The King Arthur Trilogy

by Rosemary Sutcliff

  Then Sir Lancelot and the Queen knelt before the High King, and Sir Lancelot said in a loud clear voice for all to hear, ‘My liege lord the High King, I bring here to you the Lady Guenever, your Queen. Mine alone is the blame if aught has been between us that should not have been; for she is as true to you as ever was lady to her lord; and if any knight dare to say otherwise, I stand ready to prove her innocence in single combat to the death!’

  As he finished speaking, his gaze seemed drawn past the King, and for a moment it caught and locked with the pale gaze of Sir Mordred, who stood with a cluster of young knights a little to one side. And in that moment Sir Mordred smiled. His small silken smile made the gorge rise in Sir Lancelot’s throat. But he spoke no word, and the King’s son only went on playing with the late blood-red corn poppy between his fingers.

  It was Sir Gawain who spoke first; grey-faced and red-eyed, with a bloody clout round his shoulder. ‘I have said it before; I speak no word against the Queen. The King must do as he chooses in this. But between you and me, for my two brothers’ sake, there is blood feud, and I am your enemy while the breath is in my body – or in yours.’

  And the King stooped, still speaking no word, for at that moment he could not, and lifted the Queen to her feet.

  Lancelot rose, and stood before his king, his head up, and his hands clenched under the folds of his cloak. ‘And now, my Lord the King, I take my leave of you, and of this land where I gained my knighthood and all that ever I have had of honour. I am for the south coast, and my own lands of Benwick across the Narrow Seas.’

  ‘You have fifteen days,’ said King Arthur.

  And Lancelot said, ‘The King is generous. It was only three that King Marc of Cornwall gave to Sir Tristan in like case.’

  And in the minds of both of them was the old sorrowful story told by Sir Tristan himself beside the fire in the Great Hall at Camelot on that wild All Hallows’ Eve so long ago. And they could have wept each on the other’s neck.

  Again it was Gawain who broke the silence. ‘Wherever you go, see that your sword sits loose in its sheath, for I swear that I will come after you!’

  ‘No,’ Lancelot said, ‘do not swear, do not come after me. For God’s sake, do not hound the King into coming after me. Let the war end and its wounds heal over.’

  Then he turned to Guenever, who stood white and watching at the King’s side; and said clearly and proudly and again for all to hear, ‘Madam, now I must leave you and my fellows of the Round Table for ever. Pray for me in the years to come, and if ever you have need of one to fight for you, send me word, and if I yet live, I will come.’

  Gravely and distantly, he kissed her hand; then turned away, leaving her with the King.

  He did not look back, nor did she follow him with her eyes, though it seemed that this was the last time that they should see each other in the world of men.

  Indeed, there was to be one time more, but there would be little of joy in that meeting, for either of them.

  So Sir Lancelot rode south through dust-dark forests beginning to flame with autumn, until he came to the coast. And there he took ship across the Narrow Seas, and so returned to Benwick and his own people. But he did not go quite alone. Most of the knights who had gathered to him at Joyous Gard returned to King Arthur’s court and their old allegiance; but his half-brother Sir Ector of the Marsh, and his kinsman Sir Bors and a handful more, headed by old Sir Bleoberis who had been King Utha Pendragon’s standard-bearer when he and the world were young, went with him or followed after. And in Benwick the knights and lords of his own following gladly welcomed him back.

  The autumn and the winter passed, and for a while it seemed that there was peace in Britain. But Sir Gawain never for a breath of time forgot or forgave the death of his brothers; and day and night he urged the King to gather his forces and go after Sir Lancelot and finish the war indeed.

  ‘For it was never truly ended,’ said he, ‘but only broken off midway. And so long as Lancelot sits lordly in his own domains, there will be knights to slip away to him whenever any ruling of yours displeases them.’

