Before responding, Arthur went to visit Gawain who said, “My lord, I implore you not to fight with Mordred! Close to death as I am, some things have been shown to me. You may indeed kill your son, but I know he’ll have inflicted on you a wound you will not survive.”
“But I cannot simply stay here and let him invade us! What honor would I have left if I were seen to be afraid? If I bring an army against him there is some hope, however slight. If I don’t, I will even more surely find death at his hands.”
“There is one thing you can do, and I beg you, if ever you have loved me, to do it. You must send for Lancelot.”
Arthur was astonished to hear Gawain offer such advice, but, although he admired him for it, he felt obliged to reply, “I cannot bring myself to ask for his help.”
“When I die,” said Gawain, already on another plane of thought, “please let him know that I thought of him at the last, and thought of him as the man I most loved and esteemed in my life, both for his prowess and his perfect courtesy.” Gawain said no more, but closed his eyes and lay still. He seemed to have fallen unconscious, but Arthur could not bear to leave him. After a time, he heard Gawain whisper, “God, judge me not according to my sins.” Then the sound of his labored breathing came to an end.
That night the king kept vigil over his nephew. He looked much older when he appeared next day in the great hall and ordered that Gawain receive every possible honor and be laid to rest, as he had requested, beside his brother. The king himself placed over the body a cloth stiff with gold and heavy with jewels. The procession that set out for Gawain’s homeland consisted only of priests and squires; every knight was commanded to prepare himself for war.
There was at Salisbury Plain a large rock on which Merlin the sorcerer had inscribed a prophecy:
ON THIS PLAIN THERE WILL BE A BATTLE
AFTER WHICH THE KINGDOM OF LOGRES
WILL BE ORPHANED FOREVER.
Even as King Arthur looked at this, Mordred’s army began to darken the horizon. Soon he realized that it was at least twice the size of his own. Only seventy-two knights of the Round Table were with him, and he sadly thought of Lancelot, who would surely have come to help him, had he been asked. Assuming a confidence that he did not feel, he organized ten battalions, the first to be commanded by Sir Yvain, the second by King Yon, the last by himself, exhorting them all to win honor for themselves and their king. Mordred was on the march with twenty battalions, the first two entirely made up of Saxons, whose hatred of Arthur was such that they made up in ferocity for their lesser skill at fighting. Others came from Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. Now they could see King Arthur’s banners fluttering in the wind, where his men waited immobile on their horses; and now they came closer still, and a thousand lances were lowered as one. The armies came together with a sound louder than ten claps of thunder. Yvain rode against Arcans, the Saxon king’s nephew, and cut him down. But the triumph was short.
The Saxon king tried to avenge his nephew’s death, but Yvain sent him, headless, to his own death, and the Saxon battalions fled as the Britons kept cutting them down from behind. But the Irish came to their help, strong, well-rested fighters who inflicted such wounds on the Britons that all of them would have been lost had King Yon not led his men into the melee. Finding Yvain on foot, badly wounded, and surrounded by enemies, King Yon scattered them with such speed and fury that Yvain could be mounted again. They both resumed fighting, but an Irish warrior hurled himself at King Yon and took his life. Yvain’s vengeance was swift, but brought no satisfaction: “If only your death could bring that great king back!” he sighed.
The ground was covered with dead and wounded knights; frenzied horses galloped everywhere, with no one to stop them. So many valiant men were killed on that day that not only the kingdom of Logres, but many other lands as well were left to the mercy of marauders. The world would never again hold such a wealth of brave and worthy leaders.
Arthur looked around him on the field. Ten thousand men – foot-soldiers and knights – had come there to fight; now only six hundred were left, and with them only four of the Round Table knights. Then he saw Mordred ride against Yvain and, with a single blow, cut him down. The king’s heart nearly failed him; but Mordred came galloping in his direction, and his strength returned to him in an all-consuming rage. Both lances were shattered in the shock of their encounter, but neither man was unhorsed.
As Arthur unsheathed Excalibur, light flashed from its jeweled hilt. Raising his sword with both hands, the king brought it crashing down on his son’s head, but before the blow fell, Mordred’s sword had pierced his father’s hauberk and plunged deep into his chest. Excalibur cracked Mordred’s helmeted skull as easily as an eggshell. He fell onto his horse’s neck and, tangled in the reins, was carried, dead, back toward his own lines. Arthur, mortally wounded, slipped to the ground. His remaining men, wild with fury, chased the retreating Saxons, who turned around and fought on. By evening, only King Arthur and one knight, a young man named Girflet, were still alive – and the king was dying.
