Out of nowhere, it seemed, the girl who had helped Gawain find Galehaut, the same girl who had told them that the king was at Arestel, suddenly burst into their tent to remind them of their debt: they were to grant her the first boon she asked, and the moment had come.
“You have chosen a bad time,” said Galehaut. “King Arthur has been captured by the Saxons – we can think of nothing else!”
“That’s exactly why I have come! They’re going to take him away and hide him in Ireland! You can rescue him if you come with me right now! The king has no idea what they have planned.”
Fully armed, Lancelot, Galehaut, and Gawain leapt onto their horses. Soon they were following their guide through a long underground gallery beneath Saxon Rock. They could scarcely see one another in the darkness. King Arthur and Guerrehet, she said, would be brought through that passageway. Gawain and Galehaut were each to guard an exit that she showed them, quite far from each other, while Lancelot was to stay where he was and wait for her signal.
Lancelot stood there for a long time, in utter silence, until suddenly he was startled by the young woman’s cries for help. “Here he is!” she shouted. As Lancelot rushed toward the sound, someone lighted a torch and Lancelot could see two knights, one in the king’s armor, one in Guerrehet’s, defending themselves against more than twenty Saxons. Sword in hand, he ran to the king’s side, but the pair he intended to rescue turned on him instead and threw him to the ground. Others seized his sword and shield, and slashed the laces of his helmet. They threatened to cut off his head unless he surrendered. That he refused to do, not caring, in his rage, whether he lived or died. Overwhelmed by their numbers, he could not prevent them from carrying him, still struggling, to a cell, where they locked him in.
Galehaut saw a knight in Lancelot’s armor who seemed to be fighting against great odds. Deceived just like his friend, he was soon captured. Gawain suffered the same fate, although he too defended himself heroically. Then, having given their word to their assailants to renounce any attempts to escape, they were left in a cell together, unbound. Lancelot, however, refused to yield, although they threatened to keep him chained and in prison forever. He said he had no desire except for death.
Guenevere was also ready to die when, after a sleepless night, she saw the three newly captured shields displayed at Saxon Rock. Sir Yvain came to try to bring her comfort, and she fell weeping at his feet, imploring him to do his best for her honor and the king’s. He raised her up with tears in his own eyes, for never was a lady so much loved by her lord’s knights as was this queen.
Yvain, that day, took King Arthur’s place in the battle; Sir Kay, as always, carried the royal banner. The Saxons and their Irish allies were sure that Arthur’s army would be demoralized without the king and the great knights they had captured, but as soon as the battalions began to sweep across the field, they saw they were mistaken. Of the many valiant deeds performed by the Britons, none surpassed the accomplishments of King Yder, his white and crimson banner flying above him, as his matchless horse carried him through the thick of the Saxon hordes. Horse and man were red with their enemies’ blood and their own. Yder would be crippled and in pain for the rest of his life, but, as knights on both sides acclaimed him, he prayed that God would allow him to go on fighting until victory was won. After that, he would gladly die, for he knew he would never again have a day so full of glory.
As the Saxons began to flee, Arthur’s troops cut them down in great numbers. King Yder’s horse was still galloping freely, but as it leapt over a Saxon on the ground, the man reached up with his sword and slashed its belly open. Even with that mortal wound, the superb charger rushed on toward Saxon Rock until, at last, it could do no more. Its rider fell unconscious to the ground. Men of King Yder’s household, carrying him to his quarters, were met by a messenger from the queen, who asked that he be brought to her chambers instead. He had lost so much blood it seemed certain that he would die, but skillful doctors, and the women’s care, would restore him to life, if not to health.
Meanwhile, the Britons, led by Yvain, chased the surviving Saxons back into their citadel. They themselves dared not approach too closely, because arrows were constantly flying from the battlements. Nor was there any way to surround Saxon Rock, on account of marshlands behind it, stretching as far as the eye could see. The knights inside no longer dared to come out and attack their enemies, although they found ways of informing allies of their plight. But King Arthur’s forces also grew, as word of his imprisonment spread to his distant vassals.
