Chapter Text
'God turne us every drem to goode!' — Geoffrey Chaucer, The House of Fame (c.1380), I.pr.1
Incipit Liber Primus
Yuletide again. Camelot was alive with all the joys of the season’s festivities: enormous boughs of holly and ivy were wreathed around the halls, songs and spices filled the air, faces were red with laughter and the midwinter cold. It was lovely, heart-warming—but Lancelot was not feeling the spirit. From where he traipsed through the snowy courtyard, jubilant strains of ‘Nove lucis hodie’ reached him, and he felt almost penitent to find that they did not fill him with the cheer they had always used to.*
The reason for his melancholy was—over there, chatting with some ladies, who were visibly trying to keep up their modest manners despite holding the attention of the fairest knight in all of Camelot. Lancelot noticed this with a wave of resentment. He very deliberately turned the corner, crossing a little drawbridge over the moat and entering the castle grounds. He walked for a while amongst the trees, stopping for a spell to watch a squirrel scamper up a pine, and then again, at some enthusiastic chirping which revealed itself to be a robin when it flitted out of a holly bush and up into the leafless branches of a splendid old oak. Ordinarily, such observations would have brought him cheer, and because they presently did not, he almost felt worse for it. So he gave up on the grounds and returned to the castle.
As he was crossing the drawbridge again, he was suddenly hit by something wet and cold—he looked up to find himself face to face with his assailant, and rather flustered. ‘Lancelot! Joyeux Noël!’ Oh, why, for a start, did he have to have such beautiful, gentle green eyes? Lancelot just about ducked the second of Gawain’s snowballs. ‘That’s more like the kind of reactions one expects from the greatest Knight of the Round Table!’ Gawain laughed. And then he moved closer, holding his hands up to show them empty of threatening snow. ‘How are you today? Have you seen the snowman the squires have built? If only they put so much effort into their squirely duties.’
‘Indeed,’ said Lancelot with a smile. ‘Looking forward to the goose?’**
‘Redundant question, my friend, as well you know. Looking forward to the customary bizarre and dangerous Yuletide happening?’
Lancelot felt ill. ‘Sounds like you are,’ he said.
‘Well,’ laughed Gawain, ‘fame and fortune, that’s the game, isn’t it?’ Oh, fame and fortune. Lancelot worried his lip. It had used to be the game, and then he had met Gawain, and suddenly it had not seemed so much like a game anymore. Now there was someone to care for, and so to worry about, and this troubled him, deeply. Added to which, he did not remotely dare tell him—pardie, no!—for a spectacular variety of reasons needless to be listed. So now ‘fame and fortune’, for Lancelot, just meant Gawain putting himself in danger, and it was in silence that he suffered every time Gawain went off alone in search of them.
‘Fame and fortune. Yes, I suppose so,’ said Lancelot. Too clipped. Gawain’s brow furrowed.
‘Are you well, Lancelot?’
‘Oh, yes, quite well,’ he lied, and if it was unconvincing, Gawain did not react. He nodded, just a little thoughtfully.
‘Anyway,’ he said, grabbing, in excitement, with very icy hands, Lancelot’s own, which sent the most tremendous thrill through Lancelot that may have been the cold or may have been something else, ‘I was just on my way to join in with some carolling—will you come?’
In many ways, if one had offered to open at random the bristling pages of any given bestiary and Lancelot had been forced to fight whatever monstrous, many-toothed, fire-breathing adversary was there depicted, the notion would have scared him less than that of singing. But for the man before him, and yet more so with his hands in his, he would have done anything. ‘Of course I will,’ said Lancelot.
‘Wonderful,’ said Gawain. And to Lancelot’s simple delight, he did not let go of his hands as together they hurried off, in the direction of the more or less tuneful rounds of iubilamus! and exultamus! then echoing from a different courtyard.
