Lancelot and Guinevere Read online

  Guinevere sighed deeply, as she had not in Lancelot's presence. She might have liked to go to the stables and see Lancelot depart, but that would have seemed too great a mark of favor. It was better to part away from curious eyes.

  Looking from the window, she watched Lancelot cross the courtyard to her own house to gather the few possessions she would take on the trip. Even though Lancelot was only a dark shape in a dark courtyard, Guinevere could make her out.

  Then, not waiting for Fencha, Guinevere dressed herself.

  Although this departure was nothing like as painful as it had been when Lancelot left to fight in the Saxon War, Guinevere felt a pang in her chest. Danger might come at any time from brigands or Saxons. Guinevere liked Saxons as little as anyone at Camelot did. They had killed some who were dear to her.

  As dawn's first rays brightened the sky, Lancelot made her way from her house to the stables, and Guinevere was at the window watching her. Near the stables, Gawaine joined the handsome warrior.

  Although Guinevere thought Gawaine would be an intolerable companion on a journey, she was just as glad that he was going with Lancelot. Men who would assault a lone warrior might be less likely to attack two. It was reassuring that Gawaine fought nearly as well as Lancelot, and thus was the best one to travel with her. On an earlier journey, Lancelot had been nearly killed by robbers when she was traveling alone.

  Guinevere saw the two ride away from the stable, and then they were hidden by walls.

  She would be so lonely while Lancelot was gone. Guinevere looked around her room and sighed. Lancelot did not know what it was like to be always penned in one place, like the livestock. Although the dear warrior would miss her queen, she enjoyed traveling. What would it be like to be able to see mountains—though not on this journey, for Lancelot traveled east, where there were none—and rivers, forests, and marshes, to wake every day to a new scene? When Guinevere had been a girl, she had dreamed of traveling, but now she knew she never would. She had never even returned to her childhood home at Powys for a visit. Arthur did not wish it. Did she envy Lancelot's freedom? Oh yes, Guinevere acknowledged, she did.

  The two warriors appeared again as they traveled down the hill and across the fields to the woods. Guinevere's gaze was fixed on Lancelot. When they entered the forest, she kept watching for a time, as if Lancelot might emerge again, although that would not happen.

  Nothing mattered as much as Lancelot. Not even Guinevere's beloved books and scrolls. She would have cast them into the fire if so doing would somehow have kept Lancelot from harm.

  How could she bear it if she never saw Lancelot again?

  But it was wrong to harbor such morbid thoughts. Guinevere sat down at her table and tried to choose a Greek play to read, but none of them seemed likely to cheer her. Instead, she worked on her own verses about Lancelot. In her head only, of course, for they would be too scandalous if written down.

  Lancelot and Gawaine set off through wheat fields and waved back to farmers who saluted them as they passed.

  Who would remember the farmers who fed the people of Camelot? Lancelot wondered. She saw women washing clothes in the river and wondered who would remember them. But they probably had children to remember them, and she did not have any.

  She and Gawaine rode towards the east, a direction that reminded Lancelot of war, although of course battles also had taken place in other parts of the country where the Saxons had attacked them. When they passed the scenes of earlier battles, she tried not to see rotting bodies instead of grain or grasses in the fields. They rode through woods where every tree had hidden an enemy, or so it had seemed. Some burned towns had been rebuilt, and others had faded away, with only a little rubble left.

  "Saxons," grumbled Gawaine. "I'm longing to see their stupid faces and their piss yellow hair again."

  Lancelot groaned. She had no great affection for Saxons, but Gawaine's antagonism to their looks seemed unnecessary. "What difference does their hair make? We know some Britons whose hair is yellow, too."

  "No doubt some of their mothers were raped by Saxons," Gawaine retorted. Lancelot winced, remembering how a brigand had raped and murdered her mother, and Gawaine, who knew about that, looked sorry for his comment. She tried not to see her mother's body lying on bloody pine needles.