Lancelot, in a prison cell with seven ordinary foot-soldiers, refused to eat or drink; no attempt to console him brought any comfort. His mind, empty of all but grief and rage, gave way to such violent madness that no one could withstand him. The jailor felt pity for his plight, but when he began inflicting serious wounds on those around him, he had to be put in a cell by himself. Galehaut begged to be allowed to stay with him, but the jailor refused, afraid he would be killed.
Galehaut persisted. “Don’t be concerned about that, my friend. I would rather be killed by him than remain alive without him.”
Nothing availed. Meanwhile, the chatelaine of Saxon Rock heard about the mad prisoner. Thinking him an irksome burden – no doubt impossible to ransom, besides – she told the jailor to open the gate closest to where the Britons were encamped, and release him.
“Let him go?” exclaimed Galehaut on learning that Lancelot had been freed. “But in his madness that’s sure to be the death of him!” And he almost lost his own sanity to that agonizing thought. Without his brilliant young companion, he felt that the very foundation of his existence would crack and fall apart.
Outside, Lancelot rushed about wildly, terrifying everyone by his behavior, until he came to the queen’s lodgings and she saw him through the window: a madman pursued by a crowd of soldiers. Guenevere shouted to the Lady of Malehaut, “Lancelot is out there – he has gone mad!”
“Perhaps that’s just a ruse so that he can see you. Or if it’s true, we will nurse him back to health. I’ll go to him right now.”
When Blaye tried to take his hand, the madman picked up stones to throw at her. She screamed, and the queen cried out that he must stop. He did so instantly, sitting down on the ground and hiding his eyes with his hands as if he were ashamed. Blaye did not dare approach him again, but when Guenevere came and took his hand, he stood up and followed her calmly into the large house. She led him to an upstairs room, where as long as she stayed with him, he was quiet. Her ladies were disturbed to see how agitated he became when the queen was not there; no one else could do anything to help him. Guenevere sent for Lionel, but even he was at risk – the madman charged him, and she had to step between them.
So she alone took care of Lancelot. Every evening she had the candles and torches put out early, because the light, she said, made him uneasy. Then she lay beside him all night long, grieving so it seemed she would die. Everyone assumed she was weeping for the king. A week went by without change. The Saxons, receiving reinforcements from the south, had begun to attack the Britons again, and the queen, seeing their ever-increasing numbers on the battlefield, became afraid.
One morning, when Lancelot was sleeping more peacefully than usual, she could not refrain from giving words to her sorrow: “What a pity that the flower of knighthood lies here helpless! How quickly you would have made an end to this war!”
At that the knight awoke and leapt to his feet. The shield that had been sent by the Lady of the Lake – the shield once split, now whole – was hanging on the wall. He seized it and put his head and arms through its straps. Then he ran to take an old lance from the rack near the door, and hurled it against a stone column in the middle of the room. The metal tip shattered. Lancelot collapsed and lost consciousness.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw the queen’s face leaning over him. “Dear sweet friend,” she said, “do you know me?”
“I know you, my lady, and now I can die happy.”
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“Do you remember how you were captured and held at Saxon Rock?”
“Why am I not still there?” he cried. “What has happened to King Arthur? And where is Galehaut? Who put this shield around my neck – I can’t bear it!”
She helped him take it off, and instantly he jumped up and began to race around the room, as mad as before. He opened the door and ran out into the great hall, terrifying everyone, until finally he was overpowered and locked into a small room. The servants who hurried to the queen found her bewildered and close to collapse.
Downstairs, a tall and beautiful woman had just ridden up to the house and dismounted. She was dressed in dazzling white and was escorted by two ladies, three knights, and a squire for each of them. She went directly up to the chambers where the queen, roused by the sounds of arriving guests, dried her eyes and came to welcome her. They sat down on a low couch to talk. Lancelot, out of his senses, was hammering on the heavy door of the room where he was confined, and no one had any desire to let him out. The visitor asked about the noise, and the queen could not keep herself from weeping as she said, “That was the best of all the knights in the world, but now he has gone mad and turns on everyone.”
“Have someone unlock the door for me. I have come here to see him.”