After a night spent in prayer, King Arthur asked Girflet to take Excalibur and ride to a nearby lake. He was to throw the sword into the water.
“But my lord! How can I destroy so marvelous a weapon? If you have no further use for it, give it to me!”
“Do you think that well of yourself? Only Lancelot is worthy of my sword, and to him I would bequeath it, if I could. Now go and do what I said.”
When Girflet returned after a while, Arthur asked, “What did you see when you threw the sword into the lake?”
“Only the water closing over it, my lord.”
The king had been lying, exhausted and growing weaker, under a tree. Now he sat up against the trunk, and the knight was awed by the majesty of his presence. “Do not lie to me! You have sworn to serve your king and to obey him. Do not presume to decide the destiny of the sword I have carried into battle all my life! Now go and do what I cannot do for myself.”
Girflet hurried to where he had hidden Excalibur and hurled it as far as he could toward the center of the lake. But it did not fall directly into the water. It was grasped instead by the hand of a slender arm that had suddenly risen above the surface. Then arm and uplifted sword sank back into the water and disappeared.
Struck with wonder, Girflet ran back to King Arthur and reported what he had witnessed. “Thank you,” said the king. “Now saddle the horses and ride with me to the sea.”
When they reached the shore, the king, with great effort, dismounted and said, “I release you from my service, good friend. Leave me alone here, and know that you will never see me again.”
“Where are you going, my lord?”
“That I cannot tell you.”
Girflet rode away. There was a sudden rainstorm, and he took shelter beneath a tree on top of a hill. When the rain stopped, he looked back toward the king. A boat with fair silk sails appeared in the distance and stopped close to where Arthur lay on the ground. In it, Girflet recognized Morgan the Fay, standing at the prow. Arthur rose to his feet and, leading his horse, stepped lightly into the boat. Girflet caught a final glimpse of the king, lying with his head on Morgan’s lap, as the boat headed into the mist that blurred the horizon.
News of the King’s death spread rapidly through his lands. At her convent Guenevere mourned the husband for whom she had always felt a profound affection. She had never forgotten the radiant young ruler who had chosen her as his bride.
The Lady of Malehaut said, “Alas, my lady! When King Uther Pendragon died, and King Arthur was still a child, even houses like this were not safe from the warring barons. Each one thought he could make the land his own by overpowering his neighbors. There was no safe asylum anywhere. King Arthur changed all that, and we have known the splendor of his reign. But now the situation is worse than at the very start, because the king has neither left a son nor designated an heir. Our world has reached its end.”
“I know you blame me for that,” said G
uenevere, “and for Galehaut’s death too, and indeed I blame myself, most bitterly. But the Lady of the Lake told me that my love, which the world considered folly and betrayal, was wisdom. Lancelot was the noblest and most valiant knight ever seen, and I was the occasion for his great deeds. He asked for no reward, only that I allow him to be my knight. He never knew what fear was except in my presence; I was the one to act on his unspoken, and perhaps unrecognized, desire.
“The king would have had me killed on the word of an impostor, had not Lancelot fought three knights to save me. Long before that, Galehaut would have conquered all of Logres, had Lancelot not intervened. Always Arthur feared that, were it not for Lancelot, his enemies would overwhelm him. He forced me to have Lancelot remain at court, when I knew that it would be wrong for him to do so. Many times Arthur betrayed me, and his loves endangered the realm. My love was its protection, although there was no way to save it in the end.”
When Lancelot reached Joyous Guard after his duel with Sir Gawain, his condition was alarming. Although the people of the castle were happy to have their liberator with them once again, they could sense it would not be for long. Doctors applied their arts with diligence, but weeks went by with no discernible improvement. They were discouraged by their patient’s lack of vigor. He seemed to undergo their treatments without caring whether they were effective. Finally, they told Lancelot there was nothing more to be done.
Lionel, sometimes accompanied by his younger brother, Bors, never left his cousin’s bedside, trying to make him comfortable and to cheer him. Indeed, the one subject that seemed to interest Lancelot was the ceremony he planned for Lionel’s knighting. When it took place, he appeared in the great hall, looking somewhat like himself again. All the people of the castle were in attendance, as the young man knelt before his cousin, the son of King Ban of Benoic, who solemnly touched his shoulders with the sword that had once belonged to Galehaut. Then Lancelot, torn between regret and hope, entrusted the precious weapon to the new knight. There was a feast in Lionel’s honor that evening, but Lancelot attended it with a heavy heart.
