Lancelot and the Lord of the Distant Isles

by Patricia Terry

  Galehaut, however, set out again with Lionel. They stopped at every dwelling place within a day’s ride, at monasteries, manor houses, castles, where Lancelot could have found help had he been injured. Morgan’s castle, however, made invisible by walls of mist, was thereby shielded from unwelcome visitors, just as ordinary castles were protected by moat and drawbridge. So Galehaut’s quest led to nothing. He did not return to Carduel, but wandered on with less and less hope. His old illness came over him, and he ate almost nothing. Lionel became alarmed, seeing how weak Galehaut was becoming. He thought that perhaps at home in Sorelais he would feel better, and persuaded him that Lancelot might have gone there.

  Behind the enchanted walls, Lancelot’s condition appeared to improve rapidly, although it would still be some time before he could ride. Morgan made him very comfortable, charming him with her delicate attentions. It was hard to reconcile such solicitude with the tales of her sorcery. He remembered having heard ill of her, but what he had learned about her hatred of Guenevere was now washed from memory by drugs and, grateful to her as he felt, he could not doubt her good will. Nor did it occur to him to wonder how she knew so much about his life.

  In fact, that knowledge required no magical source. One of the attendants to the false Guenevere was in Morgan’s service. She had given a detailed account of Lancelot’s part in the trial and the intensity of his emotions regarding the queen; it was her opinion that Guenevere shared his feelings.

  One afternoon, when Lancelot was well enough to walk slowly through the castle garden, Morgan said a few words about the queen. Lancelot had been surprised not to have heard from Guenevere, and Morgan’s words were like a balm. “I don’t go to court very often,” she said. “My brother seems less fond of me than he was when we were children, although he has never given me a reason. I have wondered if it couldn’t have been a simple misunderstanding. But I have always found the queen to be graciousness itself. Her beauty is a blessing to all who see her, and her voice the most enchanting I have ever heard. She reminds me of those mystical queens of legend whose very presence worked a kind of magic, for whom countless young men were willing to risk their lives.”

  “It’s true; there is nothing the queen could ever ask that I would not gladly do.”

  They spoke then of inconsequential things until Lancelot went to his room to rest for a while. Feeling surprisingly tired, he stretched out on his comfortable bed and almost instantly fell asleep. In the great hall in Carduel – or is it Camelot? – the king is dining in the company of his knights. The queen is absent. Someone says she is not feeling well. He is suddenly at her door, enters the chamber, and sees her, his peerless lady, laughing as she embraces a knight he does not recognize. He sees him undo the clasp at the neck of her cloak, reaching underneath. . . . In a moment he dreams he is on his way to the stables in Morgan’s castle. He orders a groom to saddle his horse; there is no pain in his shoulder as he mounts and gallops away. The horse’s hooves are silent on the cobblestones; the gate opens wide as he approaches. Then he is riding out into the forest – and there, suddenly, he awoke, bewildered, unable to account for where he was or why he felt such a terrible despair. Then he remembered. The queen, his peerless lady, was laughing in the arms of another man. . . . With a raging cry, Lancelot fled, unable to outrun his anguish no matter how fast he went, unable to see for the tears that streamed down his face. He imagined himself confronting her, but the thought was unbearable; he felt he might kill her sooner than let her speak. Not for one instant did he doubt the truth of what he had seen. He rode all night long, and, in the morning, found himself on the way to Sorelais.

  Galehaut had already been at home for some time. Deeply troubled to have found no trace of Lancelot, he had asked Lionel to return to Arthur’s court in case there was news – not that he harbored more than the faintest hope. The lordly castle of Sorham, once his pride, was visibly crumbling, and his confidence was falling away with it. Lionel consented to Galehaut’s request only on condition that he place himself in the care of the monks in the monastery near Tessaline; they were known to be skilled at healing. He agreed, and the two men departed from the castle, each following his own path.