The peremptory statement caught the queen by surprise, and she made no protest. As soon as the door was opened, Lancelot tried to rush out, but the lady caught him by the hand, calling him “my prince” as she used to do when he was a child and lived in her magical kingdom beneath the lake. As soon as he heard the name, he stopped, looking embarrassed and confused. She asked that someone bring her the shield. “Ah, my dear prince,” she said to him, “I have been so worried about you, I’ve come this very long way to restore you to health.” Then she put the shield around his neck again, and he allowed it, remaining calm. She had him lie down on the bed, and he looked at her and knew her; then he began to weep.
The queen marveled at all this, wondering who the newcomer could be. Lancelot, in his right mind again, wanted the visitor to remove the shield, but she would do so only in her own time. She called to one of her attendants and had her take a jar of precious ointment from a jewel case. With that she rubbed Lancelot’s wrists, his forehead, and the top of his head. As soon as she had finished, he fell asleep.
Turning to the queen, she said, “I’ll leave you now, my lady; may God protect you. Take care that the knight not be disturbed; let him sleep as long as he can. Then have a bath prepared for him, and once he is in the water, he’ll be entirely well. Advise him that this is the only shield he should carry in battle, for it is powerful against sorcery.”
“Please, my lady, before you leave, tell me who you are, and how it is that you’ve come from so far away to help this knight.”
“I have known him all his life, ever since his father died and he was left without home or lands. It was I who raised him until it was time for me to present him to King Arthur and have him made a knight.”
The queen ran to embrace her, saying, “You are the Lady of the Lake! Dear friend, I beg you to stay with me and our knight a little longer! I love and honor you for saving him, and I am grateful to you also for sending the shield, with its true prediction.”
“I regretted the part of my message that said I knew your very thoughts and fully shared them, because both of us loved the same person. I hope you were not distressed by such presumption. My love for Lancelot is like a mother’s for her child. I rescued him from poverty and misfortune when he was still a baby, so that he would fulfill his destiny as a knight of extraordinary prowess. When he became a young man, with the beauty and strength you saw in him when he first came to court, I could no longer keep him with me. Foreseeing all that was to happen, I sent the shield where he would know a woman’s love.”
She went on. “Before I leave, there is something I want to say to you, because I hold you dear. The greatest knight ever seen, the most valiant and noble, loves you with all his heart. Love him as he loves you. Keep faith with him as he will keep faith with you. Let no thought of rank come between you, or concern for what those around you think of as honor; he wants nothing, cares for nothing, besides you. Your love may be sin and madness, but let it be what you live for, since the one you love has no peer. By this, you have much to gain – first, the very flower of knighthood, and second, my friendship, for whatever it may be worth to you. Those who truly love find joy only in their beloved, and what can we place above the source of joy?”
The two women felt great affection for each other. They spoke for a long time, but when it began to grow dark, the queen saw that her guest was intent on leaving. So they bade each other farewell, and the Lady rode away with her retinue.
Guenevere, happier than she had been for days, went back to where Lancelot was sleeping, and watched over him until he awoke. Then he complained of feeling weak, but added, “I don’t know why.” She thought it best to wait until he was completely cured before recounting what had happened. She had a bath prepared, and she and her ladies gently helped him to get in. His beauty and strength were restored to him in an instant.
Then she told him that he had been out of his senses, to such a degree that no one was safe from him except herself “and the Lady of the Lake, who raised you. If she hadn’t come, you would never have been cured.” He said that he had been aware of her presence, but thought it was a dream. The queen laughed at that, but Lancelot, ashamed to have been seen behaving in a dreadful way, feared that Guenevere would love him less, although that was not within her control, even had she desired it. She told him he had no cause for concern because “my dear, sweet friend, as God is my witness, you have more power over me than I have over you, and I am more truly yours than you are mine – not just for now but as long as there is a soul within my body.”
So Lancelot’s health was restored, and all the joys that are the privilege of lovers were his. For nine days he lived a life of perfect happiness. He became more beautiful than ever, and the queen loved him so much she could not imagine being without him. She was even sorry to see him so spirited and full of strength, thinking that she would die if he left the court. She sometimes wished he were a little less valiant.
