Lancelot and Guinevere Page 3

  "If you had been a man, you would have been a fine jester," Lancelot said to a sea of suddenly upturned faces. "But you should not mock the king and queen. Jest only about poor Lancelot, who cannot possibly be half as good as people claim." Then she sat on the step and sang the song that Dinadan had sung on the return from the hunt, only she made Lancelot the warrior who had slain the mouse.

  The little group laughed, and Ragnal remarked, "You're twice as good as people say, my lord." She smiled at the gentleness of Lancelot's scolding.

  "But you don't say Lancelot's the best warrior in the world," one fat serving man—Lancelot was, as always, glad that the serving people at Camelot were well fed—chided Ragnal. "We all know who you think that is," and the company laughed at that.

  "I say only what I know, and I know nothing about fighting," Ragnal retorted.

  Lancelot joined in the laughter, for she knew as well as they did that Ragnal was Gawaine's favorite mistress and doted on him. Hearing Ragnal's wit, she could see why Gawaine would like her so.

  "Why, Lancelot of the Lightning Arm often bests him in fighting, so who knows but what he's a better lover, too?" a red-haired serving woman called out. "What do you say, Lord Lancelot?"

  Lancelot shook her head and tried to suppress her laughter. "No lady has ever been with us both, nor is any likely to be, so that will have to remain a mystery. I make no contest. Yet surely good lovers exist not singly, but in pairs." She let herself muse as she would have been embarrassed to do with the company of warriors. "How can one take the words and gestures that please one beloved and simply use them with another? I think there are no good lovers, but only lovers who are good for one another, and might not be pleasing with someone else. But I know my views on love are quaint." So saying, she rose and climbed back up the stairs, before the conversation took any bawdier turn. She hoped she did not show too plainly that she was Guinevere's lover and had never been with anyone else, nor did she want to be.

  She had forgotten her errand, but Catwal followed her. His dark hair was graying, but his face still was handsome.

  As they climbed out of the cellars and walked back through the kitchens, Lancelot smiled a greeting at Handsome Hands, a tall, clean-shaven young man who was turning a haunch of mutton on a spit. Sweat dripped from his forehead and the red hair surrounding it also was damp. Lancelot was not surprised to see him apart from the other servants, because he generally was. As anyone could see from the hands that turned the spit, he had not grown up as a scullion.

  "Tomorrow morning," Lancelot promised, and the young man nodded with delight. For on some early mornings, instead of going off to the forest as usual, Lancelot privately taught fighting to Handsome Hands, who had been given this name by Cai the seneschal. The youth clearly had much training already. Why he had appeared in the kitchen rather than the training quarters for noble lads was a mystery, but Lancelot was not disposed to pry into other people's secrets. Perhaps the lad was taking on a penance, although surely he was too young to have committed any great sin.

  3 THE RED WARRIOR AND THE BLACK WARRIOR

  Handsome Hands rode through the forest of oaks and beeches on his way to Camelot. The beginning of rain dampened his spirits only slightly. He was full of pride because the king had sent him out to help a lady save her sister from an evil warrior. Angry at being delegated only a kitchen hand, the lady had insulted him the whole way, but he had saved her sister nonetheless. Perhaps the king would accept him as one of his warriors now.

  As his horse cantered down a hill, Handsome Hands heard men on the path below talking.

  "It's a fine day despite the rain, noble Black Warrior. Shall we spend it besieging some caer?" said one loud voice.

  "No, let us rob some travelers instead, noble Red Warrior," was the reply, which was accompanied by much laughter.

  The louder voice pealed with laughter also.

  Horrified, Handsome Hands rode straight towards them, as if charging at the mouth of hell. Here was another evil for him to battle. "Stop, foul demons!" he yelled, as he came in sight of the two warriors, whose visors were closed against the wet weather, as his was also. Straight away he aimed his horse at the larger man.

  "Are you the Red Warrior?" he demanded.

  "I suppose I am," the voice began.

  "Named for the blood of all those you have murdered, no doubt. Stand and fight!" Handsome Hands aimed his spear at the warrior almost before the other man had time to put up his shield. Handsome Hands knocked the man from his horse.

