Lancelot and the Lord of the Distant Isles

by Patricia Terry

  Now, however, he must attend to the burial of Galehaut. Lancelot thanked the hermit for his unstinting care and, with the Lady of the Lake, went back to the castle at Sorham, where he was greeted with astonishment, as if returned from the dead. His emotion rendered him all but speechless, and so the Lady of the Lake related to Bademagus how the hermit had rescued him and had unwittingly let it appear that he had drowned. Lancelot found his companion laid out in the same chapel where Master Elias had once spoken with him of life and death. From that moment, right through the night, he kept a solitary vigil over the body, none of the people of the castle daring to disturb his tears and contemplation.

  In the morning, before mass, the Lady of the Lake gave Lancelot one final motherly embrace, and departed.

  None of the barons of Sorelais disputed the young knight’s wish to bury their liege lord as he saw fit. Even once it was clear that he would thus be laid to rest outside his own kingdom, they all agreed that Galehaut’s final place would most properly be with his companion. And so a solemn procession of knights set out with Lancelot from Sorham slowly bearing the body of Galehaut, pulled by four tall black horses, through the villages and forests of the land, past the Severn, across all the leagues to Joyous Guard.

  There, in the fortress that Lancelot had once freed from its terrifying enchantments and made his own, the castle whose name had thereby changed from Dolorous to Joyous but which was now filled with sadness once again, Lancelot ordered that a magnificent tomb be built. It was crafted not of wood nor even gold or silver but entirely of precious stones; these were cut and joined and set in porphyry with a subtle art that barely seemed the work of mortal men. It was placed in the castle cemetery where Lancelot had, some years before, discovered the grave intended for himself. To that site beside his own, six vassals bore Galehaut dressed in full armor, and Lancelot himself, trembling and in tears, laid to rest the body of his companion. He kissed him three times on the lips in such agony that his heart came close to breaking. Then he covered him with a pall of richest silk brocade and lowered the stone lid. It bore, for all to see, the inscription:

  HERE LIES GALEHAUT,

  THE SON OF THE GIANTESS,

  LORD OF THE DISTANT ISLES,

  WHO DIED FOR THE LOVE

  OF LANCELOT

  BOOK ELEVEN: THE DEATH OF LANCELOT

  THE LANCELOT WHO RETURNED TO Camelot some months later was not so much changed in appearance as in his very being. He had stayed at Joyous Guard in solitude, remembering all that he and Galehaut had been to each other, from the day they met on the battlefield when the Lord of the Distant Isles had put himself at the service of the Black Knight, to the last time he saw Galehaut alive. At that final encounter, with a semblance of cheer, his companion had wished him good hunting, and Lancelot realized that Galehaut had not accompanied him that day because the hunt was to celebrate Lancelot’s return to the Round Table. In truth, he had had no desire to bind himself to King Arthur, except that it was the preference of the queen. Even Galehaut acknowledged that he could not refuse her.

  Over and over again he relived the moment when Galehaut went to King Arthur and surrendered, although he had been on the point of conquering his kingdom. Lancelot had felt then, and continued to feel now, unworthy of such a selfless commitment to love. He knew that never again would he find in this world a man of Galehaut’s quality.

  He thought also about the queen, how he would never have dared approach her had not Galehaut’s generosity made it possible. That had been like a gift of life itself, a pure and unshadowed joy. Yet now, perhaps because so much that he depended on had been lost, including, for a time, his trust in Guenevere, his longing for her was marked by a reluctance, by a painful new awareness of the king.

  He could not know what life had been like for her since the day of that unlucky hunt. Apart from the Lady of Malehaut there was no one in whom she could confide, and once the search for Lancelot had been abandoned, there was very little to say. Lancelot’s disappearance had occurred without a witness; Lionel had reported Galehaut’s presence in Sorelais but knew nothing further of him or Lancelot. Guenevere would have preferred to remain in seclusion, but knew that would cause too much comment. Once again she appeared in the great hall, trying to bring comfort to those around her, especially to Arthur who feared for his kingdom. In the terrible isolation of her perplexity and grief, she felt at a great distance from him and the entire court. Even to learn the worst would be better, she felt, than to dwell in uncertainty; it was terrible to think that nothing might ever be known. Her hope was fading away.

