Jousting is Not a Game: The New Legend of Guinevere

By Michele Wardall

Medieval Britain: King Arthur is on the throne supported by his Knights of the Round Table. These are times of bloody wars, of invasion and killing, and the pursuit of glory on the battlefield.

Peaceful interludes allow for other endeavours and many will go in search of the Holy Grail. When Guinevere is offered a pivotal role in the ‘glorious quest’, she does not hesitate to embark upon an adventure she has been waiting for all her life.

But in Camelot she learns about seduction and betrayal and, though befriended by King Arthur and welcomed at court, she finds she is not adept at the games played there. Then she discovers that even her close companions, Blanchefleur and Iseult, have their secrets....

Will Guinevere be able to protect those closest to her when they need her most? Can she win her father’s approval without losing the trust of the king? Is the price of the Grail, even with its promise for the future of Britain, too high to pay?

As Guinevere proceeds with the enthusiasm and naivety of youth, the consequences of her choices become apparent and she discovers a darker side to chivalry which pushes her towards the ultimate sacrifice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Sep 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781784628529

Michele Wardall

A Yorkshire nurse, now settled in the Forest of Dean, Michele Wardall has lived in the tropics with her husband and two sons and back-packed in India. A Good Daughter’s Guide to India and Growing Pains were published in anthologies. Jousting is not a Game is her first novel.

Book preview

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Slipping quietly through the window Guinevere stopped to allow her eyes to grow accustomed to the dark interior. The candle in its sconce had long since burnt out and the light from the full moon did not fully penetrate the gloom. She stood motionless, listening for sounds of wakefulness within the household, but there were none. In the silence she could make out the gentle whistle of inhaled and exhaled air emanating from the figure lying sleeping in the bed. She smiled in the darkness and began to take off her robe and undergarments, allowing them to slide to the floor to rest in a heap beside her shoes, and tiptoed over to the bed to carefully ease herself between the covers.

Where have you been? Blanchefleur mumbled into the wool blanket.

Sshh, go back to sleep, Guinevere whispered, pulling the warm fabric around them both. She turned onto her side and wrapped her arm around her friend, drawing her close and burying her face into the dark loose tresses tangled around her neck. She inhaled the familiar smells of childhood – decades of wood smoke seeping from the walls, sprigs of dried lavender in the pillow, the slight mustiness of the blanket and faintly, a hint of rosemary rinsed through Blanchefleur’s hair – allowing these evocative aromas to fill her nostrils and chase away the last traces of apples and grass and sex.

Being single at an age when most girls had several babies brought disadvantages, and it was not for a meeting of the minds that Guinevere had been out with a local farm boy this night. Her Christian mother might have proclaimed chastity as a necessary virtue but Guinevere was only half her mother’s daughter. Tonight in the orchard, surrounded by the intoxicating scent of fermenting apples in the long grass, with the moon shining down onto Ralf’s perspiring forehead as she rode naked astride him, she felt no maternal influence at all but rather a primeval one, joining her all at once to the boy, the earth and the moon itself.

Guinevere and Blanchefleur had been companions from when memories were first formed and though Blanchefleur was not privy to all of her escapades, she knew more than most. Their history was so deeply intertwined that it was frequently impossible to unravel, like hops on the vine. When recalling a past event they could rarely remember to whom it had occurred and with a shrug dismissed it as unimportant: as they were always together the recollection was a mutual one, the whom a mere inessential detail. They shared more than their childhoods; both were sole offspring of immigrant mothers hailing from the same land; each of their mothers was alone or as good as, Blanche’s father being dead and Guinevere’s ever absent; and their formative years had been spent being schooled at home in a greater variety of subjects then was usual in this barbaric country, fuelled by parental determination that they live up to their proud origins. Proud Christian origins. And it was only here where the two girls, on approaching womanhood, had started to tug against their twines. Or at least Guinevere, several months the elder, had. And this prising apart of the ripe fruit from the vine came about because of the one other, fundamental difference between them: that of their lineage. Blanchefleur, though Briton by birth was wholly Roman by descent; Guinevere was only half so. Her father, truant for most of her childhood but growing more present in recent years, was a Celt, if he could be judged of this world at all. So her dreams were not of the young-blood she had lain with beneath the fruit trees but of a far older man, who dipped in and out of her life like a wraith, always leaving her with more questions than answers, and yearning for his next visit.