*
The Yuletide feast was in full swing that evening when Glewlwyd Gafaelfawr burst into the hall.*** Awareness of his entrance filtered rather slowly round the Table, boisterous and distracted as it was by its revelries. ‘My Lord,’ said Lancelot to the King. No response; too busy drinking and laughing with Guinevere. ‘My Lord,’ he repeated, and gave him a nudge. Arthur finally raised his head, with a brief look of surprise.
‘You have news from the gate?’ he called above the hubbub. People quietened a little at this.
‘I do,’ Glewlwyd called back, apparently unfazed by the delay. ‘My Lord—
In all my days as keeper of this gate,
And all my ranging aventures with thee,
From East to West,
O’er wave and hill,
Of all the wonders it has been my fate
To witness, men and monsters strange to see,
Yet still the best
In wordsmith’s skill
I’ve ever met, is here. Aye, Lord, I know it:
In all the world, he is the greatest poet.’
‘By Jupiter,’ cried Arthur, ‘if this is so, bring him in at once!’ Glewlwyd nodded and hastened to do as he was bid.
Maybe, thought Lancelot, he had imagined some Castle rule about none but the offspring of a lawful ruler of a country, or a craftsperson who brings their craft, being admitted into the court during a feast, once the first cup had been poured, and the first knife plunged into meat. Lancelot had not imagined it, but, in that moment, he wished that he had: he sighed through his nose, and Gawain very loudly through his mouth with an accompanying eyeroll and dramatic stretch back in his seat, as Kay the Seneschal spoke up in that surly self-righteous manner of his. ‘My Lord,’ he growled, ‘are we to break on his account the Castle rule about none but the offspring of a lawful ruler of a country, or a craftsperson who brings their craft, being admitted into the court during a feast, once the first cup had been poured, and the first knife plunged into meat? By the hand of my friend, we should not.’
Now, in his defence, he did have a point. Not necessarily the point he thought he was making, which Lancelot was quite certain was just baldly legalistic of him, as was typical—but a point nonetheless. Good things seldom came of unannounced visits to Arthur’s court: at least, dubious happenings usually ensued. That was why Gawain’s face (Lancelot now looking over at him) was flushed with excitement at Glewlwyd’s declaration. Well, it was true that Lancelot’s element was in errantry, and not—emphatically not—in the careful civilities of courtly life, which was all eggshells to him. But he was still suspicious, and only more so now he saw how Gawain’s attention was engaged.
‘If such a man as Glewlwyd says is indeed at our gate,’ said Arthur, ‘no such rules must stand in his way. Think what entertainment he shall provide for our Yule festivities!’ A miscellaneous set of cheers went up at this, and then the doors were opened again, so Kay was forced to shake his head and say no more.
Everyone in the hall peered at the doorway in the hopes of getting the first look at the visitor as he entered. A susurrus went round the room when he did. He walked in quite slowly, stately, in fact, emanating a look of supreme assurance. Lancelot was not sure he had ever seen anyone appear so wholly unfazed by the imposing spectacle of Arthur’s court. It was impossible to say how old he was. He looked like a young man, but there again he looked like an old one, or did he just give off an air of unplaceable wisdom? Was it wisdom? And then he was young again, and then—why, the longer he stared, the more uneasy felt Lancelot. He looked around. No one else appeared to share his sentiments, so perhaps his worries were unfounded. He looked back again. The poet was all swathed in furs, as befit the season. Lancelot was struck by the variety of beasts represented in his costume – he thought he could make out stag, hog, and, yes, that was certainly the stitched face of a wolf on his shoulder. Beneath them shone gold brocade of the French type Lancelot knew well from his youth. In his left hand he held a tall, gnarled, very ancient-looking wooden staff, intricately carved with all manner of geometric designs, chipped and worn with what was clearly unfathomable age.
The poet advanced as close to Arthur as the Round Table would allow, and fell to one knee. ‘My Lord,’ he began, and his voice was just the same as his walk. Had Camelot ever been so silent? At these two simple words alone, all the court was held in rapt attention, Lancelot included. ‘Great Arthur, and all you my ladies, and my lords, brave Knights of the Round Table. I thank you heartily for accommodating me.’ Lancelot expected Kay to huff, and would have been surprised to have heard nothing out of him, had not his attention been snatched away once more by the poet’s continuing to talk.
