Lancelot and the Lord of the Distant Isles

by Patricia Terry

  Queen Elaine cried, “My child! Please, dear sweet lady, for God’s sake, give me the child! He’ll have suffering enough, for his father has just died, and now he is alone in the world, robbed of the many lands which should have been his.” The stranger made no reply, seemed not even to have heard. But when the queen drew closer, she stood up, still holding the child, and went quickly to the water’s edge. Then, without so much as a glance at the queen, she put her feet together and jumped in.

  Elaine would have followed her, had the squire not arrived in time to hold her back. The infant and the unknown woman had disappeared, leaving not even a ripple on the surface of the lake. The queen had lost all she loved in the world, and her grief was beyond telling. Husband and king now dead, her only child drowned or abducted to some spellbound watery depth, her past and her future were both stripped away.

  On the road by the shore, an abbess was passing by with a few nuns and her chaplain. At the sound of Elaine’s piteous laments, she stopped to see if she could be of help. “May God grant you comfort,” she said.

  “Indeed, good mother, there is no one who needs it more than I do.”

  The abbess saw how beautiful she was, despite her grief, and said, “Tell me who you are.”

  “I am a woman who has lived too long.”

  But the chaplain told the abbess that she was a queen, the wife of King Ban.

  “No, I am only the queen of sorrows,” said Elaine. “If you really wish to help me, I beg you to make me a nun. There is nothing in the world I care about now, and the world can do without me easily enough. Otherwise, I will wander in the forest until I die.”

  “My lady, if it is truly your desire to be a nun, we thank God that so worthy a queen will join our company. You shall have the place of honor among us, as is fitting, since your husband’s forebears established and built our abbey. But please tell us what has happened to you.”

  The queen related how her lord had lost his kingdom, how they had left Trebe in a desperate effort to seek King Arthur’s help, how he had met his end there on the hill, and how a demon disguised as a woman had stolen her son away, “leaving me bereft of all I loved.”

  When her long golden hair had been shorn, she took the veil. The squire, moved by the event, renounced the world as his lady had done, there on the shore of the lake. The king’s body was carried to the abbey and buried with solemn ceremony. Every day after mass, the queen would go to the lake where her son had disappeared, to remember him, to weep for her loss, and to pray.

  Lancelot was too young to remember anything of his life before he was carried off by the Lady of the Lake, an enchantress named Viviane who had learned her arts from Merlin. The great wizard had lost both heart and judgment to her great beauty, and Viviane had used all her wiles to delude him, knowing that his father was a devil who had seduced a mortal woman. She also knew by what magical and illicit impersonation he had brought about the birth of King Arthur. In exchange for promises of love, she had persuaded him to teach her sorcery and had soon learned what she needed to imprison him, alive but sleeping, in a secret cave in a forest. Merlin was never seen again.

  Lancelot grew up in the kingdom Viviane had established beneath what appeared to be an ordinary lake. In that magical place, she had fine houses, great forests full of game, even rivers and brooks. Many knights and noble ladies lived there with her. Only the mother who had borne him could have loved Lancelot more than the Lady of the Lake. Never did he imagine he was not her son. She gave him the most tender care, finding a lovely young woman to nurse him and, after he was weaned, an understanding tutor, suitable for a young boy. When he was three years old, he looked as if he were five. No one had ever seen a more beautiful child, and his beauty only increased as he grew older.

  The Lady alone was aware of Lancelot’s true identity. While the people of her household referred to him as “the child,” the Lady liked to call him “my prince,” and would tell him how hard it was to be worthy of a crown, but she seemed to be only teasing. When he asked about his father, she would only say he had been a very great man. He imagined someone taller and stronger than anyone around him, some warrior even more valiant than the heroes of whom poets sang, a man to whom he could give his admiration and his love.

  The Lady taught him all that makes a noble life, and provided him with companions of his own age, including, after a while, his cousins Lionel and Bors. He learned to ride fine horses and to hunt. In little time, he acquired the rudiments of jousting and soon surpassed his mentors. He liked playing checkers and chess, and read with pleasure. He sang wonderfully well, though he did so rarely. In form he was both graceful and powerful, everything about him perfectly proportioned, although his chest was unusually large. In later years, Queen Guenevere would say that God had made him so to accommodate the great size of his heart.

  Even as a young child he had exquisite manners, delighted more in giving than in receiving, and was kind and gentle to everyone. But injustice of any kind aroused in him such fury that his bright and joyful eyes turned black as coals, his cheeks became blood red, his voice rang out like a trumpet, and it was difficult to calm him down. He believed that he was strong enough to accomplish whatever it was in his heart to do.

  One day, when Lancelot was eighteen, he went hunting in the forest, where he never failed to bring down some worthy prey. This time, however, his quarry was exceptional – a stag of immense size, which he killed with a single arrow. He sent it as a gift to the Lady. He himself rested for a while through the heat of the afternoon, and then rode home. The Lady saw him arrive, sitting his horse with the grace of a born rider. He was dressed all in green, with a garland on his head, like springtime itself, she thought, or the promise of fruit not yet ripe, and her eyes filled with tears. When the youth came to greet her, she turned aside, weeping. He asked what was wrong, but she didn’t reply. At last she uttered a few words, ordering him to go away. Confused and upset, he rushed back to the courtyard where he had left his horse. He had just mounted again when she reappeared, seized the bridle, and told him to dismount. When they were alone in her room, she asked where he had intended to go.