  They passed the site of one of the Saxon towns that Arthur's army had burned. Shuddering, Lancelot remembered the sight of the fleeing women and children, the deserted huts she had searched to make sure no one was still in them, the torches of her companions who fired the huts, and the British warriors' yells of exaltation. Forgive me, forgive me, she repeated to herself. She wanted to beat her breast. How could anyone who had fought in a war ever believe again in their own goodness? she wondered.

  On the first evening of their journey, they stopped by a lake and ate cold venison that Ragnal had packed for them. The horses munched on grass and a thrush sang its evening prayer.

  Lancelot stared at the lake's waters, which were darkening from blue to green. She sighed. "If I were a bard, I would be able to tell how the water's blue is like but different from the blue of the sky, and how the green of the water is like but different from the green of the trees."

  "We could ask the spirit of the lake," Gawaine said. "Every lake has its spirit, not just the one where Arthur received his sword."

  Lancelot smiled at the tale of the arm reaching from the water. "And have you ever seen such a spirit?"

  Gawaine stroked his beard. "Of course, for they are female. They have appeared to me and I have pleased them."

  Lancelot rolled her eyes. Aging had not stopped Gawaine's tales about how women threw themselves at him, the more fanciful the better.

  "And I know well the spirits of the sky also, for in former lives I was a hawk, as my childhood name Gwalchmai says. I rode the winds, looked over the world, and, of course, wooed female hawks. No easy task, as they are larger than the males." He drank from his wine flask.

  Lancelot picked up a small pebble and threw it at him. It bounced off his shoulder.

  "All of your tales end that way." Lancelot took a bite of the cold venison. "The very goddesses come to earth just so that you will lie with them."

  "Of course they do." He began to munch his own dinner.

  "I know. Hundreds of women could vouch for your prowess—and even more could vouch for your constancy," Lancelot said, catching a fallen bit of venison before it could reach the ground.

  Gawaine chuckled.

  "Ragnal is such a witty woman," Lancelot said, changing the subject from tales of females to a real one.

  Gawaine slapped his knee and took another swig from his flask. "She is indeed. It was she who chose me. One day I was walking past her in the courtyard. She carried a large basket of apples, but she paused and said, in a voice that mimicked mine exactly, 'I am Gawaine, Prince of Lothian and Orkney and cousin to King Arthur. I am far too important to notice you, little serving woman.' Of course I turned, saw her grin, and burst out laughing. I have noticed her ever since. She is one of the cleverest women at court, or anywhere. She matches me jest for jest and can imitate any voice that she has ever heard."

  "I know that to my chagrin," Lancelot replied, not chagrined in the least.

  "She said that you had heard her imitate you and made a jest yourself. Few others warriors would do that." He grinned broadly.

  "Did you offer to carry her basket of apples?" Lancelot asked.

  Gawaine lifted his eyebrows. "Yes, but why do you want to know?"

  "Because it's what you'd have done if you had any regard for her."

  So the journey was much like those they had shared many times before, except that Lancelot slept some ten yards away from Gawaine, whereas when Gawaine had believed that she was a man she had found the distance of ten feet sufficient. When he had first learned that she was a woman, it was winter, so she had slept on the other side of the fire from him, but now the nights were warm so there was no need to be that close.

/>   As they proceeded in the vicinity of their former enemies, they found without discussion a route that did not go through the places where they had seen the bodies of many women who had been raped and mutilated—first a town of British women raped and killed by Saxons, and then a town of Saxon women raped and killed by the Britons—after which Lancelot had sunk into a deep misery and did not speak.

  She was now quieter than usual and tense. She smiled only at little things, such as a hare running across the road. Unlike many, she did not believe that hares were linked to evil.

  The ghosts of the yellow-haired Saxon women and children who had seemed to follow her in the war were returning. They said nothing, but they seemed to chide her for her happiness. She had no right to be happy, no right to forget the sight of their bodies.

  "It frightens me to see you so silent again," Gawaine said.

  Looking at her mare's mane, she forced herself to speak. "It's different. I am well, but I feel as if I shouldn't be, here in the country of death."

  "Aren't all places lands of death?" he asked. "Surely every place has been fought over."

  Lancelot shuddered. "What a terrible thought, but no doubt true."

