A day later, Lancelot toiled in death’s garden, stripped to the waist amongst a host of soldiers completing the dread task of burying their friends and foes alike. The First Knight had garnered both shroud and monk from the monastery at Glastonbury, where Arthur would be laid to rest. He had then toiled through the night, digging graves for the men who had died at his side and beneath his sword. It was a kindness unknown for the ill-fortuned casualties of war, who normally awaited the vultures – both human and animal – to pick their bones clean. Lancelot had known many on both sides. The monk worked diligently at his side, in dread and awe of his legendary companion, who had yanked him from his bed.
Lancelot worked through the day without respite, knowing it would be his last deed as a knight under Arthur’s once splendid realm. He prayed silently for strength to carry out his King’s last requests. Knowing that Excalibur lay sheathed near him made Lancelot’s hands ache to hold and wield it in battle. Before accomplishing the nearly superhuman feat of returning the sword, Lancelot must journey to Guinevere, with words the knight could only imagine Arthur had meant to say before dying.
“You dig as if plagued by demons, my lord,” the monk observed, handing the knight a water-skin, which Lancelot took gratefully.
“I am plagued by demons of my own making,” Lancelot admitted, returning the water-skin. “We must soon accompany my King to his final rest. I must then face his Queen. I would sooner fight Modred, back from the dead, and all his knights.”
“The sword still haunts your thoughts?”
“Only here, digging graves for the fallen, have I been able to resist the urge to take Excalibur and leave this realm forever,” Lancelot replied. He picked up the digging implements, and walked toward the encampment on the outskirts of Camlann. “I go now to fulfill the King’s last wishes, God willing. You will accompany me to Glastonbury?”
“I am your servant until you no longer need me, my lord.”
Lancelot nodded his acknowledgement. He passed the guards ringing the small camp with the shroud of Arthur under the King’s banner at the center. Sir Bedivere met Lancelot near King Arthur’s temporary resting place. Lancelot gripped Bedivere’s extended hand strongly in his own.
“You have been long with the dead, my friend,” Bedivere stated solemnly, “but your eyes seem clearer.”
“I am ready,” Lancelot replied simply. “I will leave at dawn with Friar John to go to Glastonbury with our King.”
“In your tent, I have made ready what you will need to clean up with. I’ve had your clothing and accoutrements cleaned and repaired. I know you wish to complete this final chapter alone, but is there anything more I can do?”
“Pray I have the will to match my strength. Your help and presence has been invaluable to me here.” Lancelot embraced Bedivere as a brother.
“You will return soon?” Bedivere asked hesitantly, alarmed at the finality of Lancelot’s manner.
“I cannot,” Lancelot whispered, turning away, with Friar John in his wake. “My part ended with Arthur. God grant you peace now, my brother. Farewell.”
“…and to you, brother,” Bedivere replied in great sadness, watching the warrior retreat into his tent.
Chapter Two: Glastonbury
Nudging Friar John awake, Lancelot gestured the yawning clergyman to his feet.
“Come, Friar John, I have readied the cart and banner. Cursed Excalibur is strapped to the side of our King,” Lancelot told him as he left the tent.
Friar John hurriedly gathered his belongings, and followed Lancelot out into the misty darkness. Only vague strands of light heralded daybreak at the far-off horizon. Seeing Lancelot dressed in full battle gear, with helmet and shield, the Friar’s heart raced as he wondered what danger the dread knight prepared to face.
“What stirs you into full armoured preparedness, my lord?” Friar John asked, watching Lancelot swing up onto his mount with ease. “You mount for war, but journey with the dead in war’s aftermath.”
“Be at ease, Friar. I am respecting all decorum on the King’s final journey,” Lancelot stated, waiting for his companion to get in the cart.
“Will the King’s mount endure pulling this burden?” Friar John asked, passing a hand over the horse’s flank before pulling himself up into the cart.
“Let us be on our way.” Impatiently, Lancelot waved the question off with his hand. “We all endure what we must, this morning.”
“I…I must confess to you something which eats away at me like the plague, my Lord,” Friar John said, glancing furtively up at Lancelot.
“Out with it, Friar,” Lancelot prompted curtly. “I have little use for riddles this morning, and it’s a hard ride to where I can free myself of bloody Excalibur.”
“The…the Queen is in seclusion at Glastonbury,” Friar John blurted out, cringing at Lancelot’s glare. “She…she swore me to secrecy, my Lord.”
“Did you tell her of the King’s death?” Lancelot asked wearily, his fury fading.
“I sent word to her before we left, hoping she would wish to meet with you,” Friar John explained. “When she heard the King had died in battle, the Queen was inconsolable.”
“I must go to her after I return the cursed sword to the lake,” Lancelot stated. “The Queen will hear the last words of the King. He was specific: I was to tell her of his forgiveness and give her his love. You should have told me she was at the Abbey.”
“I could not disobey her, my Lord,” Friar John reiterated fearfully.
“Very well, let us be on our way,” Lancelot retorted, beginning to turn his mount.
“Will you call the Lady Vivian forth to retrieve the sword?” Friar John asked.
“You know of the legend, Friar?” Curious, Lancelot turned back.