  “Since you were angry with me, and wouldn’t tell me why, I thought I would go to King Arthur and ask to be made a knight.”

  She laughed at him, saying that he had no idea how courageous a knight had to be, how ready to risk his life for anyone who might need his help. What made him think, she asked, that he was capable of valor? “Your valor has never been tested.” In truth, she knew very well that he was by nature proof against fear and would freely sacrifice a life of comfort for the opportunity of winning the highest rewards of honor, but she still had to ask the question. Though heartsick at the thought of giving him up, the Lady realized that it was time. She embraced him, weeping with regret, and promised she would take him to King Arthur. She told him this about knighthood: “In the sight of God, all human beings are equal. There came a time, however, many years ago, when the strong began to take advantage of the weak; then other men, skilled in warfare and empowered by a sense of justice, became the defenders of those unable to defend themselves. Thus there arose an order of Knighthood. Knights live in the service of all who need protection, especially widows and orphans, and the Holy Church, which relies on them as a mother relies on her sons. To be a true knight is not a privilege of birth. It is granted only to the great of heart, and to those whose deeds demonstrate their worth. A knight’s true identity comes from the life he lives. A knight must achieve for himself an illustrious name. And so it will be with you.”

  The journey that King Ban had undertaken was completed now by his son, although Lancelot had never heard his own name or his father’s. That spring, not long after Whitsuntide, the Lady of the Lake, her hopeful ward, and a great retinue set out on the lengthy journey to the coast of Gaul. From there, they went by boat to Great Britain and then started on the road to King Arthur’s court. It was a magnificent procession that rode across fields and through the
forest toward Camelot, the horses and their riders all in white, silver, and ivory, silk and brocade. A squire carried a fine silver helmet, another a pure white shield, another a spear, another a ceremonial robe for Lancelot to wear when he was knighted. Then came the Lady in white samite, her cloak lined with ermine, riding an exquisite snow-white mare that moved as softly as a cloud. The boy who rode beside her on a tall and spirited hunter could not have been more wonderful to behold, princely in his bearing, with innocence and energy shining from his whole being. They were attended by Bors and Lionel, his young cousins, who would perhaps return this way themselves one day. No eyes could look elsewhere when the procession at last crossed the bridge into King Arthur’s high city.

  The king was quick to agree that so promising a youth should become a knight. The Lady, however, insisted that he must be knighted in his own arms and attire. To this the king objected. He was accustomed to making his knights a gift of their armor, so that they would be known to belong to his household. When the Lady would not yield, Sir Yvain and Sir Gawain, both knights of the Round Table, convinced the king that an exception should be made.

  So the Lady of the Lake succeeded in her mission. As she was taking leave of Lancelot, she told him for the first time that she was not his mother, although she loved him fully as much as if she were. His father was one of the noblest knights in the world, she said, and his mother one of the loveliest and most worthy ladies who ever lived. More than that, she told him, he would learn before long, but not from her. She commended him to God and kissed him and, just before leaving, said, “My prince, you will find that the more great and perilous deeds you undertake, the more you will be ready to do others. Should there be any that prove beyond your powers, be assured that no other knight on earth could accomplish them, either. So go your way with confidence, my beautiful, noble child. Your quality is such that men will always aspire to win your friendship, and women will love you above all others.” Too choked with sorrow to say anything more, she embraced him once again and turned away. The boy was deeply moved, and his eyes filled with tears. Wordlessly, he kissed his cousins to bid them farewell.

  Queen Guenevere heard that the young man dressed in dazzling white who had come to court with the Lady of the Lake would be made a knight the very next morning. It was the Feast of Saint John, which some people still called Midsummer Eve. Such haste surprised her, but when the king and the two greatest knights of the realm assured her that the candidate was worthy of such an honor, she was eager to see him. Sir Gawain had promptly taken charge of the stranger, inviting him to rest and refresh himself in the comfort of his lodgings. In this welcome the young man found a reassuring promise of friendship, a kindness never to be forgotten. Radiant with expectation, he rode with Gawain through streets thronged with the curious, all of them gazing at the youth in admiration. The king received him in the great hall. The queen was at his side, and it was the queen alone whom the newcomer saw on entering. He could scarcely believe there was such beauty in the world – even the Lady of the Lake could not be compared with her. And in this he was right, for the queen was beauty itself, and her goodness was held to be even more perfect than her beauty. It was said of her that she ennobled all who came into her presence.

  When she took his hand, he jumped at her touch as if she had awakened him from sleep. She asked his name and where he came from, but he was too abashed to utter a word. The ten years of age separating them made her too remote, too intimidating. When she asked him again, very gently, he murmured that he did not know. Realizing that she herself must be the cause of his embarrassment, and not wanting to add to his discomfort, the queen said nothing further. After a while she rose and went to her rooms.

