Queen of Camelot

  “Devil! Fiend! Liar! I shall have your life, you filthy blackguard!” Melwas crashed to the floor with Lancelot atop him, a wild man, raging incoherently, blind to his surroundings. Thank God Arthur banned all weapons from the Council chamber, or murder would have followed! The Companions came to their senses and pulled Lancelot away, holding Melwas back while the two men cursed and shouted at one another. Finally Arthur called for silence.

  Lancelot fell to his knees, gasping in pain. “Arthur, Arthur, my most sovereign lord! I am innocent of his accusation! I swear it by the blood of Christ!”

  Arthur came to where Lancelot knelt and extended his hand. “Rise, Lancelot. I know you are free of that sin. Neither you nor the Queen could hide it from me.”

  In the complete silence that followed his words, Melwas threw his glove upon the Round Table. “I will not be called a liar without redress! Arthur of Britain, I challenge you to make good your accusation! Meet me on a field of honor, on the day of your choosing. I will show you what justice is.”

  No one in the room dared to breathe. Lancelot kissed Arthur’s ring and clutched his hand. “Let me fight him, Arthur! I can take him, wound and all! Oh, please, my lord! Let me clear her name!”

  Arthur, as cold and pale as a stone carving, shrugged free of his grip. “On what grounds? The Queen’s honor is mine to avenge.” He turned to Melwas. “I accept the challenge, Melwas. On the morrow I will meet you. The Queen accuses you of her abduction. And I accuse you of slandering her good name. Kay, see to it.”

  Melwas bowed, satisfied, and strode out of the Council chamber. Then pandemonium broke loose. The Companions crowded around Arthur, all talking at once, protesting against the outrageous suggestion that the High King should put his person in jeopardy to satisfy the honor of such a scoundrel. Each of them beseeched the King to let him fight in the King’s place. When the bedlam passed its height, the King answered them.

  “I thank all my brave Companions for your offers. But I ask you to think what you would do, if you were I. The Queen’s honor is mine to avenge. And no one else’s.”

  Bedwyr wrote two songs about this Council meeting and what came after. The true tale he wrote for Arthur; but the other he wrote for Lancelot. Lancelot could not forgive himself for Melwas’ accusing me of adultery in public; he was certain that it was his injury which prevented Arthur from allowing him to fight. To soothe his tormented spirit, Bedwyr remade the story to his liking and sang of Lancelot’s great rage in Council, and his great defeat of Melwas in single combat; how he split his brains with a swordstroke and rid the Kingdom of an evil scourge. Lancelot delighted to hear it, and indeed, it was much the prettier song, although it was fancy. In later years I heard it retold by young men as if it were truth, but no one who ever knew Arthur thought so.

  Everyone, myself included, was horrified that he should put himself at risk, but to Arthur it was a kind of a relief to be fighting again. His dislike of Melwas went deep, but more than that, he desired to show himself a warrior again after years of patient statesmanship as King. There were many young soldiers who had never seen the King’s sword Excalibur lifted from its hanger in the Round Hall. To them the Sword of Britain was a symbol, for they could not remember the hard years of fighting, when Excalibur was raised against the Saxon terror, always victorious. So perhaps, I thought, it was a wise move. But it also brought the King joy.

  The day dawned cloudy and cool, with the promise of rain. Every citizen of Camelot turned out to watch the King defend my honor; from the turrets I could see the press of people as they hurried through the streets, past closed shops and empty marketplace, to join the assembled throng at the Contest Field beyond the town. I spent the morning watching from the southeast tower, most of the time on my knees praying God to spare the life of my lord. What Britain would do without him I could not conceive. The banners that usually flew so gaily over Camelot hung limply in the still, unmoving air. I feared we would have a thunderstorm before the day was out. It was a good day to die, I thought suddenly, and then crossed myself quickly.

  Shaken, I descended to my quarters to await escort to the field. All the women were going, except Elaine. Alone of my household, I did not wish to go. But I had no choice. I was the cause of this disaster and must show my face. “Sweet Mary,” I prayed, “save me from such arrogance again! That I should put my lord in jeopardy!” It was unbearable.