  Immediately, Handsome Hands was on the ground beside him, raining blows with his sword. The Red Warrior fought back, but one blow hit his helmet, and he reeled, falling to the earth.

  "Stop!" yelled the Black Warrior, leaping from horse to ground. "Would you murder him for no reason? You must fight me."

  Handsome Hands turned to face the new opponent. "Evil Black Warrior, named for darkest night and all that is cruel and foul!" he screamed, attacking.

  The Black Warrior struck out, and Handsome Hands replied with a mighty blow. They both dealt strong hits, then the Black Warrior exclaimed, "Handsome Hands! Isn't it you? Cease fighting, this is Lancelot."

  "Lord Lancelot!" Handsome Hands stopped in mid-strike and put down his sword.

  The warrior lifted a visor, revealing Lancelot's face, and Handsome Hands opened his visor as well.

  "Why are you here with this evil companion?" Handsome Hands asked, gasping in bewilderment.

  The large warrior on the ground opened his visor.

  "Gareth! Little brother! I thought you were in Lothian. What are you doing here?"

  "Gawaine!" Handsome Hands, now truly named as Gareth, shuddered with horror and hastened to him. "My brother! And I have hurt you. Forgive me."

  Lancelot stared wide-eyed at him. "You're of the House of Lothian? I should have known it, with that height, red hair, and northern accent. But why hide it?"

  "I wanted to make my way on my own," replied Gareth.

  Gawaine's face was pale as the flour in the royal kitchen. He raised himself on his elbow and shook his head. "How is it that you know Lancelot? And why do you attack any traveler you meet on the road?"

  Gareth went down on his knees beside his favorite brother. "I deserve to be driven away from Camelot forever for striking you," he said, beating his breast. "I worked in the kitchen at Camelot, and asked good Lancelot of the Lake to help me practice fighting. Of course I do not attack travelers. You called yourselves such evil names, the Red Warrior and the Black, and you said you were going to besiege people or attack them."

  "Why, there is nothing evil about red or black," Lancelot said in an angry voice. "Since your brother's adventure with the Green Warrior, we at times have called each other after the colors of our hair. We were only jesting about the attacks. In your haste, you could have killed your brother, and I think you have hurt him. Are you injured, Gawaine? You look much shaken," the great warrior asked in a tone of concern.

  "I am hurt, it is true. Hold me, Lance. It is said that your touch can work miracles." His voice quavered, but there was a hint of a smile in his blue eyes that perplexed Gareth.

  "Far better that you should let your brother minister to you and allow him to make up for the injury. Help him, Gareth," Lancelot said kindly, all of his alarm gone. Gareth put an arm around Gawaine, who stood readily and brushed himself off.

  "Is it true that you can work miracles?" Gareth asked Lancelot.

  Lancelot shook his head. "Indeed not. It is just one of Gawaine's tales."

  Gareth kept trying to explain himself and insisted that red and black were of course the colors of the devil, but Lancelot maintained that they were not.

  Agravaine and Gaheris, brothers much older than Gareth but younger than Gawaine, showed their pleasure at having Gareth at the court. He basked in their attention, for it had been many years since he had been with them. He had caught only glimpses of them when he hid in the kitchens.

  "It will be a proud morning when G
awaine receives you as a warrior," Agravaine said, slapping Gareth on the back. "We have a ceremony when a man is admitted into Arthur's company." They stood in Gawaine's small house, which was cluttered with swords and spears and smelled of ale.

  The house seemed modest for the heir to the throne of Lothian and Orkney, Gareth thought with approval. He found it strange that Agravaine and Gaheris did not live in Gawaine's house, but had a small house of their own.

  Agravaine looked rather like Gawaine, but his expression was less pleasant, sourer than Gareth had remembered. "Who'd have thought you'd grow so tall, Little Skinned Knees?" Agravaine said.

