgan sat up straight on her throne of stones. "But your ancestors did. How can the Christians banish all the gods and goddesses? They live, no matter what the Christians say. Your fellow Christians call me a witch and say that our religion is evil. And my brother allows them to stamp out the old ways. What do you think of that?"
Lancelot shook her head. "Christians do as they think right, my lady. Do I agree with everything any Christian does? No."
Morgan's flaming hair rippled in the sea breeze. She smiled an enticing smile. "We need not talk of the gods of our ancestors. Let me be your friend." She extended her hand.
Lancelot remained seated and again ignored the hand.
"I don't trust you. You are no friend to my king."
Morgan's brows knitted and her glance became fiercer. "Your king, my brother, who exiled his own sister. Can you, who are supposed to befriend all women, support that?"
Lancelot frowned. "Are you are hinting at treason to the king? I would oppose that, make no mistake."
Morgan's voice was sickly sweet. "I did not speak of treason. How terrible to think of betraying the brother who betrayed me. How fortunate Arthur is to have such a devoted friend. But if Arthur were no longer High King, you could go off and live with Guinevere, if that's what you want. If you love her so much, surely you must mind that she is his wife."
"So who would you replace him with, my lady?" Lancelot eyed her suspiciously. Surely Morgan had no reason to care whether she would like to go off with Guinevere. "Yourself?"
"Wouldn't a woman warrior rather serve a queen than a king?" Morgan asked.
"I do serve a queen as well as a king," Lancelot retorted.
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Morgan raised her eyebrows. "Indeed you do. Many would say that loving the king's wife is treason, but of course that cannot be so because you would never be disloyal."
Lancelot felt her face flush with anger that was all the fiercer because her guilt was pricked. "Do not speak of her."
"You don't understand." Morgan smiled but her green eyes did not. "I know that you are a woman. If you don't help me, I could send word to Arthur. He does not want to hear from me, but he would pay attention to such amazing news."
"You wouldn't!" Lancelot's heart beat louder than the gulls' screams.
"How do you know that?" Morgan drawled. Her gaze was fixed on Lancelot.
"I don't ask you to wound Arthur. All I ask is that you steal his sword and take it to King Uriens of Rheged."
"Steal his sword! I could never do such a thing." Lancelot almost fell off her stone.
"The loss would only wound his pride and lessen his power. Many people believe that the sword is magic, so its loss would weaken him. If Uriens had it, his prestige would be increased." The seal slid off its rock and was replaced by another seal. "He is the most powerful king who still follows the old gods, so I wish to strengthen him. That isn't so dreadful, is it?"
Lancelot leapt up. "Betraying my king is dreadful." Her hand went to the place where her sword would be if she still had it.
"You trust him." Morgan also rose and picked up a mussel shell, which she turned over in her hands. "Then you trust that he will treat you no differently if he learns that you are a woman? Wise, kind King Arthur would not expel you from his service. He would never cast you aside as he did me." She tossed the shell into the sea.
Lancelot's heart constricted. "No matter what he would do, I cannot injure him for my own selfish reasons."
"I am not asking you to injure him, just to help me lessen his power a trifle." Morgan spoke calmly, as if she were discussing the waves that were breaking on the shore. "He has a large warband. No one else could defeat him in combat. But I can't believe that even he, proud though he is, would start a war over a sword."
Lancelot- Her Story Page 43
