L'amour D'Arthur
The fires dance there on the river bank, the wicker man standing in the water waiting to be lit. In the dark, flames whirl and leap as the peasants carry fire aloft; the sacred dance, the rite of fertility, the fires of Beltane.
Though there is a fire in my own hall, and a great feast, I keep to my chamber alone, sending away those who come near. I eat no meat, nor drink any wine, but stay at my window watching the flames leap higher and higher. A night of birth it is, as Samhain is a night of death and rebirth. On this night, as on that, the veil between the worlds lies thin and the Goddess roams abroad, searching for her horned god. No doubt many around that river fire will partake of the Great Marriage, acting as the God and Goddess as they couple in field and forest. Would that their rites salvage my reign. My own rites cannot.
Not even my Queen, my Gwenhwyfar, will come to me this night. She fears the temper that I unleashed earlier; and fears also, perhaps, that I will ask of her what I did this Beltane last. To come to my bed-- yes; to bear my heir-- yes; to conceive that child by Lancelet-- no. That she will not try again.
She thinks it a great sin, my Gwen, that I asked this of her. Perhaps it is. The priests tell her so, though to my mind it was not. She vowed, on the day we wed, to obey me-- and this she did. We came together on that night; my wife, my cousin, myself, to make a child that would hold Camelot when I am gone. She did not think it evil then, lying in the arms of the men who loved her. She would not think so now, if she suckled the babe we created.
But there was no child conceived in my bed, and she can call it sin. That evil, pagan night, she calls it, when lechers and adulterers may frolic and good Christians must lock themselves away. A night that can only lead to sin. If she only knew.
I hear footsteps in the corridor, who would dare disturb me? The servants are frightened away; I sent Gawaine to halt the others. Yet the footsteps cease outside my chamber and the door is pushed open by a daring hand.
"Leave me," I order, though my voice does not thunder as I would like. Indeed, I am suddenly choked by the presence at my back. Though he has not said a word, I am aware.
"The feast is nearly over." His voice gently breaks the stillness. I do not turn, lest he read the heat in my eyes. "Will you not join us, even for a moment, my king?"
"Please, Lancelet." My voice is steady, for which I am thankful. "No ceremony here, cousin."
"Forgive me... Arthur. Gawaine said you were in a foul temper, and I did not wish to rile you."
The words sting, and I face him at last. "Do you think I would attack you, as a wild Saxon?" His dark-eyed gaze falters, and I do not know if I am pleased by this. "I am not a savage Northman, nor one of those who leap through the flames and sprinkle blood on the Earth."
He stares out the window, where even now the rite continues. "No, my lord," he answers, voice strained, "You are a good Christian king."
"Should I not be?" I ask, angry in my frustration and shame. "I have pledged to the priests just as to the Goddess, and I must keep their laws."
"You pledged to the Goddess just as to the priests, but do you keep her rites?"
I cannot bear the reproach in his voice. "Would you revisit last year's catastrophe, Lancelet? We kept her rites then, but the Goddess did not reward us." He flinches and I press on, crossing the floor to tower over him in my impotent rage. "Yea, for keeping her rites we were punished and my wife still has no child."
"Was that your purpose, then, Gwydion?" He speaks my birth name calmly, his beloved face serene. He could not have doused my anger faster with a bucket of water, and I feel foolish for glowering at him. The laugh nearly chokes me, but I manage it nonetheless.
"What else could have been my purpose, cousin? To let you enjoy my wife? Now, I love you more than any man," Goddess knows the truth of that, "but I would not share my queen even with you."
To my surprise and joy, he laughs heartily. "No, Arthur, no man alive would give his wife to another unless in great need."
Is it not, then, as I suspect? Do they not look to each other behind my back? Surely he would have followed my accusation with heated denials, not this jovial acceptance. And yet... I have seen the love they bear for one another, and it twists like a dagger in my heart. Is this to be my fate, then, that I should love my kinsman as she does? My jealousy would melt like ice under the storm moon-- she could have her fill of him, if only I could as well.
"Alas, kinsman, the need is still great." I return to my place by the window, watching dark shapes cavort in the shadows by the river.
"Whose need, Gwydion?" Pitched low, I might not have heard his voice at all. But I feel the heat of his body next to mine, his hand strong on my shoulder. The need is indeed great.
"Damned superstitious peasants," I growl, unnerved by his persistant nearness. "I should put a stop to these celebrations. They bring naught but trouble."
Lancelet leans closer, squeezing my shoulder. He smells as he did that night, of wine and lust, and I remember his hands-- but that was an accident, the heat of the moment.
"What would Morgaine say of that?"
I laugh bitterly. "My sister knows the misery of Beltane; I wonder that she hasn't turned from the old ways already."
"Perhaps she also knows the joys, cousin, and reckons them greater."
He speaks to me of joy, he who has caused a year's torment? I never looked on him before that night as anything but a kinsman, a brother-in-arms. But all chaste thoughts fled at his kiss, and I can see nothing of him but lover, cannot look at him without feeling his mouth on mine, his hands preparing me to take my wife. No man has ever touched me so intimately.
If there was sin in that night, it is this-- that I loved a man and can no longer sate myself in Gwenhwyfar. And this I endure alone, for surely my touch did not rouse him, surely he gave his touch only in the spirit of Beltane.
The wicker man is burning now; they've flung their hand-fires into the river to set the sparks. My own flesh sparks as my loyal cousin presses closer, squeezing between my body and the casement to look out over the merriment.