  "Little Puffin Eater," Gaheris said, poking Gareth in the ribs. "I miss eating puffins in Orkney," added Gaheris, whose beard

  was shorter than his older brothers'. His eyes were gray, not blue like the others', and while he was tall compared with most men, he was short compared with his brothers. Gareth was surprised, for he had remembered all of his brothers as tall. Now he was the only one as tall as Gawaine.

  Gareth pulled himself up straight, as if he were already participating in a ceremony. He gloried in the thought of kneeling in a candlelit chapel. "I have asked Lancelot of the Lake to receive me, for he is the best and kindest warrior in the world, and he has graciously agreed."

  "What, asked Lancelot when you have three older brothers at the round table? So you've imbibed those tales about him like these boys raised in the South?" Frowning, Agravaine pulled back from Gareth.

  "True, we aren't good enough for him. Don't let it bother you," Gawaine jested, but Agravaine and Gaheris left the house shortly.

  Gareth sighed. He didn't understand why anyone would mind being seen as lesser than Lancelot. That was like admitting one was lesser than King Arthur. He turned to his eldest brother.

  "I shall pray all night before the ceremony. I suppose you didn't pray all night before you became one of the king's warriors," Gareth said with some distaste. Gawaine seemed lacking in zeal for virtue. Gareth little liked the smell of ale and mead that hung about the room. The many weapons that were strewn around pleased him, though. He examined his brother's swords, which were better than the one he had possessed until Gawaine recently had given him a good one.

  "On the contrary, I was most devout," Gawaine replied with a twinkle in his eyes. "I celebrated the holy means through which I was brought into the world."

  Gareth grimaced. It was foolish to expect Gawaine to be serious about holy matters. He could never refrain from making bawdy jests. "You mean that you sinned, as you came into the world with a soul already tainted with sin."

  "How not, considering all of the lives that I have led? At least I acknowledge that women had some part in the process, which your priests do not," Gawaine teased him.

  "No one is truly born until he has been baptized," Gareth affirmed in pious tones. If only Gawaine would care more about his own baptism and stop mentioning false gods. How sad it was that their mother had raised her sons to believe in them, and that she herself had never been baptized and was therefore damned. His older brothers had been baptized only to please King Arthur, who in turn had wanted to please the bishops.

  "You were sucking at our mother's breasts long before the water was splashed on you," his elder brother insisted, pouring himself some ale.

  Gareth felt his face grow hot. "How dare you talk about our mother that way! It's indecent."

  "It's not, and you should be grateful. Most ladies of high station don't nurse their own babes, but she did, except for Gaheris, because she was sick after his birth." He had left off teasing and sounded exasperated.

  "This is no fit subject for discussion," Gareth objected, setting his drinking horn in its stand. "Why must you always think of women carnally? Why can't you be pure like Lancelot?"

  Oddly, Gawaine chuckled. "Lancelot and I were not made the same."

  "What foolishness is that? God made us all with the same chance to follow the path of virtue or not," Gareth insisted, but Gawaine only laughed.

  "Let's wrestle." Gawaine grabbed Gareth's arm, but Gareth wrested it away from him and moved halfway across the room.

  "Are you too good to wrestle with your brother?" Gawaine complained.

  Gareth turned away from him, went into another room, slammed the door and knelt down and prayed. Touching Gawaine was torture, but he could never let his brother know that.

  When Gareth returned, Gawaine smiled in a conciliatory manner. "That's my sleeping room," he said. "You can share my bed. You'll have it much to yourself, because I'm hardly ever in it." He winked. "I'm sorry you had to live in the servants' quarters. Why did you ever pretend to be a servant?"

  "To quell my pride," Gareth said, as if that should be obvious, "and I thought I could better avoid temptation that way than if I lived with the young men studying to be the king's warriors."

  Gawaine shook his head and laughed. "Are the kitchen wenches so virtuous? No doubt many of the young warriors are no better than they should be, but I doubt that the servants are purer."

  No, they were no purer, Gareth thought, but the young warriors' well-muscled bodies tempted him more than most serving men's.

  Gawaine offered him ale, and Gareth did not turn him down. It was good ale, of course, far better than any he had sampled in the kitchen.