  "Damned Saxon barbarians wreck every place they go," Gawaine grumbled. "They tear down the trees and replace them with grain. The Romans cut enough of our forests. We don't need any new invaders destroying more of them."

  "Who could like fields better than trees?" Lancelot agreed, looking with less than great enthusiasm at a field of meadowsweet, where goldfinches fed on thistles. A flock of fieldfares flew up. "Still, our people also cut down forests for farms because we have to eat."

  "There's always roasted Saxon," Gawaine said, grinning.

  Lancelot made a face at that. "We must treat them fairly," she said.

  "Must you be so solemn, Lance? Of course we will. They have submitted to our treaties and pay us tribute. We should be gracious but wary."

  "If Arthur intends that you succeed him, why doesn't he formally make you his heir?" Lancelot asked. "The people at court often speculate. Why not end the speculation?"

  Gawaine grinned. "I hope he postpones that day as long as possible. I have no wish to be king. Perhaps some worthier man will emerge. I wonder whether my brother Gareth could grow to become kingly."

  Lancelot considered the idea. "I'm not so sure he could."

  "But he is more Christian than I am, and people could accept that better. Yet there are also those at court who believe that my whole clan has too much power, so none of us would please them. As long as Arthur keeps them guessing, they may hope that he will make a different choice."

  Lancelot frowned. "That sounds dangerous to me. We need no factions."

  Gawaine shook his head.

  "Factions we will always have. It is dangerous to choose no heir publicly, but choosing one has its disadvantages also. If only Guinevere had given him one."

  Lancelot was silent because that thought pleased her little.

  As the day grew older, the winds whipped through a forest they traversed. Leaves still green scattered as if autumn had come early. A great tree crashed just in front of Lancelot's horse. Raven reared, and Lancelot barely clung to her. She pressed her knees to the mare's flanks in an attempt to subdue her. Gawaine's horse also pawed the air. Both riders kept to their horses and calmed them, first with force and then with soothing words. Lancelot's heart beat fast from the narrow escape. The trees she loved could be killers. Like some of the people she loved. She thought she would prefer to be killed by a tree, but not at the moment.

  Gawaine's face had paled, and Lancelot suspected that hers was pale also. His gaze was fixed on her.

  "If that tree had come any closer, I would have had to carry a sad message to Guinevere," he said. His voice mimicked its usual hearty tone but did not quite achieve it. "I wish you would let me ride first."

  His words annoyed Lancelot. She said, "If you're so eager to be buried, just let someone kill you in your next fight." She urged Raven to go off the path, around the roots that extended from the great fallen trunk. "You don't need to protect me."

  Gawaine followed her. "It's not that I want to protect you. I'd just rather not face Guinevere. If you were to come to grief, I doubt that she'd believe my account of it."

  It was difficult for Lancelot to gather enough breath to chide him. She silently said a prayer of thanks that she would live and see the queen's face again. "You shouldn't exaggerate. True, Guinevere is not fond of you, but surely she doesn't distrust you so much. She's known you for twenty years."

  She turned back to look at Gawaine. Some leaves had stuck in his red hair, giving him the look of a large woodland spirit.

  "Guinevere trusts me, then? And have you told her that I know you are a woman?"

  Lancelot frowned. "No. Why should I give her more worries? She'd fear that when you were drinking you would give away my secret." She turned away from him and felt the wind sting her face.

  Her companion chuckled. "You are commendably discreet. But even were I as drunk as a berserker, I wouldn't tell."

  Hoping that was true, Lancelot studied the trees ahead of her as if she could tell in advance which might fall. Dying near a friend would not be as terrible as dying alone, she thought. She might be killed in some remote place, and Guinevere would never know what happened to her, but would keep hoping that she would return. The thought nearly brought tears to Lancelot's eyes.

  When they came to a meadow, Lancelot sighed with relief at being away from the trees. The two warriors dismounted and made a camp for the night. There was no need to comment about the wisdom of this plan.

  The next day, the wind had died down. Fallen trees covered the earth like warriors slaughtered in a battlefield, but the danger was over.

