Lancelot and Guinevere Read online

  Gawaine slumped in his chair. How little he felt able to do. But perhaps he could spare Lancelot some last indignity—and spare poor Guinevere a horror to compound her grief.

  A horse shot out of the trees and ran off, away from Lancelot. Its rider gave her a terrified glance, as if she were mad.

  It was Sangremore's serving man, whose name Lancelot did not know. He had seen her kill Sangremore, seen her slay a fellow warrior of the round table by throwing a spear into his back.

  She did not want to kill the servant, for he was likely not to blame for his master's deeds, but she was not so pleased that he would tell the tale.

  Riding up to Sangremore's body, Lancelot realized that his horse had also run away. There was no time to try to find the horse. How would she get Sangremore's body back to the Saxons, to show that she had killed him? Raven couldn't carry Lancelot, Hilda, and the corpse.

  There was only one way. Lancelot dismounted and regarded the body of her former companion. He was a brute, and she did not regret his death.

  Stifling her disgust at what she had to do, Lancelot drew her sword and cut Sangremore's head from his body. The task was not easy. His bones resisted, and his blood poured over her.

  Finally, she severed the head and put it in her saddlebag. Then she bent over and vomited.

  Now she must find Hilda. Lancelot rode back to the place where she had left the girl, which was not far. There was no sign of her.

  Lancelot dismounted. "Hilda!" she called. "Come here. Don't be afraid. I'll take you to your father. Fa-der. Aldwulf sent me. Ald-wulf."

  Hilda did not appear, and did not make a sound.

  Frightened for the girl alone in the woods, but fearing that trying to follow her might scare Hilda even more, Lancelot cried out. "Hilda! Aldwulf sent me. And I'm a woman. Wo-mon. Femina!"

  Lancelot heard a sound in the brush. She thought she saw a movement behind branches. "Wo-mon," she said in a softer voice. She pointed to herself, then made a universal gesture of the hands trying to depict a woman's body—curvaceous, as hers was not—a gesture she had often seen men make.

  The girl stepped out from behind a bush. Lancelot sighed with relief, but wept when she saw how bruised and bloody Hilda was.

  Lancelot extended her hands, palms up. She let the tears fall down her cheeks. "Oh Hilda, I'm so sorry that he hurt you."

  Walking tentatively, Hilda approached her. Perhaps the tears had been proof that Lancelot was a woman.

  "Home to your father. Let me take you home to Aldwulf."

  Hilda moaned.

  "Come, let's find a stream, and you can wash off," Lancelot said in her gentlest voice, the one she used with young animals. If she had been Hilda, she would have wanted to wash, so she mimicked the gestures of washing.

  The Saxon girl nodded.

  Lancelot rode through the night. Hilda clung to her, so exhausted that she could barely hang on, but Lancelot dared not stop. Her heart raced. The sky grayed, showing that dawn would soon appear. Never had Lancelot dreaded dawn more.

  Finally, they reached the Saxon village. Tall men bearing torches ran out to them, and the women were not far behind.

  Lancelot quickly dismounted and helped Hilda down. The girl tried to stand proudly.

  Exclaiming women rushed to her, and yelling men rushed to Lancelot.

  Aldwulf emerged from the largest building.

  "My daughter." His face still impassive at the sight of the wounded girl, he put out a hand, and Hilda walked to him and clasped it. Then the girl went to the arms of an older woman, probably her mother, who took her into the house.

  "What of the man who abducted her? Did you let him get away?" Aldwulf's cold stare was fixed on Lancelot.

  She pulled Sangremore's head from her saddlebag.

  The Saxons yelled, this time in triumph.

  The thane strode up to Lancelot, took the head, and held it high. He shouted something in his language, and his people cried out in response. Then he dropped it on the ground, and the men began kicking it. The pink light of dawn emerged to light up the gory sight.

  "Where's Gawaine?" Lancelot demanded, almost panicking because she did not see him.

  Aldwulf gestured to some men standing outside a small house. One darted inside, and, in a moment, Gawaine emerged. He limped, and there was a cloth tied around the lower part of one of his legs. His breeches were torn and bloody.