Fighting had been proceeding all this time, and the Britons had done very well, considering that they had no leader, but on the ninth day the sounds of warfare were close enough to be heard in the queen’s lodgings. The Saxons and Irish had attacked in great numbers, trying to drive the Britons far enough from Saxon Rock so the king and his companions could be taken where no one would find them. Lancelot rushed to the window, and what he saw made him turn to the queen and ask that she give him leave to join the battle. She replied that he wasn’t yet well enough, “and our side isn’t losing.”
“Then promise that I can go if things get worse.”
To this she agreed, although much against her inclination. Lancelot was elated, and silently prayed that God would soon let the Saxons have the upper hand.
“Since we have no way of knowing what will happen, I would ask you, my lady, to have armor and weapons brought for me.”
This was done. She had found for him armor that belonged to King Arthur, and he put it on. He looked ready now to overcome the fiercest of warriors.
Just then, a knight rode into the courtyard with a message for the queen. His helmet had been destroyed, and he had a deep wound in his head. There was blood all over his shoulders and his chest. Guenevere wanted to send for a doctor at once, but he knelt before her and said, “My lady, I bring you greetings from my lord Yvain. He believes that there are still some knights who have not joined the battle, and they are sorely needed. He had to send out two hundred yesterday to ward off a Saxon attack.”
“Does that mean we are losing?”
“My lady, we are lost if help doesn’t come. The two hundred knights who are guarding the water gate have the worst of it, trying to keep the Saxons from taking King Arthur away. They’ve been attacked from two s
ides, and many of them are dead or have had their horses killed.”
Lancelot exclaimed, “I must go to them, my lady. Now is my time!”
Guenevere had a new helmet brought for the wounded knight, and told him that help was on its way. He rode off much more hopeful than he had come. Lancelot sent for Lionel, armed him as well as he could, and good horses were brought for the two of them. When it was time for Lancelot to lace up his helmet, the queen took him in her arms and kissed him with all the tenderness she felt. Then she laced the helmet for him, commending him to God that he be saved from death or captivity.
With Lionel carrying the queen’s pennon on his lance, they set out. When Yvain saw in the distance the bright blue pennon with its golden crowns, he shouted to his men, “My lords, help is coming! Take heart! Fight on like the true knights you are!”
Shouting the ancient war-cry of King Arthur’s clan, Lancelot and Lionel galloped up and threw themselves into the thickest of the fray. The greatest warrior who ever lived was everywhere at once, never stopping, his charger’s hooves barely skimming the ground; in front of him or behind him, no one escaped his weapon. He was himself the war-flag of the army. Every knight felt protected by Lancelot’s shield, defended by his sword. Like a lion, invincible, in a field of frightened deer, he was all that his foes could see, wherever they looked, and those who followed him took on his aspect. The great battalions of Irish and Saxon warriors, who had already been enjoying their victory, began to make way before him. Having believed, with the capture of its king, that Britain was theirs, they now thought themselves fortunate if they could flee the field alive.
Few indeed escaped. Yvain, elated by the marvels he was witnessing, followed close behind Lancelot, thinking him truly a king of kings. The rest of the Britons were so transformed that the weakest among them proved capable of deeds they themselves would have thought reserved for heroes. Lancelot recognized Hargadabran, the leader of the enemy, a giant of a man, whose helmet shone like a beacon high above the rest. This was Gamille’s brother, the noblest of all the Saxons and the worthiest of lords – if only he hadn’t coveted King Arthur’s throne. It was for the sake of his ambition that Gamille had used her sorcery to seduce and betray the king. The Saxon tried to escape, but his horse was too slow; he tried to shelter beneath his shield, but Lancelot’s blow sent half of it flying, and the sword cut through his thigh, and on through the saddle. Man and horse crashed to the ground in a heap as Lancelot galloped on without looking back, seeking more work for his weapon. But the enemy soldiers, now completely demoralized by the loss of the one they had counted on to protect them, were scattered and fleeing. Yvain had seen Hargadabran fall, and went to take him prisoner. When he saw the extent of the wound, he crossed himself in awe, thinking that any warrior who could strike such a blow was no mere man but an agent of God’s justice. Hargadabran was taken to the tents, but there he stabbed himself to death rather than go on living, maimed.
Lancelot and the Lord of the Distant Isles Page 11