It was not long before a messenger arrived with a letter from the Lady of Malehaut, telling him that Guenevere had died, “not of any accident or illness. She just seemed to waste away, eating less and less, until she had no more strength. After the death of King Arthur, she had hoped you would come to her, although she knew how badly you were wounded in the battle with Gawain. The abbess of our convent, however, persuaded her to think of the salvation of her soul, and finally she decided to take the veil. I accompanied her in this, and will spend the rest of my life in this holy place. The queen was buried here, as no one knows what happened to the body of the king.”
Lancelot fell into a restless lethargy from which nothing could rouse him. For him, the world was empty, with no more use for valor, and nothing left to inspire it. He wondered how Lionel and Bors would face the new times. He had not succeeded in winning his kingdom back from the usurper; would his cousins ever regain the land from which they, too, had been forced to flee? Galehaut had wanted to make all that possible, but he had declined his companion’s help. Soon Arthur’s kingdom would be fought over by the enemies on its borders; its glory would be only a fading memory. Had it not been for him, Galehaut would have ruled in Arthur’s place; perhaps that would have been better. He could not imagine his life if he hadn’t loved the queen, but had they not been discovered, he would have fought against Mordred with Arthur, if Mordred had dared to attack. The result might have been different. Or he might have died in battle, rather than linger here so wretchedly. He began to have high fevers; his old shoulder wound had become infected, causing him great pain. All he could do was lie in bed, waiting for the end. He asked to see a priest, but was more disturbed than ever after his visit.
One morning, on the tenth day before May, a servant told Lionel that a tall lady of great beauty was asking to see him. At the sight of the Lady of the Lake, Lionel felt a sudden happiness, as if everything could still be made right. But in his heart he knew why she had come. He answered her anxious questions, and then she went to Lancelot. He had been for days in a state between sleep and unconsciousness, tormented still by dreams and memories, but he opened his eyes and saw her. “My dear prince!” she said, embracing him. For a moment he came back to life, glad that she was there, but soon he collapsed in her arms. Neither of them moved for a long time. Then she began to sing a song which had often calmed him to sleep as a child, when he was over-tired from riding through the forest or from play.
“One more time,” he murmured, just as he used to do, and, with a smile, she sang again. He could not keep himself from feeling drowsy. After a time, her voice became very low, and she sang in a language unknown to him, perhaps the language of her home. The melody seemed foreign, yet familiar. Its cadences held the artless sound of the ever-changing brooks that glisten in the dappled light of the forest, yet in that pure tranquility soared a wildness, like a falcon owned by no one. His breathing slowed as he drifted on the sound, and he was no longer Lancelot of the Lake but only a presence aware of that untroubled music, that song, entrancing still, as it turned to silence.
The Lady kept vigil through the night. Then she sent for Lionel and asked him to have Lancelot’s sword conveyed to the convent where the queen was buried. Then they went together to the splendid tomb Lancelot had made for Galehaut, and where he himself would lie, close to his friend. The Lady of the Lake departed, and Lionel was left alone to do what was needed.
When Lancelot was laid to rest, Excalibur lay at his side. And a new inscription appeared on the stone:
HERE LIES GALEHAUT,
THE SON OF THE GIANTESS,
LORD OF THE DISTANT ISLES,
WHO DIED FOR THE LOVE
OF LANCELOT
AND WITH HIM LIES
LANCELOT OF THE LAKE,
THE MOST VALIANT
OF ALL THE KNIGHTS
TO HAVE SERVED IN
THE KINGDOM OF LOGRES.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
At one stage or another in our collaborative undertaking, several friends have had the kindness to listen, read, and comment. We have benefited considerably from their suggestions and are happy to express our gratitude.
We thank Nancy Vine Durling, who has been a presence in this project since before its beginning; Charlotte Minard and Ida Rigby, who read penultimate versions; Aline Hornaday, who shared with us her specialized knowledge of the history that underlies our story.
To Patricia Stirnemann we offer thanks for helping us learn what we could from the iconography of medieval sources.
We thank Theodore W. Thieme for an early overview of the narrative, and we are deeply grateful to Jeffrey S. Ankrom for his sustained and perceptive interest in every aspect of our endeavor, from computer use to character analysis.
To David R. Godine we are immeasurably indebted for his untiring support of the project and for the most careful, intelligent attention that any editor-publisher could bestow upon a manuscript.
1 The entire cycle, along with an early sequel, is available in English in the five volumes of Lancelot-Grail: The Old French Arthurian Vulgate and Post-Vulgate in Translation, Norris J. Lacy, general editor (New York and London: Garland Publishing [now Routledge], 1992–95).
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