  "What have you done to him?" Lancelot cried, relieved that he was alive, worried about his leg, and angry that he had been hurt—all at the same time.

  "One of my men says he tried to escape. Gawaine says he did not. He's fortunate." Aldwulf was stone-faced as ever.

  "I did not try to escape. A Saxon attacked me and a priest—of all people—saved me," Gawaine said. He was clearly having difficulty standing. He regarded Lancelot with a weary—and apprehensive—gaze.

  The men clamored around Aldwulf. A red sun rose over the horizon, as bloody as their faces were angry.

  "My men say that Hilda was injured, and you two should pay the price," Aldwulf told the British warriors. And gold was clearly not the price under discussion.

  "I saved your daughter and killed the man who attacked her! Have you no honor?" Lancelot seethed.

  "Yes, you have saved her and killed Sangremore." Aldwulf put a hand on Lancelot's shoulder. "I thank you, but it is better if you go now. May I give you a gift?"

  Lancelot felt the anger seep out of her. "No, I wanted to save Hilda and would have done so if there had been no other threat."

  "Where's Sangremore?" Gawaine asked, looking around.

  Lancelot pointed to the head, now some distance off, just as a boy was kicking it.

  Gawaine shuddered and put his hand to his mouth, as if to keep himself from crying out, or vomiting.

  Lancelot realized the head could have been Gawaine's. She shook with rage and fought to keep control of herself. How dare the Saxons even imagine treating Gawaine as if he were Sangremore?

  Aldwulf turned to Gawaine. "One of my men injured you while you were my hostage. I must give you compensation."

  “Thank you, but I need nothing,” Gawaine said, nodding in acknowledgment of the offer. “However, King Arthur will require more tribute.”

  Lancelot felt incapable of saying gracious words, but she was relieved that Gawaine could.

  Aldwulf gestured to one of his men, who brought Gawaine's sword and his knives. The thane took them and handed them to Gawaine.

  The thane spoke calmly, as if this had been a normal diplomatic mission. "I know that King Arthur will want more gold as compensation for our treatment of his emissaries. Tell him I'll give all I can."

  "The High King will appreciate that," Gawaine said formally, but it was clear that he could hardly stand.

  Lancelot moved beside him so he could lean on her.

  Then a priest, no doubt the one who had saved Gawaine, walked up to them. He led Gawaine's horse and another, which must be his own.

  "The monastery where I live is not far from here," he said, addressing Gawaine. "Our healer can look at your wound." He turned to Aldwulf. "Thank you as always for your hospitality."

  "May you all go in peace," the thane said, making a final command to his men and then returning to his house.

  Lancelot tried to stand unobtrusively beside Gawaine so he could put his hand on her shoulder without too much embarrassment when he swung onto his horse. He doubtless did not want to appear weak in front of the Saxons, but the daylight showed his condition all too clearly.

  As they rode off, the priest said, "I am Father Paulus." His voice sounded as Roman as he looked. "Saving the thane's daughter was a good act. You can both rest at the monastery. Are you Lancelot of the Lake?"

  "I am indeed. Thank you, Father. We would be right glad of a place to rest," Lancelot replied. She had never before stayed in a monastery, but she was too weary to ponder much about whether it was wrong to deceive the monks. Of far greater importance was that Gawaine's leg must be ten
ded.

  "King Arthur's court must be very holy," said the priest.

  "The court is Christian," said Lancelot, though she thought there was little holiness to boast of.

  "I have been with the Saxons for two years now, and I have baptized a few of them," Father Paulus told them, not a little pride in his voice. "I think even the thane is ripe for conversion. Soon, all Britain will be Christian, thank God."

  "How wonderful," Gawaine said. "No doubt that will end all fighting and cruelty. Sangremore was, of course, a Christian," he added in an undertone.

  "I hate Saxons!" Lancelot had never said such words before, surely never with such vehemence. Indeed, she had never felt such hatred until she had heard the threat to kill Gawaine in Sangremore's place.

  "You don't hate the girl you saved, do you?" the priest reproached her.