  Alarmed by Galehaut’s emaciated appearance, and even more by the sadness which he tried to conceal, the monks put him to bed in a sun-filled chamber and brought him soothing potions made from the herbs and simples of their garden. They did their best to persuade him to take some nourishment. But his ignorance of Lancelot’s fate was devastating – worse, surely, than any reliable knowledge might be, so that the monks’ ministrations met with a resistance that, although unwilled, was stubborn. With time, though, their patient began to yield, even daring to hope for some positive word from Lionel; perhaps Lancelot had returned to court! It was bittersweet to remember how his companion had been with him in this very place. Surely they would be together again some day, here or elsewhere! Gradually, the calm presence of the monks and the serene regularity of their chanting encouraged Galehaut to think about himself, about the short time that remained to him, and about the works he had yet to perform. He knew that he would need strength to carry out the program he had set for his final years, and he resolved to do all he could to improve his health.

  Sooner than the monks considered prudent, however, Galehaut set out on a journey around his kingdom, to do good works among the poor, and to arrange for churches to be built where they were needed. Everywhere he looked for young men of promise who could not afford the equipment of a knight, and he provided them with armor and good horses. His people had always loved him for his splendor and the glory of his conquests, but now they began to revere him for his kindness. There was some comfort for him in this, and in the hope that what he was doing would help redeem the excesses that had marked his early years. Yet he would have abandoned his travels in an instant had he learned that Lancelot was on his way to Sorham.

  It was fortunate that the guards at the causeway over the Severn recognized Lancelot, since he was in no condition to fight for permission to cross. He was given a warm welcome, but when they saw how weakened he was by the wound, which had not healed properly, they refused to allow him to continue his journey on horseback. The knight had no strength to protest. They organized a litter and sent a rider ahead to let the people at Sorham know that they were coming, asking them to send for Galehaut’s most skillful doctor. Although they traveled in easy stages, Lancelot grew increasingly fatigued and his injured shoulder ever more painful. His mood, however, was lightened by the expectation of an imminent reunion with his companion.

  For the duration of his absence, Galehaut had entrusted the city of Sorham to his noble vassal, Bademagus, and it was he who had the gates of the castle thrown open to greet the visitor. Lancelot was alarmed to find Galehaut absent, nor could the sight of a ruined watchtower and the deeply fissured walls give him much comfort. Bademagus’s reassurances failed to prove convincing, especially as he admitted that Galehaut had been ill and depressed following his fruitless search for Lancelot. The young knight understood that Galehaut was not simply doing good works. He was preparing for his death.

  “My lord,” he appealed to Bademagus, “we must call him back to Sorham! I wish I could ride after him myself! But now we’ll have to trust to messengers.”

  Bademagus agreed immediately. Lancelot then allowed himself to be put to bed and endure the doctor’s attentions. He rebandaged the shoulder and told Lancelot that if he did not rest long enough for his wound to heal properly, his very life would be at risk.

  That night Lancelot lay restless, drifting in and out of sleep, but, in either state, agitated by thoughts of the queen and especially by terrible premonitions of Galehaut’s fate. He had never forgotten Master Elias’s warning that he, Lancelot, would be the instrument of his companion’s death, and now, in some way he could not understand, it seemed the prophecy was nearing its fulfillment.

  As the night wore on, anxiety turned to frantic desperation, until Lancelot, heed
less of his condition, jumped out of bed and hastily threw on clothes that he could barely see in the smoky light of his single taper. He would somehow, and faster than any messenger, find Galehaut himself! He was growing feverish. He could neither feel nor, in the dim light, see how his movements opened the shoulder wound once more and renewed the bleeding. He found his way to the door, rushed out, almost fell down the narrow, uneven steps that led to the ground floor, remembered the castle well enough to locate the kitchen exit and, after that, the little postern gate which, now barely hinged and certainly no longer locked, offered him a way out beyond the fortress walls. He thought he was on his way to the stables, but realized after a while that he had gone in the wrong direction. Never mind! He would run. In his confusion, with nothing to guide him through the darkness, he strayed from the rutted path and stumbled into a maze of forest underbrush. He fell; he picked himself up; he ran – downward, it seemed; he slipped again, collapsed, and rolled a short way to the edge of a lake. He lay still.

