Lancelot and Guinevere Page 7

  "So, are you prepared for the court?" Morgan asked, brushing the red hair out of Galahad's face. She had spent some days at the convent, adding her own instructions to those of the nuns, and those instructions had been rather different.

  "Yes, Mother." Galahad tried to keep from picking at her tunic with her hands. She should leave them at her side like a proper warrior. Now that the day for going to court drew near, her stomach was tense at the thought, much though she had anticipated the event. "But will they take someone as old as I am? Don't boys have to spend years studying there?"

  "Many do, under the new way of doing things, but few of the old warriors went through such steps. They merely came and fought when Arthur needed men. You have learned enough of fighting to pass among lads of your age," said Ninian, who sat on a stool in Galahad's tiny convent cell with the mother and daughter, who both were seated on a pallet. A wall hanging with strange designs that was a gift from Morgan vied with a plain cross on the walls.

  Wondering how the old woman came to know so much about warriors, Galahad asked, "But won't they want to know whose son I am? I can't say that I am yours, can I, Mother? What family shall I name?"

  "None," Morgan said calmly.

  Galahad gasped.

  Morgan made her face hard at the sight of Galahad's dismay. "No one has inquired too closely into Lancelot's origins, so why should they into yours?"

  "But don't they have to know that I am of noble blood?" Galahad winced at the thought of arriving at the caer's gates and simply announcing "I am Galahad."

  "Who would dare to doubt that you are noble?" Rising, Morgan drew herself up, looking taller than her full height, which was considerable for a woman, and frowned at the thought of such audacity.

  Ninian patted Galahad's hand. "Just wander around the wood's edge nearest to the hill on which the caer sits. You will find Merlin. Tell him that you are Galahad and that Ninian sent you, and he will know who you are. Don't worry yourself."

  Galahad nevertheless was full of trepidation as she set off. Although she rode a fine white horse, Galahad felt like a beggar—an unfamiliar and unpleasant feeling.

  Ninian told her the way, but said that Galahad must ride alone. The road to Camelot was not difficult to find. The woods were full of birds and squirrels, and Galahad imagined that they were clothed in gowns and tunics. In fact, they might be little people, half caught in another creature's body. That robin—wasn't it really a little man in a red tunic? And that squirrel—an old woman in a reddish gown? Hadn't Ninian told of such things when Galahad was a child?

  Thus comforted with imaginings, Galahad slept in the forest for the first time. The hoots of owls and the flapping of bats unnerved her, but a warrior must be brave. She told herself that there was nothing dangerous in the forest except for warriors, robbers, wolves, and the occasional adder. Finally Galahad fell asleep. Toward morning, there was a faint drizzle. Galahad woke and thought the drizzle the worst part of the night.

  Trying to ignore her damp clothes, Galahad rode to the wood's edge and saw the farms beyond and the gray stone caer on the hill. Now it seemed certain that this was a fairy world, for nothing built by human hands could be so large.

  It took no persuasion to keep Galahad lingering near the forest. Galahad's horse, allowed to wander as it would, found a pond and drank. By the pond sat a white-bearded man in a white tunic that was the worse for wear. His glance darted hither and thither, following dragonflies that skittered over the pond's surface.

  He gave Galahad only a glance, then resumed watching the dragonflies.

  Galahad dismounted because it seemed discourteous to be on a horse while one so senior was seated.

  "My Lord?" Galahad's voice quavered. "Are you the Lord Merlin?"

  "I am." The voice was much gentler than Galahad had expected. "Who are you?"

  "I am Galahad. The Lady Ninian" (Galahad had been schooled not to call her Mother Ninian to this listener, who would not like to be reminded that she was in a convent) "said I should tell you that I have come from her. I hope to become a warrior of King Arthur's." Galahad could not pronounce the king's name without a certain warmth and pride.

  Merlin rose from the mossy bank. "Galahad? Why, of course you are. Why have you taken so many years to arrive?"

  Galahad stared at him. "They said I wasn't old enough before."