“Everyone has heard of the legend. It…it is said that Lady Vivian raised you after the death of your Father and Mother.”
“I have no memory of those times. I remember only her farewell on the day I set forth as a full grown man,” Lancelot admitted. “Vivian told me I would be the most powerful knight ever to walk the earth, but I would be cursed as a betrayer for all time. Next time I saw her, Vivian stopped me from killing Arthur in battle. I had been seeking him to join his knights, but I knew him not on sight. I crossed paths with a knight, who ordered me aside.”
“Arthur?” Friar John asked, enthralled with the story.
“Aye.” Lancelot smiled at the memory. “My liege thought himself invincible because of his hell-sword. Not so, and only Vivian’s sudden appearance allowed him to retain his head. His wizard, Merlin, had told Arthur to seek me out. Arthur and I were inseparable for a long time after.”
“Until Lady Guinevere,” Friar John added, nodded his understanding.
“We burned so hot when together that no sense of reason or loyalty could cool our impossible passion,” Lancelot said ruefully. “Now, my lady chooses a nunnery rather than-”
“Not so, my Lord,” Friar John broke in. “She is ill, both mentally and physically. Lady Guinevere arrived at Glastonbury near death months ago, before this latest conflagration. When shielded from all contact with the outside world, my Lady showed some improvement, but she is gravely ill.”
“I will then return cursed Excalibur after we take Arthur to Glastonbury, and I see Lady Guinevere,” Lancelot stated fiercely, his fist clenched at the pommel of his saddle. “Thank God we made all the arrangements when I came to get you, Friar. I shall resist Excalibur’s bloody guile until my Liege is entombed, and I have given Guinevere, Arthur’s last words. Only then will I carry Excalibur to the place where I was birthed as a man. Come, Friar, let us be gone from this battlefield.”
***
Lancelot arrived to complete his grim duty two days later, his journey prolonged by rigid ceremonial travel. Glad to be back finally at Glastonbury, Friar John tied up the reins and hurried inside the huge monastery. He returned in short order with six of the clergy dressed in their full trappings of church position. Friar John a
pproached the still-mounted Lancelot with the Abbot, to whom Lancelot had spoken when acquiring Friar John’s assistance. The Abbot paused near Arthur’s body for a moment, placing a hand over the swathed figure before looking up at Lancelot.
“Do you wish the sword entombed with the King, Sir Knight?” The Abbot asked.
“No. I must deal with Excalibur,” Lancelot replied. “How long before the ceremony can begin?”
“Within the hour,” the Abbot answered. “All is in readiness.”
“I wish to see the Lady Guinevere.”
“I do not-”
“Now, Father…” Lancelot told him, slipping lithely down from his mount.
The Abbot looked up fearfully at the huge Lancelot. “She…she lies near death, Sir Knight, and her wish is to-”
“Do you know where Lady Guinevere is, Friar?” Lancelot silenced the Abbot with an impatient wave of his hand.
Friar John nodded, directing but a brief glance at the Abbot.
“Good.” Lancelot turned to the Abbot. “Take my King, and prepare the ceremony. Friar John will accompany me to the place where Arthur will be entombed when I have carried out Arthur’s final wishes.”
Lancelot lifted Excalibur from the cart. He strapped it tightly to his saddle mount, the familiar yearning to wield it surging through him. Lancelot followed Friar John’s lead, leaving his mount tied up near the entrance. Friar John stopped in front of a room guarded by an armored man-at-arms, who blocked their way.
“I have orders that no one is permitted to enter,” the man said, looking at Lancelot uneasily, as he shifted the pike in his hand.
“I am Lancelot du Lac. I carry King Arthur’s dying message for his Queen. The Abbot knows we are here.”
“Lancelot…” Guinevere’s voice called out faintly.
“If ever you wish to see the outside of this hall alive, brother, step aside,” Lancelot ordered in a voice so full of malice that the guard leapt out of his way. Lancelot turned to Friar John. “Let no one enter this room, Friar. If anyone forces his way past you, give them last rites, for they will never leave the room alive.”
“Yes, my lord,” Friar John acknowledged, closing the door behind Lancelot, and taking the guard’s place in front of it.
Inside the room, his blood pounding, Lancelot rushed to Guinevere’s bedside, where she lay with her hand outstretched from under the bedclothes. Lancelot grasped her hand in both of his, kissing it tenderly.
Guinevere’s hand was cold as ice. She gasped happily at Lancelot’s touch, saying, “You…you are so warm, my love. Am I so cold?”
“You are as an open flame to me, my Lady,” Lancelot whispered, fearfully peering at Guinevere, whose features were dim in the lamp-lit room. “Why did you not send for me when I came from the battle?”
“I was afraid for you to see me like this,” Guinevere sighed. “We are all undone. Arthur is gone, and I follow very soon. Have you brought my King with you?”
“Yes. They prepare him even now,” Lancelot answered, kissing Guinevere’s hand and arm, his hands seeking to generate some warmth in her. “Arthur forgave us, love, and he wished us only to be together after the battle.”