"Surely there is joy, cousin," he murmurs, and his voice is so close, so close, his breath hot against my neck. "Will you not, for one night, cast off Arthur and become the Goddess-born Gwydion again?"
"To lie in the grass with a dairymaid? No, Lance," I answer truthfully. "I desire no woman more than my own wife." A smile crosses my lips, lightening my spirit. "And if I am to be Gwydion once more, will you not be Galahad? That is the name you bore before you were sent to live among Christians, is it not?"
"Please, cousin-- Arthur, king--" he answered with a quick laugh. "I hear that name in my mother's voice, the one she used when I needed to be punished."
"Then Lancelet I shall call you, for you have done no wrong to me." We stood companionably, watching the wicker man burn and the shadows dance. His thigh pressed against mine, well-muscled from riding; his face, unravaged by war and grief, was close enough to kiss. Handsome he is and, though I am taller and heavier, I feel that he is the stronger, that I could lean against his broad chest and be content.
These are not my thoughts. These are the work of the season, the rite, the Goddess. The priest would remind me of the punishment of Sodom were I to confess this need, yet I cannot bring myself to repent, not here beside him. Let him never know what I feel, only let me stay beside him, close enough to dream.
"The feast will end soon, Arthur." My love's voice is quiet and deep. "Your lady wife will return to your chambers." He looked into my face, dark eyes dancing. "She will think we're plotting another sin for her."
"And deep in her heart she prays that we will," I acknowledge. "Whatever her talk now of abomination, she did not call it so then."
"Neither did you; as I recall, 'twas your idea." "No, I did not think it evil then." I swallow past the lump in my throat. "I do not think it evil now."
"Yet she will not welcome you to her bed on this pagan night, cousin," and his voice is weary. "She shuts herself away from all revelry."
His hand slides to the back of my neck, squeezing gently. "Tell me that you won't do the same."
If he knew the sort of revelry that fills my mind, he would not tempt me so. The wicker man is burning low; the peasants have moved on to other distractions.
"No, by the god, I will not do the same." I turn from the window, running my hands through my hair. "Let us go into the hall, Lance; let us have music and wine." For in the hall I shall not be so tempted.
"Ah, but the hall is nearly empty and Kevin Harper is gone to the revels." He is smiling, his eyes bright and beautiful. "But there is wine aplenty in my chamber."
"Then to your chamber." Wise? No, for well I remember my actions the last time I combined wine and Lancelet. Dare I hope that it will happen again, without Gwenhwyfar between us? "Come, my best warrior, my... my Achilles! Let us celebrate this night together."
He is suddenly very still, his eyes locked to mine, a fierce glow in them. He takes my arm, his grip strong and sure.
"Let us celebrate, my Patroclus."
My heart warms as we hurry down the corridor, avoiding the prying eyes of friends and servants. Patroclus, the young knight whom Achilles loved best of all. As a boy in the court of Ectorius, I and my foster brother laughed together over them, who preferred each other's company to any woman.
There is cotton in my mouth as Lancelet pull me into his chamber. Any name, he could have chosen any name but that one; why did he call me by *that* name?
The wine is sweet and spiced as it rolls down my throat. I cannot meet his eyes. Surely he did not mean it so, surely he meant only that we are friends, great friends... but he stands before me and touches my face, and the heat in his eyes I do not imagine.
"You tempt me, Arthur. You sorely tempt me."
Am I afraid, here, of this man? I am High King and he but my knight. And yet I do fear him, fear his touch and the absence of it, crave his kiss and know it to be wrong. Surely I should move away, stop this before it begins, but his lips brush mine and I can do no more than moan.
" 'Thy love to me is wonderful, passing the love of woman.' " It that his voice, the voice of my Lancelet so breathy with need? It cannot be. I cannot allow this.
"We won't do this, Lance," as he touches his lips to my cheeks, my temples. "It is sin."
His laughter bubbles up like a spring. "Not you, too, Arthur. You won't stand before me and speak of sin."
"It is." But I can't move away, and he doesn't stop touching me.
"Even the Christian King David loved his kinsman Jonathan. Was it sin, then? I have read Holy Writ, searching for answers, and this I found, that they loved."
"No."
"Loved as Achilles and Patroclus; was that evil? Their gods did not punish them nor any other Greek who held a brother-in-arms." He draws back and I can see the pain in his eyes. "Do not push me away, cousin, not when we both desire this.
"We were not always Arthur and Lancelet, king and loyal knight. Once you were Gwydion, and I Galahad, and no subjects to the laws of their god." He holds my wrist in a grip strong as iron, yet soft as silk, and I tremble under his unconsious power. Is this the man who fights beside me, lives beside me, closest to my heart? The man I bade lay with my wife so I that I might touch him? No, he is not that man, but someone stronger, radiant, nearly god-like as he pulls me close and whispers into my ear, "Love me, cousin. Love me, my Gwydion."
"I do love you." Goddess help me, it is true, and though I cannot shout this from the turrets, I can cry aloud in my heart, in his arms.
I press my lips to his neck, wondering if my beard scratches him as it does Gwen. He sighs and pulls me closer, his hands working their way under the simple tunic I wear. His hands on my skin-- goddess, I did not know I could feel such pleasure-- his mouth against mine, our bodies naked, tangled writhing. A voice cries out, "My love... my love..." and I do not know if the words are mine or his. My Lancelet, my beautiful knight.
I leave his bed at dawn. He is sleeping still, his dark hair falling over his face, his arm flung out to hold me. But I cannot stay. My queen awaits, the castle will wake soon. Yet even if this night must stand alone, never to be repeated, I shall cherish it, this night with my love.
The end