  "Not the women and girls." Lancelot's voice was much calmer. "Women everywhere are the same." She paused, recalling that she would be angry if any man had said those words.

  But mostly the two warriors were too tired to talk. During the ride to the monastery, Father Paulus told them how glad he was to minister to the Saxons, although he said that no place was truly civilized, except perhaps Constantinopolis, since Rome had been sacked by barbarians.

  At one point, the priest rode ahead of them, and Gawaine pulled his horse close to Lancelot's. The lines in his face were more pronounced than usual, and sweat covered his forehead.

  "You look the worse for wear, but you have survived," Lancelot said, though her voice showed she still worried about him.

  "I knew you'd save the girl and kill Sangremore. But I did worry that they might kill me before you returned." He smiled at her. Then his smile turned to a frown. "Don't tell anyone at Camelot that you cut off Sangremore's head and gave it to the Saxons."

  "Everyone will learn of it, I fear." Lancelot's stomach heaved at the thought of Sangremore's fate. "His servant saw me throw my spear into Sangremore's back, and doubtless returned to retrieve his body."

  Gawaine groaned. "Gods! At least Arthur will back you up and say you were doing your duty."

  "I know it was ugly, but I couldn't take a chance that he'd get away."

  "Thank you." Gawaine's voice was much softer than usual.

  "I hope that Hilda's betrothed will still marry her," Lancelot said, wondering what the girl's life would be like.

  "That's a pretty idea," Gawaine said, shaking his head. "I doubt that any man will, unless her father orders him to and gives him a lot of land."

  "Men!" Lancelot exclaimed with disgust. "If a man raped a woman you were betrothed to, wouldn't you marry her?"

  "If I loved a woman, I'd marry her no matter what any man had done to her—or what she might have done with anyone," Gawaine replied.

  "Would you marry a woman who has been with as many men as you have women?" Lancelot demanded.

  Gawaine simply raised his eyebrows. "You know the answer."

  She did. But she saw that blood was seeping through his bandage, and her indignation turned to anxiety.

  8 THE MONASTERY

  They came to a monastery that was little more than a collection of stone huts. A bevy of monks greeted them.

  A short but strong-looking monk hurried up to them. "You shouldn't be walking on that leg," he scolded Gawaine. "I am the infirmarian. Come and let me take a look at it. Lean on me, unless you want to be carried."

  Gawaine grunted, doubtless irritated at the indignity, but leaned on the shorter man.

  "I'll go with you," Lancelot said, following them.

  "No, you won't," Gawaine told her.

  Reluctantly, she obeyed him.

  The abbot, a bald old man with a smile that lit up his face, approached Lancelot. Introducing himself as Abbot Ulfin, he explained that the place was very simple, but Lancelot said they were glad for the hospitality. A monk showed Lancelot to her cell.

  She fell asleep, waking only when the sky was darkening, though the stars were not yet visible. She joined the monks and priests in the stone-walled refectory, for her stomach was quite empty, but she ate the meal of bread and honey quickly.

  The infirmarian had not come to the refectory, so Lancelot went in search of the infirmary. The short monk emerged from a stone hut and told her, "I believe your friend will be well."

  "Will he lose his leg?" she asked anxiously, knowing how that would distress Gawaine, who would find it hard to bear being kept out of battle. "Will he get the wound sickness?"

  Smiling kindly, the monk shook his head. "No, he just needs rest. He shouldn't ride off too soon. How good that he has such a devoted friend."

  "I must see him." As soon as the monk nodded his permission, Lancelot entered the hut.

  Gawaine was lying on a pallet. Sweat covered his face.

  Lancelot sat on a stool that was the only other furniture, except for a cabinet filled with jars of herbs and the tools of medicine, and the usual cross on the wall. "How are you faring?"

  "I'm enjoying myself greatly," Gawaine said, gritting his teeth. "You should go and rest."

  "No, I've rested. I'll remain here a while." Her voice cracked. "Staying in that Saxon village as a hostage is bravest thing you’ve ever done.”

  “It was certainly the most difficult,” he admitted in a voice that was not as strong as usual. "But your task was even harder. I'd rather fear facing death than fear that a friend might be killed."