  "Not old enough." Merlin stared back. "That's what all these young people say. That's what Percival said when I asked why he had taken so long. There's one whom I hope never to see, but no doubt he'll come here, too." He shuddered. "Yes, you are young." The old man nodded and walked around the tiny pond to clasp Galahad's hand. "Let me take you to the court. Is Ninian well?" he asked, but he scarcely seemed to hear Galahad's assurances that she was.

  Galahad offered to help Merlin mount his gray horse, but the old man laughed and shook his head.

  Galahad hoped for some obscure, fascinating words whose meaning must be pondered, but they rode to the caer in silence.

  The great gates opened to them. Why, Camelot was like a city, with many buildings! It was grand—except for a dreadful smell that proclaimed that the caer's many people had many wastes. But Galahad knew she could not hold her nose or show any other sign of dainty tastes.

  They entered a courtyard full of warriors and stablehands. Galahad had never seen so many men before. Their voices were so much louder than the nuns' that Galahad thought they all must be shouting. Their clatter seemed deafening. But, beside Merlin, Galahad passed through crowds that parted like the Red Sea before Moses.

  They passed a building that must have been the kitchen because an unbelievable medley of scents from roasting meats, baking bread, and honeycakes wafted from its door.

  It was not long before Galahad found herself inside a building that proved to be a barracks. The smells of many men clung to it, and Galahad marveled at how different they were from the nuns' scent. No traces of incense lingered here.

  A frowning warrior of middle age with thinning hair was complaining to a boy about untidiness. The boy stood still, accepting the criticism.

  "Galihodin!" Merlin said, with no ceremony.

  The warrior regarded him without reverence but with some semblance of respect. He nodded. "Yes, Lord Merlin?" The words held more acknowledgment of superior position than admiration.

  "This is Galahad. Galahad will train here," the old man proclaimed, as if he brought in young men every day.

  Galihodin raised his eyebrows. "What is your family, boy?"

  Galahad felt herself flush. "I'm Galahad." The answer seemed quite foolish.

  Galihodin raised his eyebrows still higher and turned his glance to Merlin. "Does he have noble blood?"

  "Of course Galahad has noble blood," Merlin snapped. "Does Galahad have noble blood? What a question. The noblest."

  Galahad flushed deeper, thinking that Merlin had given too much away.

  But Galihodin merely frowned and barked at Galahad, "Put your things here. You'll sleep in the hall, next to Percival. While you are training, you will obey me and every other warrior. Do you understand?"

  Galahad nodded, and had to hold back a sigh as Merlin disappeared without thinking to say farewell.

  Galihodin shook his head. "No doubt you were made under a hawthorn bush," he said with disgust, "if you don't even know who your father was."

  Galahad flushed. She supposed she would have to hear many such taunts.

  A few days later, the king and the older warriors met the new recruits. Galahad stared at the king, who was graying but still handsome, with an air of authority even greater than the abbess's. Red-bearded Gawaine was even taller than the king. Lancelot she recognized. She had peered through the window when the great warrior of the lake had visited Ninian at the convent.

  Galihodin barked out their names. "Percival ap Aglovale..."

  Percy, a handsome, brown-haired young man with a ready smile, was already Galahad's favorite of the others in training.

  "A good ma
n, Aglovale," Gawaine interrupted, smiling at Aglovale's son.

  "Welcome, Percy," said Lancelot, with a familiarity that made Galahad envy Percy.

  "Lionel ap Brendan," Galihodin continued, "Galahad ap...Galahad ap?" He surveyed Galahad with impersonal derision.

  She flashed a grin. "Galahad ap Hawthorn Bush."

  Gawaine and Arthur laughed heartily. Gawaine clapped Galahad on the back. "Never mind, lad. Many a good man was gotten under a hawthorn bush. Let no one tax you for it," he said, looking meaningfully at Galihodin.

  "It's true about the hawthorn bush. All I know of my father was that he had a prick," Galahad replied, and Gawaine and Arthur roared again.

  "That's all that was needed," Arthur told Galahad. "I was born the same way myself, as everyone knows, though my father married my mother not long afterwards. If anyone insults you, he must answer to me."

  "Thank you, Lord Arthur," Galahad said with a voice full of devotion.