  A hermit found him in the morning, barely conscious, incoherent and badly hurt. The holy man realized that he must have come from the castle but could hardly return there in his present state; nor could he be left alone while help was sought. Removing the most muddy, blood-soaked parts of Lancelot’s bandages and clothing, useless for the moment, he simply left them on the ground, intending to recover them once he had attended to their owner. His hut was close by, hidden from view by thick foliage and the rocky hillside, and there he managed to lead the knight.

  One of the riders dispatched by Bademagus found Galehaut in the most distant town of the kingdom, and the message sent him galloping frantically back toward Sorham. Although there had been few details, it was apparent that Lancelot’s condition was serious enough to prevent his seeking Galehaut himself. The older man was troubled by what this failure might foretell, but his anxiety was overwhelmed by the joy of knowing that Lancelot was alive, in Sorelais, and that he would see him soon. The days of his hurried ride back to Sorham passed in a blur of excited expectation.

  It was not Lancelot, however, who welcomed him across the lowered drawbridge, but a muted and evasive Bademagus. Faces along the way were drawn and unsmiling; eyes turned away from his glance. In moments Galehaut went from puzzlement to suspicion and from suspicion to anguish. “Where is Lancelot?” he cried out at last, “and why has no one yet uttered his name?”

  Then, to his horror, Galehaut learned what there was to know: his companion’s disappearance during the night, blood stains on his bedding and on the floor, indeed a whole trail of blood leading wildly along a rough path in the forest and then down to the shore of Sorham Lake. And the blood-soaked garments. And no further trace. It seemed all too clear that Lancelot was dead.

  Galehaut insisted on going to the lake, although it had rained and there could be nothing to see. He fell on the ground at the water’s edge and wept. Then he lay silently, without moving, for a long time. So this was how Lancelot was meant to bring about his death, darkness bringing on more darkness. Would they meet beyond this world? It was the only hope that Galehaut had left. As night was coming on, Bademagus knelt down beside his liege lord and begged him to return home. Galehaut, still silent, rose heavily to his feet and mounted his horse. At the castle, he spoke to no one but went directly to his chamber. Servants who came to offer food were turned away.

  In the morning it seemed he had not stirred all night. “How is it with you, my lord?” asked a man who had been with him for many years. There was no response. The servant sent word to Bademagus, who needed no more than a glance to know the truth. The sorrow engraved on Galehaut’s noble face would be there forever. He called together the members of the household to tell them that the Lord of the Distant Isles was dead.

  Under the hermit’s care, Lancelot recovered his wits and began to recover his strength, despite the loss of blood, although the repeated tearing open of the wound in his shoulder made it slow to heal. The hermit was impressed by the young man’s beauty, even in his present state and with all his battle scars, and wondered what could account for his evident unhappiness. Lancelot responded with courteous thanks to the holy man’s solicitude, but seemed not to care if he lived or died. In fact, he could not imagine how his life would go on. He had long thought of himself as Queen Guenevere’s knight and as Galehaut’s companion. These were the bonds, above all others, that had given him, as an adult, a sense of who he was and where he stood in life. Now he was convinced that Guenevere had deceived him, and because of him, Galehaut was facing death! These ties, which had defined his very self, were being cruelly cut. He felt cast adrift and utterly forlorn.

  One morning, the hermit came to his bedside to tell him, with discreet excitement, that a beautiful lady of the noblest bearing had arrived to visit him. She had come accompanied by a single handmaiden and was waiting for him under the oak just outside the hermitage. Lancelot felt his heart leap, and he stood up with a flush of expectancy. He did not wonder who had found her way to his retreat.

  She greeted him as she had often done. Then, “My prince,” she said, “I have come to you with sad news.” She paused only long enough to embrace him, the young man whom she had shaped for whatever purpose of her own but whom she had always cherished with a love as great as any natural mother’s.