‘O ladies fair, and gentle knights,
All ye who wish to prove your might,
Lend me now your eager ears—
Hear of a place that has no peers.
A tale I’ll tell you, if ye will,
Of wonder, magic mirabil,
The story of that setting strange,
If ye should chance the small exchange:
Just one request is all I ask;
In sooth, it is a simple task,
A task I think ye’ll take most glad.
And should ye take the task thus bad,
And should Fortuna take your side,
With you shall Fame fore’er abide—
By all mouths magnified:
My pact I shall provide,
Yea, sanctified,
Should ye decide
That ye shall pick me as your poet guide.’
His words hung like smoke in the air. All were captivated. Lancelot prised his gaze away, with difficulty, to look at Gawain – and found Gawain gazing at the poet with lips slightly parted and something in his eyes that sent through Lancelot an unexpected thrill of what could only be called jealousy. It was with bitterness – bitterness he knew was unreasonable and so was all the more grieving – that Lancelot turned back to the poet.
Arthur, who appeared just as awestruck as the rest of Camelot, finally responded to the poet’s request. ‘I am sure I speak on behalf of every member of the Round Table,’ he began, and Lancelot alone seemed to shift in his seat, ‘when I say what an honour it is to be graced, this Yule, with your unparalleled company. Tell us the tale. Anything we can grant in return, we shall.’ At that, Guinevere opened her mouth, but Arthur would not – could not? – hear. It was with some relief on Lancelot’s part that he and she managed to catch each other’s eyes and share a sympathetic glance. It had been decided, though, and with a small smile, the poet stood again, as he was bidden by the King. ‘I shall tell the tale, then,’ he said, and Lancelot felt the room swell with excitement, ‘—at tomorrow night’s feast.’
A great wave of disappointment flooded round the Table, but Arthur hushed them all. ‘As you wish, good poet. Tomorrow evening cannot come quick enough.’ A few bold voices cried for Arthur to make the poet stay and tell it now, but he would not be persuaded, and the poet was led by a pretty squire in the direction of the guests’ wing. At the threshold he turned momentarily back. ‘Good things come to those who wait,’ he said with a wink, and was gone.
The rest of that evening passed in great anticipation, apparently felt by all but Lancelot and Guinevere. Lancelot got away from the feast almost as soon as possible, but before he left he went to Gawain and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Gawain, would you come with me, please?’
Gawain looked up at him. ‘What’s the matter, Lancelot?’ He batted away the hand of one of his brothers trying to steal his food while he was distracted.
‘I need to talk to you in private. Please.’ At the seriousness of this request, Gawain looked Lancelot up and down, which threatened to make him blush, and then stood up, pushing his plate to his brothers, without glancing away. He followed Lancelot out of the hall and to his rooms.
As soon as the door was shut behind them, Lancelot said simply, ‘I don’t trust him.’
Gawain laughed. ‘What do you mean?’ he said.
Lancelot looked at him helplessly. He had woefully underestimated how much Gawain must have drunk. Unfortunately, his tipsiness, and the way his face glowed with it, only made matters worse for Lancelot. ‘There was just something about him,' he persevered, though now he knew it was fruitless, '—don’t you think? And to make one of those open-ended requests—you know as well as I do how well they usually turn out.’
‘We always deal with it though, don’t we? And it’s good to have something to go and do. It’s not like you to want to remain in Camelot any longer than you must.’ Gawain was, of course, right on both counts. Oh, perhaps Lancelot was worrying over nothing—it would hardly be the first time. He looked at Gawain, who looked back at him with some concern, which made Lancelot’s heart leap, so he averted his eyes again. ‘Oh,' said Gawain. 'You're—you’re really being serious, aren’t you?’ He was swaying a bit, so he steadied himself on the forearm of Lancelot, whom speech momentarily failed. Oh, St. Thomas of Kent, this was not going to work. He took a deep breath and tried again.