  Lancelot smiled warmly at Galahad, as if she agreed it was not so bad to be a bastard.

  The king and Gawaine left the hall, but Lancelot lingered and spoke briefly with Percy, whose eyes shone as if he were seeing a holy vision.

  Galahad's gaze followed the woman warrior.

  Lancelot seemed to notice Galahad's extreme attention to her, and, after the youths had dispersed, followed Galahad to the courtyard.

  "Come walk by the horse pasture with me, lad," she said, in a tone that was distant yet kind.

  Galahad regarded her almost worshipfully. "Yes, Lord Lancelot." If only she could be like Lancelot! Galahad marveled at Lancelot's strong hands and weather-worn, hairless cheeks. What muscles Lancelot had developed!

  Doves wandered about the pasture, cooing, but flew up as they drew near.

  As they approached the grazing horses, which looked little like war steeds at the moment but larger and tougher than the convent horses, Lancelot spoke. "You may have heard that I have a son called Galahad. But that is only a tale. I have no son. A woman who falsely claims to have lain with me recently bore a child whom she called Galahad. I hope that you don't think I am your father."

  Galahad's gaze surveyed the weeds at their feet. She choked, "No, Lord Lancelot." Her eyes suddenly looked into Lancelot's. "And I don't think you're my mother, either, Lord Lancelot."

  "What did you say to me?" Lancelot's brown eyes widened with astonishment.

  A dark mare whinnied, swifts swooped over the pasture, and Galahad tried to smother the beginnings of a laugh. "Pardon me, Lord Lancelot, but I can't help seeing that you're a woman. You see, my sister decided to dress as a man because she wanted to marry a woman. That's how I know. But never fear, I would never tell."

  "Mary Virgin preserve me, see that you don't," Lancelot gasped. "Your sister must be an amazing woman, and she's fortunate to have a brother like you. I hope that I can meet her someday. It would be good to meet someone like myself."

  "No doubt you will. She would be honored, Lord Lancelot."

  Lancelot turned away, as if unable to face Galahad any longer.

  Galahad choked on a laugh that threatened to turn into a sob. If only she could tell Lancelot about herself, and get both sympathy and suggestions on how best to conceal her secret. But she had sworn the oath to her mother and could never tell. She had tried to give Lancelot a hint without breaking her oath, but Lancelot had not guessed.

  The young men slept on the floor of the hall. Each was wrapped only in a single cloak or blanket. Dawn seemed far away.

  Galahad lay awake. She must find a way to convince their trainers to give her another place to sleep. Lying so close to a large number of young men made her too nervous to rest, and how could she undress around them? Their snores grated on her ears.

  She let out a long, terrible series of moans that sounded like the spirits of the dead. The moans rang through the hall. Was this how a person having a nightmare sounded? What if her companions didn't believe that she made the sounds in her sleep? She tried not to tremble at her audacity. One might thrash during a nightmare, but not tremble. Her eyes firmly shut, she tossed and turned, and moaned again.

  Percy, who slept next to Galahad on the crowded floor, shook her.

  "Wake up, Galahad! This is unbearable!" he called out.

  Galahad's eyes opened hazily.

  "What's the matter?"

  "You're wailing again! It wakes everyone but you." Percy's voice was much less friendly than usual.

  "It's the same thing night after night," called out another young man angrily.

  "I'll beat you if you keep this up, Galahad," cried another.

  "Maybe if we give him a thrashing, he'll stop it," still another one called out.

  "How good it is to be with kind, Christian companions," Galahad mumbled sweetly, hoping they would not act on their words.

  "Don't hit him, that's not the answer," said Percy, turning angrily towards the ones who had suggested it. "He might wail all the louder. Let's ask if he can be transferred out of here to an alcove somewhere. He's been here only a few nights, but the rest of us are going mad."

  "I'm so terribly sorry," Galahad said meekly. "I always had a room of my own. I had no idea that I made so much noise." She was greatly pleased that her moans had had the hoped-for effect.

  It was after supper, and a harper was playing poignant strains. Lancelot relaxed, still tasting the honey-drenched pears she had just eaten. Their smell clung to her fingers. She took a sip of sweet wine. The harper was Irish, and perhaps they were the finest at that art.