  They came upon a Saxon village that they had burned, and Lancelot silently rejoiced at seeing it sprung up again from the ashes. They rode around the collection of huts, not too close. Lancelot wondered whether any of the Saxons would recognize their faces. A dog barked at them, but no one came to look at

  the British warriors. Perhaps the people feared them still. Smelling the smoke of the cooking fires, Lancelot remembered that other, thicker smoke of so many years before.

  As the warriors progressed, they stopped at outposts and asked if the men there had had troubles with Saxons, but there was nothing much to report. The last skirmish had been a couple of years before. One outpost said that some farmers were missing livestock and blamed the Saxons, but Lancelot thought it unlikely that Saxons were the thieves. Many British clans engaged in a little cattle stealing when they had the chance.

  Of course the meals at the garrisons were enlivened with the usual stories about women. Lancelot tried as always to shield her feelings. When the beefy Plenorius, the head of one fort, told some particularly detailed stories, Gawaine put his hand up.

  "Enough of such tales for tonight," Gawaine said. "Lancelot is a very pious Christian. He is very fond of holy books, particularly the Book of Judith."

  Lancelot frowned and refrained from looking at him. This was the first time she had ever heard Gawaine refer to the holy book, which he had certainly never read. She was surprised that he might actually have listened to a little preaching.

  After Gawaine had left for the night, Lancelot still sat at the table and argued with the commander. Plenorius tried to distract her with ale and old war stories, but to no avail. The man's beard was graying, but he seemed to have learned nothing since the Saxon Wars. There was no gleam of intelligence in his beady eyes.

  "And then we encircled the Saxons..."

  "I remember it well, Plenorius," she said, cutting him off. "There's no need to remind me. Gawaine's men saved the day."

  "That Gawaine's worse than ever," chuckled Plenorius, stroking his beard in apparent imitation of the tall warrior.

  "No doubt he is," Lancelot replied, unwilling to be distracted. "Now, about the fortifications. Why haven't you reinforced your walls, as you were or
dered to do last year?"

  "All in good time," he said, quaffing his ale. "We don't have enough men. There's only so much labor we can get from the local people. Now, if you could persuade Cai to send me some more goods or men..."

  Lancelot had heard the same complaint from Plenorius several times already. Her voice was testy. "I'll see about it. You have men, you have stones. There's no excuse for not improving the walls. The Saxons could wipe you out."

  Plenorius smiled without warmth. "No doubt you great warriors who spend all your time at Camelot understand these things much better than we do here in the outposts. You're certainly full of zeal in examining our buildings. Gawaine is off examining the bawdy houses. I told him what the best one was, and he actually said he wanted to know where all of them were, not just the best! Now, there's a man for you! This may be a place forsaken by the gods, but we have enough soldiers for more than one brothel."

  "This fortress may not be a desirable post, but if you don't repair it, I have no doubt that you'll get a worse one," Lancelot warned, scowling. She found it disgusting that men would buy women, and was angry at her friend.

  The next morning when they mounted their horses, Gawaine groaned. He had scarcely slept, and he was getting old to go without sleep. The only sight that pleased him was a spiderweb glistening on a bush. He patted his gray horse, which was aging also. "I'm tired today."

  "What a pity," Lancelot said, in a tone that showed absolutely none.

  "You might be a little more sympathetic," he grumbled.

  "No, I might not," she snapped.

  He groaned louder. It seemed that other men were always getting him in trouble with Lancelot. That old fool Plenorius had told Lancelot where he had gone, no doubt. First, Arthur had tried to make him tell a story about something he had never done. His tastes were not so exotic. But Lancelot had been repulsed, and now she believed he was buying women, which she detested. He wondered whether to tell her about his search for the daughter he had never seen, whom an old nun had told him years ago was living in a place with many women, which of course must mean a brothel. Since then, it was no pleasure to go to brothels, but rather a misery to see young girls who might have been his daughter, though he didn't see any with bright blue eyes like his, which the nun had said he should look for. He no longer wanted whores, now that he believed his daughter was one. He decided against telling Lancelot about his daughter. She would believe that he should spend every moment of his life on the search, even though it was probably futile, and be horrified that he ever did anything else. He had searched off and on for years, but less frequently, as finding his daughter seemed less likely.