  By the time a courier arrived from Joyous Guard, she could barely comprehend that he was announcing Lancelot. She had waited for him so long that, at first, she was more vexed than relieved; but when she saw him standing before the assembled court, her joy was so intense she almost fainted. She could barely grasp what he was reporting. He spoke of Galehaut’s death. Only for himself was that news of supreme importance. Everyone else was so glad to have Lancelot back, they could think of little else.

  Lancelot’s solace was the queen. She had touched his heart the first moment he saw her, and all his knightly prowess, all the renown he had sought and gained, had been inspired by his love for her. Galehaut had understood this and sacrificed himself in love as in warfare, yielding to Guenevere as he had yielded to Arthur. Lancelot realized, perhaps for the first time, the inestimable value of what he had lost. But even in his sorrow, he longed for the queen.

  The lovers had only once before been alone together, but now their meetings became increasingly frequent, and they lived for nothing else. Lancelot had often to absent himself from court, sometimes alone, sometimes with other knights, to ensure the safety of King Arthur’s realm. Thanks to his prowess and steadfast allegiance, threats from without were repelled and justice maintained within. He shone as brightly as ever in tournaments and wars – admired, loved, and feared. The king relied on his commitment and his valor with grateful assurance, and Lancelot never failed to satisfy, and even to surpass, his hopes. But in truth it was always the queen for whom he battled and who guided his behavior in combat as at court. Even at the age of fifty, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Everything he undertook, he undertook for her, and he gloried in her approval. With Galehaut gone, he could convince himself that the queen was both lover and companion, even as the absence of his irreplaceable friend cast a shadow over his joy. Guenevere thrived on Lancelot’s adoration, imagining her marriage and her love as complementary rather than conflicting. They both tried to remain absolutely discreet, yet inevitably, in the course of time, traces of their sentiments became noticeable.

  They were unaware that one day Morgan asked the king to receive her in private, claiming to have information that touched his honor. Arthur knew that his sister would go to any lengths to discredit Guenevere; she had already proved as much. Still, he let her convince him to have the queen watched. He selected the knight named Agravain for the purpose, swearing him to secrecy. Agravain would be more inclined than most to accept such a task, for he was known to be jealous of Lancelot on behalf of his brother Gawain, now only the second most renowned of Arthur’s warriors. Not that Gawain himself had ever felt uncomfortably displaced by the newer hero, but his younger brother resented the dimming of his own, reflected, glory.

  One evening Agravain saw the queen leave the great hall at Camelot rather early. He slipped out after her. The night was not too dark for him to see Guenevere cross the garden and walk rapidly toward a pavilion sometimes used for guests. Half an hour later, Lancelot followed. Although it was clear that he was unarmed, Agravain went to the watch tower and returned with four other knights. For all the lovers’ intentness on each other, the sound of footsteps and the clanking of metal outside the pavilion made it clear that their tryst was not a secret. Lancelot, enraged rather than alarmed, was sure he could save them both, but the queen thought that an attempt to escape with him would make her guilt even more apparent. “As l
ong as you are safe, they won’t dare to touch me, for fear of what you would do!” He seized an axe that was hanging on the wall, and abruptly opened the door. The man who was leaning against it lost his balance and fell victim to the blade. Lancelot kicked the door closed and seized the intruder’s sword and shield. Then, flinging the door wide open, he fought his way past the others, leaving two men dead behind him. He leapt onto a horse that stood nearby and galloped away. Agravain forced Guenevere to accompany him to the king.