  Lancelot came for me at noon, in a black humor, followed by a group of Companions to escort the women. The ride from Ynys Witrin and his attack on Melwas had inflamed his leg, and he walked with a stout staff and leaned upon my arm, but he was determined to go. Slowly we filed out of the palace and through the streets of the town toward the field, while people stared openly at us and made reverences.

  He stumped along beside me, muttering under his breath, making no attempt at civility.

  “I owe you thanks for your defense of me in Council,” I ventured. “Bedwyr told me of Melwas’ denial and your quick response. I am grateful, Lancelot, and not for the first time, you hold my honor so dear.”

  “Do not speak of it, I pray you,” he retorted. “It is my fault Melwas had the courage to accuse you. Had I caught the lying bastard, had I not blundered around so—”

  “Blundered!” I cried. “Is that what you call it? You rescued me from a fate I could not have borne! You insult me to think so little of it!”

  That startled him out of his selfish sulks, and he looked at me quickly. “I did not mean it that way, Gwen. Surely you know my heart. But Melwas accused me—boldly accused me before Arthur himself and all the Companions—of the one sin I dread committing—”

  “Arthur knew it was a lie.”

  “Yes, but—” His voice sank to a whisper, “—it so nearly wasn’t.”

  “Don’t, I pray you. You are guiltless, and Arthur knows it.”

  “He accused me outright, and I cannot make him pay for it! Oh, God, I would give my right arm to fight him!” He clutched his sword hilt in distress. “But I must sit by helplessly while Arthur clears your name!”

  “Lancelot,” I said evenly. “He is my husband. It is his right.”

  “But—”

  “Who do you think sent me to you on Ynys Witrin? Who has put your well-being first, at every step, before his own? He knows what he owes you.”

  “But I—”

  “I pray you will be sensible! This public display is the best way to put things right between us all. He must do it.”

  “But, Gwen, I—”

  “For the love of God!” I cried, clutching his arm. “Stop thinking about yourself and think of Arthur! King Melwas is twice his size!”

  “Why, Guinevere!” Lancelot suddenly exclaimed. “You are shaking like a leaf in a storm! Surely you do not fear for the King?”

  “Of course I do! Don’t you?”

  He looked amused. “Fear for Arthur? No, indeed. He cannot lose.”

  “How can you know that? He is mortal flesh like other men.”

  “He will not lose to Melwas.” He spoke with certainty. “Melwas knows the truth behind his lies. In his heart he expects to be defeated. He expects to die.”

  “May his expectations be fulfilled.”

  “Amen to that.” Lancelot grunted. “Besides, if today were Arthur’s deathday, Merlin would know of it and be here. But as you see, he is absent, so all is well.” As he spoke the word “death-day” he crossed himself, and I shivered.

  “You believe in the magic of the Sword, then? Well, so you should, I suppose. You have seen it used enough.”

  “Aye, it has saved me more than once from a Saxon ax. But he will not wield Excalibur today.”

  “What!” I stopped so suddenly he almost lost his balance, and only just saved himself from falling. “Not Excalibur? What madness is this?”

  Lancelot spoke with patience. “The Sword is meant to preserve Britain from her enemies. Melwas is a Briton himself. He—”

  “He is an enemy of Arthur’s,” I said hotly,
“and Arthur is Britain!”

  Lancelot’s mouth twitched in an effort to keep from grinning. “No one denies it. Relax just a little. Your fingers will leave bruises on my arm.”

  “I beg pardon,” I said blushing, releasing my grip. “I am—not myself today. I had a premonition of disaster this morning and cannot shake the fear.”

  “Come, let us go on. We are holding up the others, and people are staring. Do not fear for Arthur, Gwen. He is twice the swordsman Melwas is, whatever sword he holds in his hand.”

  “And twice the rider, as well.”

  “Ahhh, well,” Lancelot demurred, and I looked at him sharply.

  “What are you going to tell me now?” I cried. “Will they not fight on horseback?”

  “It is already arranged, Gwen, you can do nothing about it. Arthur knows Melwas has no horses that compare to his own. We have bred them for ten years, and he catches his loose in the hills.”