‘I—yes. I know I shouldn’t be, I just…’ It was not Gawain's fault that he did not know—well, quite simply, did not know that Lancelot loved him with such a passion and in such a manner as was supposed to be reserved for one’s lady and one’s lady only. That, indeed, Lancelot had never felt like this towards a lady, and there had not been, it had to be said, any shortage of possible candidates. Lancelot knew that Gawain could perfectly well look after himself; on that front he was just as successful as Lancelot, if not more so. He knew too that Gawain had even more lady candidates than Lancelot, and that he had had rather a lot of… dalliances, in his time. Whether he had had anything comparable with men—for Lancelot was well aware that he was not the only one to feel that way, though one had to keep it on the quiet—Lancelot did not know and certainly would not ask. None of this could he tell him, so how was he to explain his worry? And how was he to cope if he kept his hand there for much longer—
‘There’s just something about him,’ continued Lancelot desperately. ‘It was just a sense I had. And the way everyone was so—captivated…’
Gawain swayed again and his hand crept a little further up Lancelot's arm, whose heart raced ridiculously. ‘Are you jealous, Sir Lancelot?’
‘What?’ Lancelot’s gaze snapped back to Gawain, but Gawain was grinning, standing upright by himself again; it had meant nothing; so Lancelot forced himself to fake a laugh too.
‘He’s just a good poet,’ said Gawain. 'That's all.' And 'Struth, maybe that was all it was. Lancelot was in love, and the poet had held Gawain’s attention when Lancelot couldn’t. It was just Lancelot worrying overmuch again—and he’d spoilt Gawain’s evening for nothing.
‘You’re right. Pardon me, Gawain,’ he said earnestly. ‘I’ve ruined your evening and wasted your time.’
‘Oh, Lancelot, nonsense,’ he said; and then, in a slightly softer voice, ‘No time spent with you is wasted. Even if you are jealous of some poet.’ He grinned again, and patted his shoulder. ‘Pardon me,’ he shook his head, ‘I've drunk far too much wine. But Lancelot,' he whetted his lips, '—forgive me—I feel you’ve not been quite yourself recently. Are you sure you’re all right?’
Absolutely not. But he couldn’t tell Gawain that. ‘Yes, thank you, Gawain. Perfectly all right.’
Gawain looked him over again for a moment, a look which made Lancelot burn, and then went towards the door. ‘Well, you know where I am, should you need me.’ I always need you, thought Lancelot, grimly, but would’ve cut off his hand before saying it. ‘In the meantime, I’m off to bed. Goodnight, Lancelot.’
‘Goodnight, Gawain. And thank you.’ And I love you.
They smiled at each other, and Gawain left.
Lancelot stared at the door for a minute or so, then shook his head, and went to bed.
*
Lancelot had almost forgotten about his concerns until a little before dinner the following evening, when Guinevere met him in a corridor.
‘Oh, Lancelot, just the fellow I was looking for. Have you a moment?’
‘Of course, my Queen.’
She ushered him round a corner, out of sight. This usually meant that she needed to confide in Lancelot some dubious judgement of Arthur’s. She loved Arthur immensely, and vice versa, but for all that he was the King Arthur, like any other human being he had his shortcomings, and impulsiveness was top of the list. Both of them knew that Lancelot was not exactly the best person to come to on such matters, living life as he did through a curious combination of thorough recklessness and obsessive thinking about the future. But they were old friends, and he was fundamentally one of the more sensible fellows at Camelot, and so it was in him that she confided nonetheless. In this instance, Lancelot was not sure whether to be relieved or panicked by what Guinevere had to say.
‘That poet fellow,’ she began, and Lancelot’s attention sharpened violently. He grimaced. ‘Ah, you do feel the same,’ said Guinevere, noticing his reaction. ‘I reckoned so. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. And—oh, it’s indiscreet of me, but, well—why Arthur insists on making these open-ended deals, by the blessed St. David, I shall never know.’