  "But you had to wait, unable to act, while I could at least act. You chose to protect me. You have sometimes before tried too hard to do so, but this time you were right." She didn't say that he had feared that if she were hostage, the Saxons could have discovered she was a woman, and raped her.

  "I'm just glad I knew that you're a woman. What if I hadn't known and I had let you draw straws? You should have told me long ago," he grumbled.

  "Stop complaining and rest," she said, wiping his brow with a clean cloth that hung on the wall, no doubt for such a purpose.

  Lancelot sat there well into the night, even after Gawaine fell asleep. She pushed her stool against the wall, so she could lean against it. Tears escaped onto her cheeks, and she wiped them away. How near she had come to losing her best friend.

  A monk tapped her on the shoulder, waking her. "You should go to your own hut," he whispered. "I'll sit with your friend. No harm will come to him tonight." Sleepily, she agreed.

  "There is no need to sit with him every moment," the monk said. "He told me that he wanted a monk, not a fellow warrior, to help him with private matters."

  "I understand." Indeed she did, better than the monk could.

  Only a few days later, Gawaine insisted on limping to the refectory for meals. The monks had given him a large staff to lean on, but his face was drawn with pain.

  "You should have stayed in bed," Lancelot chided Gawaine.

  "There was too little company there," he replied.

  Lancelot had sat with him every day, but she knew that wasn't the kind of company he meant. She couldn't resist laughing. It was good to hear him jest.

  Lancelot was surprised to see that both fish and fowl had been prepared.

  "We know that you aren't used to our food," the wrinkled old Abbot Ulfin said gently. Britain was stamped on his face as clearly as Rome was stamped on the countenance of Father Paulus.

  "How kind of you," Lancelot said, smiling, and Gawaine thanked him heartily.

  Father Paulus sat with them and asked them about Camelot, and they told all of the decent news they could. But he observed that they were still fatigued, and said that he hoped he could talk with them more the next day.

  Lancelot rose early, having slept well. The hut where she slept was not much plainer than her house at Camelot, though it had a large crucifix and hers did not. There was little dawn birdsong because of the season, but she heard rooks calling, and walked out to greet the sun.

  The monks were making their way to their chapel, and she joined them as they heard Mass.

  Afterwa
rds, Lancelot strolled around the small monastery garden, a mixture of vegetables such as turnips and medicinal plants such as foxglove.

  Lancelot walked under the apple trees and pondered. Perhaps one could be happy in a place like this monastery.

  She saw that Gawaine had finally awakened. Leaning on his staff, the red-bearded warrior limped across the garden.

  "You seem to like the monastery well enough. Perhaps you'll stay and become a monk," Gawaine teased her.

  "Of course I can't," she said, feeling her face grow hot. "But it's quiet. I do like that."

  After they had broken their fast with good bannock and porridge, Abbot Ulfin came to join them.

  The abbot embraced both warriors and told them, "I am glad Gawaine is feeling better. Though we preach to the Saxons now, they came here as savages, and it is thanks to King Arthur and all who fought them that we are safe. You have given your blood to save Britain as Our Lord gave his to redeem us all."

  Lancelot shuddered slightly at this comparison, for she had shed much more blood than she had given. She thought particularly of the British girl she had slain by striking into a bush during the Saxon War. She felt that sin would never leave her soul, though she had been shriven. After years had passed, she had finally dared to tell Guinevere and had not lost her love. When the girl was killed, Gawaine had protected Lancelot by telling Arthur he had done the deed, and she had remained silent about it for years before finally confessing to the king and some of their brother warriors. She was ashamed of her long silence and thankful that Gawaine had remained her friend nevertheless.

  After the abbot left them alone, they went out of the refectory. Lancelot turned to Gawaine. "I wish Sangremore had had a chance to be shriven and perhaps escape the fires of hell."

  Gawaine grunted. "You did the kindest thing by killing him, not leaving him to the Saxons. Don't worry about his soul. He was a cruel man. If there is a hell, no doubt he would have gone there anyway."