Guinevere woke with a start, disentangling her bedmate’s arms and swinging her legs out, pulling most of the heavy blanket with her. The early-morning air chilled her warm bare skin in an instant and she shivered as her feet touched the stone floor. Sitting still for a moment she tried to recall her dream. As her eyes blankly surveyed the room they came to rest of their own accord on her discarded vestments, tellingly close to the window, accusingly distant from the bed, too far to reach without moving from the warm cocoon. Unwrapping herself from the cover and stretching across to pull it gently over her sleeping friend she eased her nakedness from the mattress and moved to the crumpled clothing heap, gaze fixed on the gauze-covered window as if expecting an audience to appear there at any moment. She bent to retrieve the garments and froze, aware that she was being watched.

What on earth are you doing dancing around like a dairymaid, Guinevere? the erstwhile slumberer demanded in a loud whisper. Guilty, caught in the act, Guinevere nevertheless breathed a silent sigh of relief at the familiar voice and grabbed the bundle as she straightened and turned to smile at her friend. Any attempts at subterfuge now redundant, she bounded back to bed and tugged at the cover.

Never mind all that, sleepyhead! Get up, get up! I’ve had a dream, she declared, pulling hard as Blanchefleur struggled to retain the last vestige of modesty.

Blushing, shivering, her thick, dark brows almost meeting in her ire, Blanche hissed back: Wanton! Parade yourself indecently if you must but I’ll not join you, whether it pleases you or not! Giving one final, ferocious yank she bettered her opponent, toppling her crosswise onto the bed. Glancing down at Guinevere’s inelegant sprawl she emitted a theatrical tut of disgust and with a toss of her head at the ease of her victory, sank down onto her own belly next to her friend, gathering her nightgown tightly around her as she did so. You and your dreams, she grunted, hanging her head over the edge of the bedstead and staring at the sprigs of dried sage, lemongrass, and basil strewn on the floor. What did you dream this time? she asked, scooping up a palm-full of herbs and rubbing them between her hands before inhaling their tingling scent.

Father’s coming, Guinevere whispered excitedly.

Blanche regarded the other girl sadly. Well you know that’s just wishful thinking, she said softly. How long has it been this time? A year? Eighteen months? Remember the last time it went so long? He didn’t visit for over five –

Girls, girls! Lady Constance burst through the door, halting abruptly at the sight of Guinevere’s uncovered figure. Goodness child, wherever did you learn your ways?

I was schooled at home, ma’am, Guinevere responded, her tone serious.

It’s not from your mother that you learnt such, such… she flustered. "Your mother would never… " she tried again.

… be caught inappropriately naked? Guinevere finished for the older woman.

But Lady Constance had regained her composure, drawing herself up to her full, stately height in the door-frame, and the teasing smile slid from Guinevere as she recognised the kindred expression, the identical knitting of those broad brows that she had caused to appear on her friend’s face only moments ago. She jumped from the bed to approach the austere woman, twining her slim arms around her neck and hugging the warm, fully-clothed body fast against her own.

"I’m sorry, Tanté, she cajoled; I promise to try to be more… " she searched for the right word in the depths of the hooded brown eyes; finding no inspiration there she turned with a pleading look to her friend who gave an unhelpful shrug.

"More dressed will do for now, Lady Constance supplied as she extricated herself from the discomfiting embrace. Holding the girl at arm’s length she turned now to the prone figure on the bed. You, too, Blanchefleur," she commanded.

Yes, Mama. Blanchefleur sat upright, ready to comply.

The woman was leaving. Without making eye contact, to Guinevere she added, your father is here, and swished from the room.

How do you do that? Blanche demanded as they were pulling on their hose.

Do what? Perhaps it is he who conjures himself into my thoughts, she answered, regarding the grass-stains on her dress with distaste before concluding that it was chilly enough this morning for her wool cloak which should hide them until she could change.

Well then, my lady, perhaps it is time you discouraged him from doing so, Blanche suggested.