Lancelot kept his mouth shut as he ought, but it didn’t matter; Guinevere knew him well enough by now to see how he felt at a glance.
‘Well, I’m glad at any rate that you feel the same.’
‘Gawain was of the opinion that I was fretting overmuch.’
Guinevere studied him for a moment, and that made Lancelot blush again, but in a very different way to when Gawain did it. When Guinevere looked at you like that, you felt that every thought you’d had in the last week was written out for her on your forehead by a scribe, in the vernacular and in Latin, complete with rubric and illumination and little rabbits tooting clarions and riding giant snails. Sometimes she did this deliberately, other times it was just her. This time Lancelot sensed it was the former; she knew he was hiding something from her, and he knew that he ought to trust her, but Lancelot was Lancelot and he told no one anything. ‘He was, was he?’
‘He was.’
‘You and Gawain…’ Lancelot squirmed; where was his visored helmet, nay, his whole suit of armour, when he needed it, by the Rood, what was he to do—‘Forgive me for asking, but…’
‘My Queen?’ said Lancelot with forced calmness so miraculously measured he impressed even himself.
‘O, Lancelot, I know how you care for him. Oh, don’t look so worried, my friend—’
He could feel that the colour had drained from his face, and knew that Guinevere had seen. ‘When you say “care”—’
Her face was insinuating in its sympathy.
‘’Swounds, Guinevere,’ he hissed, unable to keep up the politesse any longer, suddenly feeling tears pricking at his eyes, ‘no one else has noticed, have they? And especially not—not him? Oh, Maria, Maria, Maria—’ Guinevere looked increasingly concerned. ‘What would he think if he found out? He’d keep his distance—he’d think me a danger—and Guinevere, how I fret about him, one of the greatest Knights of the Round Table and yet how I fret!’
‘Lancelot, Lancelot, pardon me,’ she said urgently, laying reassuring hands on his, ‘I did not mean to distress you. No, I am quite sure that no one else has the smallest inkling. In fact, I don’t think any of them would suspect it in a thousand years. Most of them have, I think—forgive me—a rather different idea of you than is strictly true.’
Lancelot did not know what she meant. She had opened her mouth to speak again, but at that moment the bells clamoured announcing dinner. Guinevere looked at the floor and tapped her foot agitatedly. ‘Look—as regards tonight,’ she said, ‘I suppose there is nothing to be done but to keep our wits about us,’ she said after a moment. They looked at each other but said nothing more: the poet awaited, with whatever his request might be. They made their separate ways to the great hall.
*
Lancelot sat down, carefully positioned, though he’d never admit it, so he had the best view of both Gawain and the currently empty chair on one side of Arthur that was to be the poet’s. The room, at first characteristically rowdy, suddenly hushed as the poet entered. Lancelot, like all the rest of the Round Table, stared as he took his seat. Oh, but he did not merely take his seat. He approached it with that same slow walk that had so captivated them all the previous evening, and did so again that night. A squire drew back his chair; he shifted his cloak and his gowns in such a way that the torchlight shimmered on his gold brocade; he set his staff against his chair so it was safe but just slightly ostentatious, and then he sat down. That was all it took: whatever he did after that, his audience was mesmerised. This performance—Lancelot took a stiff breath—over, Arthur said something introductory (who knew what he said?), the Bishop said Grace, and people began to eat. They could not eat fast enough, but the poet ate steadily, and so it was with the most immense and burning anticipation that the room turned when finally, finally, Arthur called everyone’s attention again—as though it had ever wavered!
Lancelot looked over at Gawain, found him gazing at the poet with eyes that if Gawain had not mentioned jealousy last night, Lancelot might have been less ready to describe as enthralled, enamoured, hungry. He refilled his cup and downed two thirds of it at once. Then he looked to Guinevere. She was looking between Arthur and the poet with an expression Lancelot suddenly worried probably painted his own face in looking at Gawain, so he swallowed uneasily, turned away again, and took to staring resolutely, instead, at his wine.
A few more words from the King that nobody heard, and the poet began.
Explicit Liber Primus