“Did you finally kill that traitorous weasel Modred?” Guinevere whispered through clenched teeth. “I dreamed of his death. It was a lovely dream. Am I…evil, for indulging in such musings?”
“Modred was evil, not your dreams.” Lancelot smiled at the fierceness evident on Guinevere’s haggard features, seeing a fiery vitality in her eyes that he thought strange. “If Arthur had allowed me a small cut before it all began, he would be kneeling beside you himself.”
“Did you kill Modred, Lancelot?” Guinevere urged, leaning towards the kneeling Lancelot almost in pleading fashion.
“I cut his head off,” Lancelot answered. “The spawn is dead.”
Guinevere lay back, panting at the effort. She smiled. “Will you take me to the King, my love, so I may see him one last time?”
“Whatever be your wish, it will be done,” Lancelot vowed.
Lancelot stood up. He stripped away his helmet and armor, leaving on only his britches and outer belted robe. Bundling Guinevere in her heavy bedclothes, he took her up carefully into his arms, shocked at how little she weighed. He called out at the door for Friar John to come in. He paused next to the man-at-arms after Friar John opened the door.
“Bring my belongings, brother, and follow us to where the ceremony to entomb Arthur is taking place,” Lancelot directed. “You can drop off my accoutrements near my steed.”
“It will be done, my lord,” the man-at-arms replied in awe, having heard from Friar John who the knight was.
“Can you carry me so far, love?” Guinevere asked, resting her head against Lancelot’s shoulder wearily.
“You weigh no more than a child,” Lancelot said as he kissed Guinevere’s head.
“I took your measure, when no other knight in all the realm could.” Guinevere laughed weakly at her small deceit.
“Aye, lass, you did,” Lancelot whispered, walking carefully behind Friar John, flushing at the memory of his doomed liaisons with Guinevere. “You were a sorceress.”
“You made me scream and plead in agony, you brute,” Guinevere pouted in jest.
“If only you had been mine,” Lancelot murmured longingly.
“It was wrong, but oh, God in heaven, how I desired you,” Guinevere said in hushed tones, clasping her arms tightly around Lancelot’s neck. “Each time you went away, I knew it was the right thing to do, but I yearned for you even more. I plotted the whole time you were gone on those silly quests how I would seduce you yet again.”
“I did not need much seduction, as I remember,” Lancelot replied, as they exited the monastery and entered into the courtyard where Lancelot had left his horse.
The Abbot waited with his retinue as Lancelot approached behind Friar John.
“All is in readiness,” the Abbot announced, looking doubtfully at Guinevere, who had closed her eyes, being unused to the daylight.
“My Queen would like to see her King once more,” Lancelot told him.
Nodding, the Abbot turned to lead the way. Inside the sepulcher, Lancelot carried Guinevere over to Arthur’s unsealed stone tomb, where his shrouded body was visible. Lancelot lowered Guinevere gently. She reached out with trembling hand, covering Arthur’s hidden face for a moment.
“Goodbye…my King,” Guinevere intoned reverently. “I am…sorry I was not the queen…you needed so desperately to hold the realm together.”
Guinevere turned then to Lancelot. She reached up with her other hand, cupping Lancelot’s chin. “Goodbye, my love.”
Lancelot watched as the light drained from Guinevere’s eyes. Her hand dropped lifelessly from his chin, and the Queen was dead. Lancelot sat upon the edge of Arthur’s stone tomb and held Guinevere tightly for a long while. Friar John approached the grieving knight cautiously. He laid his hand over Lancelot’s comfortingly.
“Come, my Lord. We will prepare the Queen to join her King.”
Lancelot looked up unseeing for a moment, tears streaming down his scarred face. The First Knight nodded, finally, and again stood. All he had belonged to was now gone. Lancelot followed Friar John a final time.
***
“Shall I go with you, my lord?” Friar John asked, having rushed out at dawn, somehow knowing that Lancelot planned to leave.
“You have become a wizard now, Friar?” Lancelot asked, looking down at the breathless priest. “You know my thoughts and plans without speech?”
“I know Excalibur to be your final quest,” Friar John nodded. “I thought perhaps you would bide for a time here before returning the Sword of Kings.”
“Sword of Demons, more like,” Lancelot replied, grinning. “I go now, for the Sword of the Damned sings to me like a lover. I would be shed of it. Stay here, Friar. What I do this time, I must do alone. Farewell, John.”
“Farewell, my friend,” Friar John replied, grasping L
ancelot’s outstretched hand. “I hope to see you again.”
Nearly two days later, Lancelot approached the lake where he had awakened as a man, with all the accoutrements of a warrior. He had not been visited by Vivian, who many believed to be a water-faerie, or lake-maiden, since his near-decapitation of Arthur. Will she come when I reach the lake he wondered with some trepidation. Lancelot did not feel much like going on a quest for some water-faerie who had supposedly raised him. The questions of old, which Vivian would not answer, no longer mattered to him.
Lancelot heard the clink of armor, knowing instinctively that an ambush lay ahead. He smiled. Do these dogs think I’m some farmer wandering around the countryside he mused, looking around the wooded area for archers’ nests. Lancelot stopped fifty yards before he believed any trap would be sprung.
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