  “He felt it would be unfair,” I finished bitterly. “What has fairness got to do with it? This is revenge. I am surprised he does not tie one hand behind his back to compensate for his greater skill.”

  Lancelot said nothing, and gradually my temper cooled and I saw the injustice of my protest. Lancelot read my thoughts perfectly.

  “His victory must be earned,” he said slowly. “It is important for his honor in the eyes of the people, as well as in his own eyes. To make use of all the advantages he has would ill become him. It must be a fair fight.”

  “But Melwas is so big. And he is brave. I heard him say things that let me know he was not afraid of Arthur.”

  “Bravado. It is easy to be brave with one’s lips.”

  “Yet he dared to take me.”

  “His lust was greater than his fear.” He looked quickly away, and I knew what he was thinking. He was ever quick to condemn himself.

  “Love is not lust,” I murmured softly.

  “Thank you, Gwen.”

  We walked in silence until the field came into view. A small pavilion had been built at one end of the field, with a dais for chairs and an awning above. Here was where the King and his household sat to watch the contests during celebrations throughout the year. The steps up to the platform were narrow, and as Lancelot bade me precede him, I was first upon the dais. The crowds broke into wild cheering and stomping, raising their arms in the air. Vainly I looked about for Arthur, but could not see him.

  Lancelot, come up behind me, said, “Gwen, they are cheering for you.”

  Amazed, I looked upon the people. “The Queen! The Queen!” they cried. Their faces were raised to me in joy, and their eyes were alight. I felt both uplifted and unworthy, and bowed my head and made them a deep reverence. The cheering only increased, and I turned to Lancelot helplessly.

  “What do they want of me? I know not what to do.”

  “They just want to look at you. You are dear to them, and they nearly lost you. It is the way the King feels, too. And I.”

  I took my seat, my ladies filed in and sat on either side. Kay stood behind me, and Lancelot sat in the King’s empty chair as his proxy while he was on the field. The Companions took their places guarding the pavilion. When all was ready, the noise gradually subsided. From opposite ends of the field the combatants suddenly appeared, each accompanied by his second, bearing arms. Arthur wore his fighting armor, thick leather leggings and boots, a heavy leather tunic studded with brass, and a leather helmet with a gold crown across the brow. That Melwas could look at him and not bend his knee defied belief. Melwas, who loved a rich display, was dressed as simply. He had come to fight.

  Bedwyr and Arthur approached the center of the field. When Melwas and his second came up, the King spoke, but we were too distant to hear his words. Melwas’ reply was short. Then he turned to his second and grasped his sword and short dagger. Arthur turned to Bedwyr and did the same. Then the seconds left the field, and Arthur faced Melwas alone.

  A great roar went up from the assembled throng, and the two men began circling, like rival dogs over a bitch in heat. I gripped Lancelot’s arm.

  “Is there no way to stop this?” I whispered frantically.

  He glanced at me swiftly. “He is your husband. It is his right.”

  “Damn you!” I gasped. “And may God protect him!”

  “Amen. Relax, Gwen. See how they feint and dodge? He is taking Melwas’ measure.”

  And Melwas was taking his, I thought, but did not say it. Growing up in a household among five brothers, I had seen plenty of fights, but none between such skilled swordsmen. Pellinore’s men had been better trained, but their swordplay was only in practice. Never before had I seen two men face each other with the intent to kill. The difference in their styles was apparent before either scored a stroke. Arthur moved with grace and assurance and an inborn sense of timing. Melwas lunged with a boldness born of rage or desperation. He was nearly twice Arthur’s size, and much the slower of the two, but any stroke that landed was capable of killing.

  Each man gripped his sword, feinting, swinging, blocking each other’s strokes. It was slow, this testing, getting a feel of the weapon and the opponent. It ended suddenly. Melwas feinted one way and lunged another. Arthur dodged but fell back. The crowd roared, and I gripped Lancelot’s hand. Melwas pressed his attack, swinging ferociously, always advancing. Arthur sidestepped him, first one way and then another, but always retreating. They were getting farther from us, but I could hear Melwas’ loud grunts of effort.

  “What is he doing?” I cried.

  “Watch now,” Lancelot said, his eyes never leaving his King. “He will turn him in a minute. This is child’s play.”