  ‘Remember Sir Bors and Sir Ector, and others beside, are with him even now,’ said Mordred gently and regretfully. ‘And he has his own knights to gather to him also.’ And he spoke of rumours that Sir Lancelot was gathering a war-host. And once it was gathered, what should it be used for, save for making war on his liege lord? And if ever Sir Gawain showed any sign that his wrath was cooling, Mordred would drip a little more poison into his heart to make the wound break out afresh. And the King was no more the man he had been. Something of his strength was gone, and of his faith in himself and his own judgement. Something seemed broken within him; maybe it was his heart. And so he listened to Sir Gawain whom he loved, and to Sir Mordred whom he tried not to hate, when he should have listened to the voice within himself. And when the year turned again to spring, he began gathering his war-host; and the land rang with the sound of armourers’ hammers; and ships were made ready and lying in south coast harbours, waiting to ferry men and horses across the Narrow Seas.

  And when the seafaring weather of early summer came, Arthur led his war-host across to Benwick, to carry forward the war against Sir Lancelot to its bitter end.

  And behind him he left Sir Mordred to govern the kingdom during his absence, and to protect the Queen. His loyal knights were aghast at his decision, and full of dread. But the King had a sense of Fate upon him. He knew deep within himself that the pattern was almost finished; and the doom upon himself and all that he had fought for, which he had unleashed when he fathered Mordred on his own half-sister, was hard upon him; and maybe he would hold out his arms to it rather than seek to fend it off, seeing that there was no escape. No escape from the doom, no escape from the ordained end of the pattern …

  ‘He is my son,’ he said, ‘he has something of my own gift for leading men. And there is no one else!’

  So then, the High King left his son behind him and took his war-host across the Narrow Seas, and led them through the lands of Benwick until they reached its great castle. And they made their camp before the castle and laid siege to it, as they had done to Joyous Gard.

  Then the knights who were with Sir Lancelot begged him to lead them out at once, to give battle. ‘For we were bred and trained up for honourable fighting,’ said they, ‘not for cowering behind castle walls.’

  ‘First I will send word to the King under the green branch,’ said Sir Lancelot, ‘for still I am bitter loath to fight my liege lord; and peace is always better than war.’

  And he sent a maiden mounted on a white palfrey with a branch of green willow in her hands into the King’s camp, to see whether peace might not be made once more between them.

  But with Sir Gawain beside him, the King would not listen to her plea; and so the maiden returned weeping to Sir Lancelot.

  And scarcely had she told of her failure, than Sir Gawain, mounted on his proudest warhorse and with a mighty spear in his hand, was before the main gate shouting, ‘Sir Lancelot of the Lake! Is there none of your proud knights dares break spear with me?’

  ‘I claim first spear in answer to that!’ said Sir Bors. And he made ready and rode out to encounter Sir Gawain; and when they set their spears in rest and charged together, Sir Bors was unhorsed at the first shock and sorely hurt, and must have been lost, but that a band of knights charged out to his rescue and carried him back into the castle.

  And next day Sir Gawain came again, and this time Sir Ector answered his challenge; and he also was felled, and borne back by his rescuers within the gates.

  And the siege lasted many months, and again and again Sir Gawain came with his challenge. And it seemed that no champion could stand against him; for every knight who rode out in answer to his challenge he slew or wounded, and took no scathe himself. And then one day, sear and chill on the very edge of winter, Sir Gawain came yet again, and cried out, his great voice rough and echoing within his helmet, ‘Are you listening, Sir Lance
lot, traitor and coward? Or have you hidden your head beneath the pillows? Come out now and give me combat, or carry the shame for ever! For here I wait to take my vengeance for the death of my brothers!’

  And Sir Lancelot could bear it no longer; and he bade his squires to harness and bring round his best horse, and he rode out to answer Sir Gawain’s challenge. ‘God knows it is with a heavy heart I join battle with you, Sir Gawain, both for the old friendship between us and because you are blood-kin to the High King, but you drive me to it, so now must I turn upon you as a boar turns at bay!’

  ‘This is no more the time for words,’ said Sir Gawain. ‘Now you shall give me satisfaction for my brothers’ slaying; and there shall be no breaking-off between us while the life remains in us both.’