  “Your companion returned to the castle of Sorham only to be confronted with signs that you had died. A trail of blood ending at the water’s edge and a pile of blood-stained cloth seemed to leave no doubt. I don’t need to describe to you what immense grief this illusion brought to Galehaut. Without you, there was nothing left for him in life. He turned his face toward the wall that night and never wakened from his sleep.” Lancelot’s heartbreaking intuition was thus confirmed. No news could have brought him greater sorrow or more readily released the tears that now ran down his cheeks in silent mourning. Had it truly been inevitable that Galehaut’s love for him and his for Galehaut would reach this end? Nothing was less certain, and yet he felt no surprise. Perhaps if he had long ago turned away from the queen. . . . Now she had turned away from him, but this recent separation could hardly have saved the life of his companion. He was overcome by a heavy sadness that rent his soul. Unlike his response to other griefs, this time there were no loud cries and frenzy. He had loved Galehaut for his magnanimity, for the great heart that ruled his thoughts and deeds – and for his love. He lamented the loss with a quiet despair worthy of his friend.

  “To think,” he said after some time had passed, “had it not been for the kindness of the hermit, no one would have imagined I had drowned, and Galehaut would not have been killed by a misunderstanding. The hermit told me that when he returned to look for my clothes, they were gone.”

  “Had it not been for the kindness of the hermit,” she answered, “you yourself would have died. For Galehaut the result would very soon have been the same. The workings of true prophecies are beyond our understanding. They shift and reshape themselves, and their details elude our grasp even as we watch them gradually come true.” But Lancelot was not ready for such abstractions; they offered him little comfort.

  The Lady of the Lake knew, as Lancelot could but dimly sense, that the young man’s pain was all the sharper for having no precedent in his experience. No more than shadowy memories had been left by the loss of his parents, and though he had seen, and caused, countless deaths in knightly combat, only now had a tie to someone dear to him been severed. The reality of death had, in truth, been hidden from him. With the loss of Galehaut, his youth came to an end, and with it passed a love that could never be replaced.

  “But one day you will be reunited with your companion,” the Lady added. “It will be in death, and so it will be forever. Meanwhile, you will bear him in your heart and that will be a consolation.”

  Lancelot would have gladly ended all conversation at this point, although it would only have deepened his distress to see the Lady of the Lake depart. She, however, had a measured time for her visit and knew
it was necessary to speak about the queen. “Morgan the Fay has done her – and you – a great injustice. It is not a secret that she has detested Guenevere ever since her brother Arthur chose the most beautiful of women for his wife. Morgan felt displaced and bitter. She has never forgiven Arthur, and she considers Guenevere an enemy whose life she must somehow bring to ruin. You are aware of her vile attempt to replace the queen with her half-sister. When, thanks to your defense, that plan failed, she conceived another strategy: as soon as she could be sure of the bond between you and Guenevere, she would use you as a tool to undo the queen’s happiness. Do not think that Morgan’s men rescued you from abductors. Her men – ”

  And Lancelot had no trouble completing the sentence: “– were my abductors! And the dream in which I learned of Guenevere’s infidelity to me – ”

  “– was a falsehood produced by enchantment. Morgan’s sorcery both induced the dream and convinced you to believe its tale. It didn’t matter what searing effects it might have on you, as long as it provoked a brutal rupture with the queen.”

  Alongside the overwhelming sorrow caused by Galehaut’s death and the weight he felt at having been instrumental in the event, Lancelot now found himself assailed by shame. How could he have let himself be so duped by Morgan as to doubt – indeed, deny – the truth of the queen’s love? He had let their bond be severed without a moment’s hesitation, without the slightest questioning. Such had been the potency of Morgan’s spell, but such had also been his innocence – and his lack of trust. He would be wary of accepting such appearances in the future.

  But for all his distress, Lancelot was also stirred by the joyous thought that he could see the queen again and that she would not turn him away. This was, in fact, the final message that the Lady of the Lake had come to convey. Soon it would be time to return to King Arthur’s court, to the Round Table, and to Queen Guenevere’s affections.