  Melwas raised his sword once more, and Arthur ducked under it and ran past. Melwas whirled in fury.

  Lancelot chuckled. “Did you see that?”

  “I see no humor in it. The man could kill him.”

  “He could, Gwen, but he won’t.”

  I wished I had his calm. Immediately Melwas’ tactics changed. He feinted toward the King’s body, then chopped swiftly from the side, shortening his backstroke so his movements were harder to read. Arthur matched him stroke for stroke, blocking his thrust and being himself blocked. Once or twice they locked swords and came face to face. I saw Arthur’s lips moving and could not guess what words he had to say to Melwas, there in the middle of the field. Melwas’ sheer weight bore the King down, and they advanced toward us. Suddenly Melwas leaped sideways with surprising swiftness and swung upward. I gasped aloud. Arthur proved as agile, avoiding the stroke with a twisting of his body as he jumped toward Melwas and knocked the sword away just shy of his hip.

  “Dear God,” I whispered, but Lancelot was excited.

  “Did you see that? I taught him that move, but he has never done it so well with me. He must have been practicing.”

  “Lancelot, this is not a game!” I cried in earnest, and for my sake he recovered his gravity. And so they went, back and forth and in circles around the field, with the people shouting encouragement, and Melwas always the aggressor. To ease my fears, Lancelot told me about the sword the King fought with, how it was made here in Camelot by a swordsman from the far north, a man of great skill who could fashion a living blade from cold iron in four days. But he had worked a month on the King’s weapon. The blade was supple and strong, heated by the hottest fires and chilled in water just melted from ice blocks cut in midwinter and stored carefully in straw. The grip was made for the King’s hand and none other. The smith swore if the blade ever chipped or cracked, the King might kill him with the remnant. Lancelot succeeded in distracting me for a while, and when I returned my attention to the fight, I noted that the pace had picked up considerably and that Melwas was getting angry.

  “He thinks the King is playing with him,” I said at a guess. Lancelot did not reply, and when I glanced at him I saw him looking worriedly at the leaden sky. “What’s wrong?”

  He shrugged. “I hope it does not rain.”

  “Why?”

  ?
??The footing will be slippery.”

  “Will that favor one or the other?”

  “It often favors the heavier man. Oh, no, Gwen, forgive me! I should not have spoken. Look how Melwas is tiring. That is why he presses. Melwas is past thirty and fond of good living. The King is fit. Please don’t worry.”

  But it was too late for reassurance. I watched in agony while the strokes got short and vicious. Arthur drew first blood, a glancing cut on Melwas’ upper arm. Enraged, Melwas struck out blindly, and the very unpredictability of his attack made him dangerous. Blood flowed freely from his wound and wet the ground. Dodging, the King’s foot slipped, and Melwas’ sword came down. I believe I cried out. Lancelot half rose from his seat. The crowd gasped as one man. But Arthur rolled away, and the blow landed spent in the muddy grass, just grazing his arm. Melwas’ sword stuck for a moment in the turf, pinned by the weight of his downstroke, and the King leaped to his feet, sword raised. The people roared, ready for the kill. But Arthur only pointed his blade at Melwas’ heart and spoke to him.

  “What is he about?” Lancelot cried, finally as fearful as I was. “Finish him, Arthur, before the rain!”

  Melwas freed his sword and backed away, crossing the King’s blade. He shouted something defiant, and I saw Arthur’s shoulders stiffen. Then the King went on the attack, but Melwas gave no ground. Thunder rumbled menacingly, and the crowd grew uneasy. Arthur worked hard, but Melwas fought in fear of his life and was as quick. There was blood on the King’s sleeve. “It’s not his sword arm,” Lancelot said, as if that should comfort me. Both men were tiring. Melwas used his weight to lean against the King, knowing he could not support it for long. I began to cry, silently, helplessly. Then Melwas tripped him. Lancelot leaped to his feet, shouting, and all the Companions drew their swords. It was the act of a coward, and base. Melwas had to be desperate. The King went down, but as he fell he kicked out at Melwas’ sword hand, and his blade flew wide. Melwas drew his dagger and threw it.