  Then they drew their horses far apart, and turning, couched their lances, struck in their spurs and came thundering down upon each other, while from the King’s camp and the walls of Benwick Castle men looked on with the breath caught in their throats. They came together with such a rending crash that both horses and riders were brought down in a struggling tangle. The champions rolled clear of their horses and stumbled to their feet, drawing their swords, and fell to, thrusting and smiting and foining until their armour was hacked and dinted, and their blood ran down to spatter the trampled grass like the small crimson flowers that the people in eastern lands used to call the Tears of Tammuz.

  And at last Sir Lancelot fetched Sir Gawain such a blow on the helmet that the blade bit through and made a great wound in his head beneath, in the place where the old wound had been, so that he might not rise again. And Sir Lancelot drew aside and stood gasping for breath and leaning on his sword.

  And Sir Gawain cried out to him in an agony, ‘Now slay on! For I swear that when I am whole I shall do battle with you again!’

  ‘That must be as it will,’ said Sir Lancelot, ‘but I never yet slew a felled and wounded knight in cold blood; and sweet Jesu knows the blood is cold within me this day!’

  And he turned and limped wearily away, while men from the royal camp came out and bore Sir Gawain, still raving, back to the King’s pavilion, where the King’s own physician Morgan Tudd waited to salve his wounds.

  And the siege dragged on, and the wild geese came down from the North to winter in the marshes nearby and there was ice along the edges of the tracks. And so soon as Sir Gawain could sit firm upon his horse he was back at the gates of Benwick Castle, crying like a madman for Sir Lancelot to come out to him. ‘For the last time we fought, by some mischance I had sore hurt at your hands, so now I come to take my revenge, and lay you as low as last time you laid me!’

  ‘Now God forbid,’ said Lancelot to his knights, ‘for then I think that my time would be short indeed!’

  But he called for his horse, and rode out. And again they fought, and again after long and desperate struggle, the battle ended as it had done before; and by evil chance the final blow of Sir Lancelot’s sword fell yet again upon the selfsame place as the old wound. And Sir Lancelot, walking with a sick heart back towards his castle gates and his knights assembled there, heard behind him a terrible sobbing and gasping voice that cried after him, ‘Traitor knight! Traitor knight! When I am whole again …’ and then ceased as Sir Gawain sank into a deep swoon, and the men from the King’s camp bore him away like one that is dead.

  Sir Gawain lay for many days near to death and raving, while the siege dragged on through the chill and sodden winter, and the King’s men endured as best they could under canvas or in the wrecked and empty town. And it was the edge of spring, with the days lengthening and the first catkins showing yellow on the hazel thickets, before Sir Gawain could sit on his horse once more. But as soon as he could bear spear and shield, his first thought was to ride out and challenge Sir Lancelot yet again; for now he seemed to have no room in his poor wounded head for any thought except this one.

  But on the very eve of the day when he would have ridden out again, despite all that the King or his fellow knights could say to hold him back, news came from Britain that ended the siege.

  6

  The Usurper

  LEFT TO GOVERN Britain while the flower of the Round Table fellowship slew each other beyond the Narrow Seas, Sir Mordred was soon about the next part of his plans. His gift for setting fashions had become the gift for leading men, which his father the High King had known that he possessed. Already he had his following among the younger knights, and as the summer passed and turned to autumn, and then the winter went by, others who had never truly been Arthur’s men gathered to him at Camelot; and the men of the North and beyond the Irish Sea began to creep back, sending in their leaders to speak with him behind closed doors, drawn by rumours of easier terms and a looser rule than ever they had had from Arthur Pendragon. Word began to go round too – no man knowing who started it – that if Mordred and not Arthur were King, the taxes that they had to pay for the safe-keeping of the realm would somehow be lighter, and the strong laws that he had made would be slackened. Men began to prick their ears, and those who were still true to the High King in their hearts were uneasy and bewildered, not knowing what they were supposed to do. And the whole realm began to grow unsure.