  Arthur had never wanted to believe the rumors about Lancelot and the queen. For him, Lancelot had been the very model of valor and loyalty. The queen he had always loved with adoration, despite the passing charms of other women. So he had stubbornly gone on trusting in her innocence. This time, however, he had to face not a rumor, but a reality. He turned from Guenevere in revulsion, convinced at last of a betrayal that could have only one outcome. His wife’s treachery called for the ultimate punishment. Arthur ordered a guard to lock her in her chambers until he could have her put to death. All that mattered was revenge – and the need to act quickly, before Lancelot could intervene.

  Just one of Arthur’s liege men dared to object. Should the queen be killed, Gawain told his uncle in a tone that admitted of no doubt, he would leave the court forever, ally himself with Lancelot and destroy the Round Table. “What the queen has done is far less a sin than murder! She has always been the glory of this kingdom, and deserves our compassion now. Let her live out her days in peace. Remove her to a holy place where she can pray for her sins.”

  At last, for fear that Gawain would carry out his threat, the king agreed to this plan. The Lady of Malehaut would accompany Guenevere to a suitable convent, and the two women were sent on their way the very next morning. Arthur would never see the queen again.

  From a distance, Lancelot watched as Guenevere and her escort rode away. His almost irresistible impulse was to hurl himself upon them, to fight his way through to her. Galehaut had once imagined carrying her off to Sorelais, an idea they had rejected as completely unacceptable. But now he had no refuge to offer her, much less a kingdom, and, more keenly than ever before, he felt the loss of his inheritance. Too late now to recapture Benoic! All he had to call his own was the fortress, Joyous Guard, but that was within King Arthur’s lands and would surely be attacked. In any event, Guenevere would be an outlaw. The king would never give up pursuing them, and were she to be captured she would no doubt be burned at the stake. And as she herself had refused to come away with him when they were discovered together, there was no reason to think she would change her mind. She could not deny her guilt any more than he could; the king would never forgive her, even if contrition were to win her the mercy of God.

  It was hard for him to imagine such redemption for himself. His love was lost to him, and that he, unlike the queen, still had his freedom could only be justified by taking vengeance on the spy. When all that remained of Guenevere was a faint cloud of dust on the road, Lancelot spurred his horse and galloped to Camelot, over the drawbridge and straight into the courtyard of the castle. At the top of his lungs, he shouted out a challenge to Agravain. The response was immediate. Although Gawain tried desperately to prevent him, Agravain rode out to confront a knight against whom he had little chance of prevailing. He had assumed that Lancelot would be captured with the queen, but he and his men had failed. And when he thought of those killed, he felt he was shamed forever should he not try to avenge them.

  The duel was very brief. As the horses drove straight toward each other, Agravain’s lance splintered on Lancelot’s shield, even as a blow powerful enough to split an oak sent him flying, dead, to the ground.

  Gawain had felt like a sleeper trapped in a nightmare, unable to intervene, paralyzed with horror. Standing over his brother Agravain’s body, with the king and knights of the Round Table looking on, all of them as powerless as he was, Gawain knew that his world, the world in which the mission of knights was to protect the weak and defend the right, had come to an end. The greatest knight ever seen, the man he had admired above all others and to whom the very kingdom owed its continued existence, that knight he was now bound to try and destroy. If only such a friend had not taken his brother’s life!

  To defend the right – but there was nothing here that was right: the peerless queen disgraced, yes; and if Lancelot had not championed her against the false queen, she would have been put to death by Arthur’s command. His brother turned spy, but for jealousy of Lancelot, as Gawain knew very well, not from any principle. Guenevere had had no trial. And if there had been one, would she not have accused the king of a faithlessness known to all? Would she not have reminded him of how he had insisted she persuade Lancelot to stay at court? Even now, Lancelot could ride away – no one would have dared to stop him – but he waited there, honor-bound, immobile on his horse, and Gawain heard himself say what his friend was expecting to hear: that the death of Agravain would cost Lancelot his life, or Gawain would lose his own.