  Lancelot rose and walked down the great hall to the distant trestles where the new students sat, and stopped beside Percy and Galahad. She smiled at them, Percy because he was the son of her friend Aglovale, who had fought beside her in the Saxon War and later discovered her secret, and Galahad because he seemed to be trustworthy. The two gazed up at her as if they were more enthused at her presence than at the music. They had still been eating their honeyed pears, but they stopped when Lancelot stood by them.

  She paused a moment, and when the harper had finished his tune, said, "Fine music. It brings every season of the year within the space of a few moments."

  "I enjoyed it," Percy said. "My brother is learning to play and is mad about it, but I have no time. A warrior's arts are more important."

  "Are they indeed?" Lancelot asked. "I'm not so sure."

  The two youths appeared to drink in her every word. She was a little embarrassed at being a hero to them.

  Gawaine had picked up his pipes and begun to play.

  "What a wail!" Percy exclaimed. "How shall I learn to listen to the men of the North playing?"

  But Galahad's blue eyes sparkled. "It's wonderful. This moves me much more than the harp. The pipes are like a creature from another world. Aren't they grand, Lord Lancelot?"

  "Perhaps," Lancelot replied. "But I prefer the harp."

  Gawaine stopped playing, and put the pipes aside. Arthur leaned over, no doubt to say some light words of praise. A young serving woman slipped onto Gawaine's lap, and he laughed and put an arm around her.

  An older serving woman who was carrying a bowl of fruit flinched.

  Lancelot walked up to her. "Put the food aside, Ragnal, and kindly go see that the fire in Lady Guinevere's room is lit. Old Fencha has not been well of late and might have fallen asleep. The nights are still cold and the queen might take a chill."

  Ragnal passed the bowl to another serving woman and cast a grateful look at Lancelot. When she turned to leave the great hall, Lancelot walked with her.

  In the entry way, Ragnal said, "You're a kind man, Lord Lancelot. Only you would care what a serving woman is feeling. I never know what woman Gawaine will want next. It's foolish of me to be bothered. He of course does what he pleases."

  Lancelot squeezed her hand, then returned to the hall. When she resumed her place, Gawaine said, "Run along, Ewa," and the young serving woman went back to her duties.

  Ragnal smiled on the way to the queen's chamber
.

  When Ragnal was studying everyone so she could mimic them, she had seen in what way Lancelot was different. And she later learned that Lancelot was the one person Gawaine did not like her to imitate.

  Ragnal knew that Gawaine was likely to come to her bed as usual that night. She had somewhat exaggerated his wenching, because Lancelot was the only rival she feared.

  As the evening drew to a close and the warriors were departing, Galahad approached Gawaine."Oh, Lord Gawaine, the pipes are splendid. I wish I could learn."

  Gawaine smiled. "Of course you can, lad. I'll teach you."

  Galahad felt almost as thrilled as she had when her mother had said she could go to court. "Truly? Many thanks. I know that I have much to learn about fighting, but I should like to learn music, too. The pipes spoke to my soul like nothing else I've heard."

  Gawaine beamed at her. "Rare words from a southerner. You have not heard them before?"

  "No, I think not."

  So after jousting lessons, Galahad went to Gawaine's house to learn to play the pipes. Gawaine's walls were covered with weapons, but Galahad looked for his pipes.

  Gawaine produced a set of pipes and said, "They're yours."

  Galahad eyed them eagerly. "You're too kind."

  "No, it's rare to find a youth who wants to play them, at least this far south it is. You can learn much from the pipes, Galahad. They're like a woman. Most men think that there is only one organ to touch them with, but they are fools." The red-bearded warrior chuckled.

  Galahad felt herself flush.

  Gawaine smiled. "I don't mean to embarrass you, lad, but as you have no father to tell you...not that mine ever taught me any such thing. He was more like a bull, who knew only enough to get my mother with child, and many other women as well. One of the first women I was with told me many ways to please women. If you ask women what they want, you'll learn a great deal."

  Galahad stared at the rushes on the floor. No doubt that was true. If only a woman wanted her, but that might never happen.