  Guenever knew a little of what was going on, but she kept herself close in the women’s quarters these days, rather than mingle with the new company at court; and she prayed with a heart full of dread for Arthur’s return and for peace between the sundered halves of the Round Table, and that Arthur’s return might not mean that Lancelot was slain.

  The feast of Candlemas went by, and there were snowdrops in the castle’s high-walled garden, and then the first short-stemmed primroses along the river banks below the town. And a day came; a grey shivering day that had none of the hope of spring in it, but a little moaning uneasy wind that made strange whisperings along the corridors and stirred the tapestries on the walls of the Queen’s bower, where she sat at her embroidery with one of her favourite maidens.

  When she was young she had worked fair and light-hearted things with her needle; a unicorn, milk-white on a background sprinkled thick with pinks and heartsease pansies, with birds and butterflies among the leaves overhead. And later she had worked the proud red dragon of Britain upon golden damask, to make a shield-case for the High King. Now she was working angels with spread wings upon an altar hanging for the castle chapel. She had not the gift of prayer. Though she prayed long and often in these days, she knew that her prayers never truly took wing; so she embroidered the angels with their spread wings of gold and crimson and violet, with some half-hope that they might carry her prayers upward; or even that God might accept them as another kind of prayer. ‘See, I am doing this for you. You who can do all things, pray you save Arthur – pray you save Lancelot – pray you save Britain from the dark.’

  It was drawing in towards evening; soon it would be time for the pages to bring the honey-wax tapers. She could scarcely see to set the fine stitches any longer. She turned her embroidery frame to catch the last fading daylight from the western window. And as she did so, she was suddenly aware of distant sounds under the little uneasy wind; a flurry of startled voices; footsteps below in the courtyard. Somewhere a woman cried out, ‘Now God save us!’

  She set aside her frame and rose, spilling bright silks from her lap, and looked out of the window. Below in the inner courtyard people were gathering. She saw how they gathered in little knots, speaking together and yet seeming lost and unknowing of what to do with themselves; here and there one glanced up towards her window, and she saw their faces stunned-looking in the fading daylight, and suddenly she was cold afraid.

  ‘Nesta,’ she said, ‘do you go down to the inner court and ask if word has come from Benwick. It is in my heart that something is amiss.’

  And the maiden Nesta went out and down the winding stair.

  Scarcely was she gone than the heavy door opened again, and Mordred stood within the opening, Mordred clad in his usual midnight black that he wore as other men wore r
ose-scarlet, and playing gently with a peacock’s feather, so that, meeting his gaze where she stood with the bright tangle of silks at her feet, the Queen felt as though she were being stared at by three bright unwinking eyes instead of two.

  ‘What is it?’ she said.

  And he answered her with exquisite gentleness, ‘Letters have come from Benwick. Arthur and Lancelot are both slain.’

  For a moment the Queen’s world swam and darkened, and all she saw clearly were the three eyes gazing at her, bright and mocking. But something in their gaze told her beyond all doubt that he was lying. And the world steadied again.

  And she heard her own voice saying, cool and calm, ‘I do not believe you.’

  ‘Other people will,’ he said, ‘other people do. Do you not hear them?’

  Somewhere in the castle a woman was weeping, and from St Stephen’s Church a bell began to tell.

  ‘I can show you the letters,’ Mordred said, smiling pleasantly; and she saw that he was so sure of himself that he did not care whether she believed him or not.

  Still, she would not yield. ‘Anyone can forge such letters and claim that they came from Benwick,’ she said. ‘A few bribes –’

  Mordred’s smile grew wider as he agreed. ‘Anyone. Nevertheless, the people will believe. It will be true in a short while, in any case. And meanwhile, I go to make ready for my crowning.’

  ‘Your crowning?’ said the Queen.

  ‘Of course. The High King is dead, Britain must have her new High King.’

  And the Queen knew that it would serve no purpose to plead, nor to cry out upon him. Neither pleading nor wrath could touch him, for he breathed a higher and colder air than other men, and was beyond the reach of such things. So she said only, ‘Go now. You have told me what you came to tell, and I would be alone.’

  But the worst shock was still to come.