  Lancelot too felt controlled by forces set in motion long ago, but now so potent they could no longer be denied. Gawain had befriended him when he first came to court. And he was, next to Galehaut, the knight whom Lancelot had found most admirable. Moreover, he was the queen’s nephew, as devoted to her as she was to him. What would she want Lancelot to do? Could he simply refuse to respond to Gawain’s challenge? He had no fear of being called a coward, but he would have to answer for Agravain’s death; simply to leave would only put off an inevitable confrontation. He thought ruefully that his shoulder wound, never entirely healed, would give his opponent an advantage, assuming that Gawain himself had been restored to health.

  Gawain, now fully armed and riding a fresh horse, appeared on the field; the herald signaled the onset of the combat. Their first pass unhorsed them both, so perfect was their skill, and they stood, facing each other, with drawn swords. They could have said something, then, of what was in their hearts, but there seemed to be no words. They fought with immense sadness, as if moving through water. Gawain’s strength, as always, increased when the sun was at its height; after that, Lancelot began to prevail. The hours went by. The ground where they fought was covered with chainmail links and pieces of shields; blood was running from Gawain’s nose and mouth, as well as from countless wounds. Lancelot was only slightly better off. Any other knights in the world would have given up or died long since, but through the afternoon these two showed no signs of fatigue or pain.

  When the light began to fade, however, Gawain had scarcely the strength to hold his sword; everyone could see that his defeat was certain. He paused for a moment to take a breath, and Lancelot said, “My lord, a knight accused of unlawful killing must fight in his own defense, but only until vespers. I think you could now agree that I’ve answered your challenge. I am ready to continue, if you insist, but one of us will not survive.”

  “Then one of us will not survive.”

  Lancelot was pained to hear this, almost preferring to die himself rather than kill so valiant a knight. He turned to King Arthur: “My lord, I have asked Sir Gawain to put an end to this duel lest one of us come to harm.”

  The king knew very well what the outcome of further combat would be, and grateful for Lancelot’s generosity, he replied, “Gawain is not obliged to declare the battle over, but you have my permission to withdraw, if that is your wish. His challenge has been well and truly answered.”

  “My lord, if I thought it would not be held against me, I would leave the field to Sir Gawain.”

  “I am glad to have it so.”

  “Then I will take my leave, with your permission.”

  “And may God protect you.”

  Lancelot stood still until his horse was led onto the field. Then he mounted and in the gathering darkness rode away toward Joyous Guard.

  For a few moments no one moved; they listened in silence to the receding footfalls of Lancelot’s horse. Its pace was slow. The knights of the Round Table knew that they had witnessed tha
t day a magnificence of valor not to be seen again. The glory of King Arthur’s court depended on Lancelot. Now, with Sir Gawain almost certainly close to death, the kingdom would be vulnerable as never before.

  King Arthur bent over the grievously wounded knight and gave way to his sorrow. “Fortune that has favored me for so long now casts me down! Dear nephew, please try to live – you are all I have left!”

  Gawain was placed carefully on a litter and carried to his lodgings, where doctors did what they could to make him comfortable. Precious ointments were spread over his wounds, and bandages were wrapped tightly around them. Soothing potions were brought to ease his pain, but he was unable to swallow. He lay in a restless torpor, barely conscious.

  Days went by with no change, then weeks. Camelot, always so full of activity, was silent as never before. No knights were starting out or returning from adventures; in the evenings, no minstrel sang. The arrival of a messenger one morning was at first a welcome diversion, but the news he brought was grim. King Arthur’s bastard son Mordred, a result of the king’s youthful infatuation with his half-sister Morgause, had seldom been seen at court. He had never won any favor with his father, who greatly preferred his eldest nephew and, more recently, the son of Ban. The more Gawain and Lancelot attracted the world’s admiration, the more virulent and hostile Mordred became, and his hatred was always focused on the king. Over the years, Mordred had made alliances with powerful Saxon lords, promising that they would one day hold the lands of Arthur’s kingdom.

  News of the sad events in Camelot did not fail to reach him promptly, and he rejoiced to think that his moment was finally at hand. He assembled a vast army across the frontier, and had already moved into Logres when his ultimatum was brought to Arthur: “Welcome me as your overlord, or your kingdom and your life will be forfeit.”