  They sat at Gawaine's table, and his older brother leaned towards him. "Don't follow Agravaine and Gaheris too closely. I hate to say it of my brothers, but they are not among the best men at court."

  Gareth spilled some of his ale. "I fail to see how they could sin more than you do. If my brothers go astray, I must try to help them."

  Gawaine sighed.

  It was nearly dawn when Gawaine returned to his room, whistling as he usually did, then stopping so as not to wake Gareth. He threw himself on the bed and went to sleep almost instantly. A little later he abruptly wakened as Gareth jumped out of the bed.

  "What's the matter?" Gawaine asked without bothering to open his eyes.

  "Nothing!" snapped his younger brother. "I'm just getting up to pray."

  Gawaine groaned and went back to sleep.

  Gawaine was gone for the next few nights, but then Ragnal had the ague and he didn't particularly want another woman, so he prepared to sleep in his own bed. Although nearly every noble was dressed and undressed by servants, Gawaine had never had the patience for such niceties when undressing. He tore off his clothes and flung them onto the floor for his serving man, Hywel, to pick up in the morning.

  Gareth's face reddened. "You're messy as a pig," he exclaimed. "How can I bear to share a room with you?" He turned away so that he wasn't looking at Gawaine.

  "You're awfully particular for one who not long ago slept in the hall with the servants," Gawaine grumbled, and went to bed. He forbore saying that he was the one who was used to having the room to himself.

  He had scarcely fallen asleep when Gareth leapt out of the bed.

  "What now?" mumbled Gawaine.

  "I can't share a bed with you. Let Hywel go and sleep in the servants' quarters, and I'll take the pallet in the other room," Gareth said.

  "What foolishness is this? Hywel has served me for years, and he will take it very ill," said Gawaine, thoroughly awake now, and noticing that Gareth oddly enough was still wearing his breeches and tunic and apparently had gone to bed so. "Why can't you sleep in my bed? I'm hardly ever here anyway."

  "Your smell is unbearable." Gareth threw the words at him and rushed out of the room.

  Those words stung Gawaine. The next morning he asked Hywel to move to the servants' quarters because Gareth was so odd that he insisted on sleeping alone, and he gave Hywel some fine leather for new boots to appease him.

  Gawaine asked a lady who had once been his mistress—he was afraid that the current ones might not feel they could tell the truth—whether his smell was bad, and she told him that it was not.

  But still he was afraid that she might not have told the truth, so he jokingly asked his fellow warrior
Bedwyr, who laughed and said that he had never noticed, so Gawaine must smell much like other men.

  Then Gawaine decided that Gareth's words came from meanness, and he felt aggrieved.

  Nevertheless, he tried to be friendly with Gareth, and asked him to go hunting with him and practice with him, because his youngest brother was a better man than Agravaine or Gaheris and Gawaine had become somewhat estranged from them. He also arranged for a room for Gareth to be added to his house. But no matter how pleasant Gawaine was, Gareth was always a bit cool with him.

  Gareth sparred with Lancelot, now in the practice room like a true warrior. Lancelot defeated him as usual, but Gareth hoped that there would be a day when he might win. Or would that be a sad day, rather than a happy one? It was good to have a hero.

  "You did well, Gareth." Lancelot was always generous with praise. "Your days in the kitchens did you no harm." Lancelot toweled his face. Although Lancelot sweated as much as most other warriors, he never had an enticing smell like Gawaine's. Neither did his muscles bulge as much as Gawaine's.

  Lancelot had never married, and never flirted with the ladies, but never looked particularly at Gareth or any of the other men. Gareth thought that Lancelot might have the same inclination to sin that he did, but through virtue had conquered it, and therefore was a good example.

  Gareth saw how easily Cai jested with his foster brother, King Arthur, and guessed that Cai had never had criminal thoughts like Gareth's. Gareth was sure that he was the greatest sinner of all, combining Cai's sin of desiring men with the king's youthful sin of desiring one born of the same mother. For Gareth, like many others, had heard that when Arthur was a young man he had been with his sister, Morgan, whom he later called a witch and exiled to Cornwall.