Guinevere was still chuckling as she wound blue silk ribbons around her long auburn plaits. Fastening her enamelled pin at the front of her cloak she bent to brush her friend’s cheek with her lips, catching her muttered, Witch! and grinning as she left the room.

It was early, barely six o’clock, and the cold dawn light was poking its way into dwellings all over the valley, stirring the occupants to another workday. Cockerels on top of hen-houses passed their message on from farmstead to homestead, and from everywhere came the lowing of oxen demanding to be milked. The sun would not appear above the ridge of the hills for some time yet and the mist in the valley basin, slow to lift at this time of year, muffled sounds and lent the animals a ghostly air. The path was a well-trodden one lined with bits of fencing here and hedgerow there, broken occasionally by a residence whose inhabitants talked inside, voices hushed in the amplified quiet betwixt night and day but carrying easily through the coarse-spun fabric hanging at window apertures. Pots rattling against hearths, smoke from wood-fires seeping through thatch, a dog howling in the distance and others answering from surrounding yards – each long-familiar sight and sound marked her way. Inside the girl the excitement increased and spilled out, touching the lacklustre surroundings and transforming them into a breathtaking sculpture, for if beauty is in the eye of the beholder then this morning the beholder was an aesthete.

Turning into the furthermost entrance of the settlement Guinevere loosened the pin at her neck and shook her hood down onto her shoulders, giving her head an unconscious pat where the heavy fabric had disturbed her coif. She felt warm from her walk and anticipation had added to the berry flush of her cheeks. The yard stood deserted as she would have expected at this hour, though she could see from the splashes around the well that Robert, the kitchen boy, had already been to fetch water and the bucket was still half full. She dipped the ladle and took a long draught, closing her eyes as she savoured the fresh chill running into her gullet. In the stillness she became aware of the rumble of voices and cocked her ear in the direction of the building but the windows were too well-dressed to allow precise words to escape. The deeper male resonance was recognisable to her even without distinguishable speech and she dropped the vessel with a plop back into the water before making for the door.

Papa! Guinevere gushed with excitement before she had crossed the threshold.

She lurched to a halt at the sight of the three men who stood in the withdrawing room where her mother was seated near to the newly-fired hearth. Caught fast in their combined gaze she fought to recover herself, aware of the slight frown worn by the tallest man who stood beside her mother, his hand resting casually across the back of her chair. Sorry, she said quietly, dipping a curtsy and keeping her eyes firmly on her mother, I thought it was someone else… Seeing her mother’s face relax she presumed she had managed to cover her indiscretion, and the awkward moment having passed she acknowledged the visitors. Sires, she spoke before an introduction could be made, and the two fair-haired men standing to the left of the fireplace stepped forward smartly to kiss her proffered hand.

With a bow and a brush of lips across her knuckles each returned to his position with barely audible murmurs of Lady Guinevere.

There now, Sirs, as you see my daughter does not stand on ceremony; brought up amongst rough villeins she sometimes forgets herself! Guinevere’s eyes widened at her mother’s chastisement but sensing her unwonted agitation she held her tongue; nevertheless the evidence of its sting glowed pinkly at her décolletage where it lay visible beneath the loosened cape. Rising now from her seat her mother continued:

These good knights are Sir Aron and Sir Cyon and this, as you already gathered, is my daughter, Lady Guinevere. The two men looked hesitant, unsure of the correct protocol now, then moved as if to take Guinevere’s hand again before she froze them with a curt nod. This, indicating the tall, thin man next to the chair, is Merlin, whom you already know.

Guinevere allowed herself a shy look at the man. She had indeed met him before and on several occasions, the last one being almost a year and a half ago. She remembered every detail of his gaunt face, though in her cherished memories he never had such a severe aspect as he generally did in person – as he did now. He was perhaps the only person who could render her without speech and she was always a little awed in his company, like some stage-struck country maid in the presence of nobility. Merlin, she said with a smile, holding out her hand and holding back her embrace.