  That night the young man kept vigil in the church of Saint Stephen, wondering how his life would now be changed and praying for guidance. Yet always foremost in his mind was his memory of the queen. The next morning, in full armor, he knelt before the king, who touched his shoulders with the sword Excalibur. It was a jeweled and gleaming weapon, a marvel forged, it was said, by hands that were more than human, extracted by the sorcerer Merlin from an enchanted lake and entrusted to King Arthur for the duration of his life. With this sword, the king granted the young man knighthood. He gave him no sword of his own, planning to complete the ceremony later. Truth to tell, Arthur saw in this radiant youth the promise of a new and glowing presence at his Round Table. The manner of his arrival, his tie to the Lady of the Lake, his extraordinary beauty – everything suggested an exceptional destiny. The king wished to devise some special rite to mark his passage into knighthood.

  The interruption pleased the youth, for he secretly hoped that the sword of knighthood would come to him from someone else. He went to take leave of the queen. Kneeling in front of her, he said, “My lady, if it please you, wherever I go in the world, and whatever I may do, it shall be as your knight.”

  “Thank you,” she said, “that would please me very much.”

  “With your permission, I will leave tomorrow morning.”

  “Farewell, then, and God protect you, dear friend.”

  And he answered silently, “My lady, I thank you with all my heart for granting me that name.”

  BOOK TWO: THE WHITE KNIGHT

  THE NEW KNIGHT WAS TOO IMPATIENT to tarry at court. He longed to experience the reality of a knight’s high mission, to prove his mettle and gain well-justified renown. Now with Queen Guenevere’s words resounding in his heart, he felt spurred to action, and nothing could deter him from seizing the first opportunity to face a challenge. It arose that very evening, when a man, in full armor except for his helmet, strode into the great hall and stood before the king. “I serve the Lady of Nohaut,” he said, “and have come, at her command, to declare, my lord, that she is in need of your help. The King of Northumberland has invaded her lands and laid siege to one of her castles, killing many of her men and destroying the land on all sides. He insists that he has done this by right, and is calling on her to keep an agreement that my lady does not acknowledge in the slightest. He insists that she yield to him unless she can find a champion to defend her – a knight willing to face two opponents simultaneously. As you are her liege lord, she asks that you send her such a knight.”

  Before King Arthur could say a word, the young man sprang forward to offer his help.

  “My friend,” said King Arthur, “this is too grave a challenge for one as inexperienced as you. You have come to me with greatness in your heart and with a yearning to win honor and fame. But it would be wrong of me to let you face such danger so soon, and it would grieve me to see all that is fresh and beautiful in you brought to an early end. We have not yet even taken the final step in making you a knight.”

  But the young man’s persistence defeated the king’s paternal reluctance to risk his safety. So Arthur agreed, and the youth rode off at once toward Nohaut and the allure of worthy combat.

  Two against one: a formidable risk for any man but especially for a novice. The training he had received as an adolescent, his daring – above all, the energizing sense of being in the right – ensured his victory. In twenty minutes that left the Lady of Nohaut more breathless than her champion, the conflict was resolved in her favor; and King Arthur, had he been present, would happily have forsworn his doubts.

  The battle at Nohaut was but the first trial for the new knight, resplendent in his white armor, as he wandered through the countryside, drawing appeals from the helpless and defiance from the wicked. He threw himself into these adventures with the eagerness of the young and high-minded, the thought that he was the queen’s “dear friend” unleashing all the generosity of spirit fostered in him by the Lady of the Lake. He was strong and skilled. Though he suffered wounds and momentary reverses, he emerged the victor from every encounter. He freed a knight and two maidens whom he then sent with a message to the queen. He battled an ugly knight for access to a ford that the miscreant had no right to bar. He rescued a girl taunted by a giant.

&nbs
p; One day, when the White Knight was riding through a forest, he met a young woman grieving for the death of her lover, killed, like so many other knights, attempting the Adventure of Dolorous Guard, which “only the greatest knight in the world can achieve.”

  “What Adventure is that?”

  “If you go there, you’ll find out,” she sadly advised him.

  The young knight took the path she showed him, and galloped until he saw a superb fortress high on a cliff, with the Humber River flowing at its base. He met a woman at the gate whom he would have recognized, had her face not been heavily veiled. She told him about the castle, a dwelling place of evil, whose people were under the sway of a “wicked and powerful lord, in thrall to enchantments that embitter their lives and make them long for deliverance.” The occasional knights who tried to rescue them were all they ever saw of the outside world. These were made to fight against impossible odds, and were then buried in a vast underground chamber. Strange and terrifying noises came from there; they were thought to be the voices of the unquiet dead. The castle-dwellers never saw the sun. Only gnarled, leafless trees and seedless plants grew in gardens that had once flourished. The evil lord and his vassals felt no deprivation, but those who served them toiled through the seasons wan and hungry.

  The castle was surrounded by two walls, each with one small door. If a knight tried to enter, he was forced to confront ten opponents. By the rules of that combat, they fought him one at a time, but each knight could change places with another as soon as he was tired.