The men had gone to breakfast in the dining hall where the servants had stoked up a roaring fire and laid places for them at the end of the long table. Guinevere and her mother remained in the drawing room, a warm, snug place with its brightly painted walls, timber-shuttered windows and heavy tapestry drapes. It was Guinevere’s favourite place in the house that she had lived in all her life. She sat on a plump horsehair cushion on the floor in front of the blazing logs, knees drawn up under her chin, watching her mother’s features in the flickering light as she searched for the words she wanted to say. The silver-grey woven through the older woman’s ebony plaits marked her age – twice that of her daughter – and the loose tresses surrounding her face were completely white, catching the fire’s glow like a halo. Her almond skin-tones were barely a whisper in her young offspring, whose pale complexion and flame-tinged hair were rendered more pronounced against the firelight. But perhaps it was this sharp contrast that served to highlight the similarities now as they sat opposite one another: the identical upward tilt of the chin; the clear, unwavering gaze; the calm, passive expression and the hint of a scowl that belied it: truly mirror images in all but the physical plane. And the likeness, where it reached deep into the psyche of the women, was why Guinevere knew with certainty that something momentous was in the offing, why she knew it would change her world forever, and why she felt a confusing mélange of excitement, regret, and fear.

Chapter 2

Camelot was a great disappointment. For the two young women arriving so full of expectation it painted a grim picture of humanity, accommodated in light-obliterating houses packed tightly along grimy narrow lanes and noisy squares, and all around the stench of human filth where it lay discarded from windows and doors. Hailing from the quietest rural hamlet where the smells of animal dung and turned earth mingled sweetly with sun-scented barley or rain-drenched hay, where a trip to Lower Banfon market was a major excursion and their sole, inadequate experience of the wider world, they were unprepared for the current assault on their senses. The arrival day was cold and damp and they were tired and waspish from their travel, but each in her heart was doubtful that a good night’s sleep would set this bleak world to rights.

They awoke from their deep slumber at the same moment, to the sun pounding their eyelids as it pulled free of the building opposite and sliced through the broken shutters barely shading the windows of their room. Startled by the unfamiliar surroundings they lay side by side allowing the unaccustomed hubbub to penetrate the room and their awakening minds. The fire, though low in the hearth, was still glowing suggesting someone had been in to stoke it while they slept and it kept the worst of the chill at bay. Guinevere pulled the blanket up over her face against the harsh glare of the day, then pushed it quickly away when engulfed by the pungent alien sweat secreted by its fibres. She hung her head over the side of the bed to look for Florie, the little housemaid they had brought with them from the village, but found only thick dust and a pisse-pot. Regarding the dubious vessel from her upside-down perspective seemed a better plan than anything else she could think of and she stayed there until the door opened and she saw a pair of small bare feet come through it.

There you are, Florie, she addressed the girl walking with slow, careful precision towards a dresser near the window, scrawny arms rigid with the effort of carrying the brimming water jug. The maid, only three or four years younger than her mistress, kept her eyes glued to the hot liquid as she poured it into the bowl. Task completed she turned to the young women and stood in silence, unsure what might be required of her. The village girl was as out of place here as they were, and Guinevere felt a pang of pity for her so far from her family. She was short and thin, with no curve to her hips or swelling to her bosom to suggest the womanhood she must have been bordering on. Undernourished, particularly in the harsh rural winters, many of the country-girls remained slight until childbearing was thrust upon them and forced their bodies to develop more rapidly than they should. From then on their march into adulthood would be marked by the broadening of girth and the heaviness of breasts brought by each consecutive birthing, if they survived. This one had escaped so far but she was a pretty little thing, with straw-coloured hair and large eyes, round now as she stood tense and waiting.

What did you discover downstairs, Florie? I smelt bread baking when you opened the door.

The girl nodded. The kitchen maid showed me where to fetch your water, and she says there’s pottage and goose eggs and blood pudding to eat. Catching Guinevere’s look of distaste she added quickly, an’ there’s porridge, too.

Porridge and a round of bread sounds perfect to me, she said, smiling. The sun’s position so high in the sky suggested it was nearly noon. How about you, Lady Blanchefleur? What shall you take to break your fast at this good inn?

Turning from the washstand where she stood stripped to the waist, Blanchefleur gave her face a vigorous rub before reaching for a robe from her trunk. "I’ll take