The King Arthur Trilogy

by Rosemary Sutcliff

  And when Arthur, coming back to himself, saw Sir Lucan’s body sprawled there, the grief rose in him, and he cried out, ‘Alas, this is a sore sight! He would have aided me, and he had more need of aid himself!’

  And Sir Bedivere knelt weeping beside the dead knight, for they had loved each other as brothers since the days when the Round Table was young.

  It had been dark when they reached the chapel, but now the skies had cleared, and presently the moon arose, sailing high and uncaring above the dreadful stillness of Camlann Plain. And looking with shadowed sight out through the gap in the far wall where the stones had fallen, Arthur saw not far off the whispering reed-fringed shores of a lake. White mists scarfed the water, shimmering in the white fire of the moon; and the far shores were lost in mist and moonshine, so that there might have been no far shore at all. And Arthur knew that lake. He knew it to his heart’s core.

  And gathering all that was left of his strength, he said to Sir Bedivere, ‘To this lake … To another part of this lake, Merlin brought me, long ago …’ And it seemed to him that he was forcing the words out so hard that they must come forth as a shout, but they came only as a ragged whisper that Sir Bedivere must bend close to hear. ‘Now leave your weeping; there will be time for mourning later on for you – but for me, my time with you grows short, and there is yet one thing more that I must have you do for me.’

  ‘Anything,’ said Sir Bedivere, ‘anything, my liege lord …’

  ‘Take you Excalibur, my good sword, and carry it down to yonder lake shore, and throw it far out into the water. Then come again and tell me what you see.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Bedivere, ‘I will do as you command, and bring you word.’

  And he took the great sword from where it lay beside the King and, reeling with weakness from his own wounds, made his way down to the water’s brink.

  In that place, alder trees grew here and there along the bank, and he passed through them, stooping under the low branches, and paused, looking down at the great sword in his hands; and the white fire of the moon showed him the jewels in the hilt and played like running water between the clotted stains on the faery-forged blade. And he thought, This is not only a High King’s weapon, this is the sword of Arthur, and once thrown into the lake it will be lost for ever, and an ill thing that would be.

  And the more he looked, the more he weakened in his purpose. And at last he turned from the water and hid Excalibur among the roots of the alder trees.

  Then he went back to Arthur.

  ‘Have you done as I bade you?’ said Arthur.

  ‘Sir, it is done,’ said Bevidere.

  ‘And what did you see?’

  ‘Sir,’ said Bedivere, ‘what should I see under the moon, but the bright ripples spreading in the waters of the lake?’

  ‘That is not truly spoken,’ said the King, ‘therefore go back to the lake, and as you are dear to me, carry out my command.’

  So Sir Bedivere went back to the lake shore, and took the sword from its hiding place, fully meaning this time to do as the King had bidden him. But again the white fire of the moon blazed upon the jewelled hilt and the sheeny blade, and he felt the power of it in his hands as though it had been a live thing. And he thought, If ever men gather again to thrust back the dark, as we thrust it back when the Table and the world were young, this is the only true sword for whoever leads them. And he returned the sword to its hiding place, and went back to the chapel where the King lay waiting for him.

  ‘Have you done my bidding, this second time?’ asked the King.

  ‘I cast Excalibur far out into the lake,’ said Sir Bedivere.

  ‘And what did you see?’

  ‘Only the reeds stirring in the night wind.’

  And the King said in a harsh and anguished whisper, ‘I had thought Mordred the only traitor among the brotherhood; but now you have betrayed me twice. I have loved you; counted you among the noblest of my knights of the Round Table, and you would break faith with me for the richness of a sword.’

  Bedivere knelt beside him with hanging head. ‘Not for the richness, my liege lord,’ he said at last. ‘I am ashamed; but it was not for the richness, not for the jewels in the hilt nor the temper of the blade.’

  ‘That I know,’ the King said, more gently. ‘Yet now, go again swiftly; and this time do not fail me, if you value still my love.’

  And Sir Bedivere got stiffly to his feet, and went a third time down to the water’s edge, and took the great sword from its hiding place; and a third time he felt the power of it in his hand and saw the white moon-fire on the blade; but without pause he swung it up above his head, and flung it with the last strength of arm and breast and shoulder, far out into the lake.

  He waited for the splash, but there was none, for out of the misty surface of the lake rose a hand and arm clad in white samite, that met and caught it by the hilt. Three times it flourished Excalibur in slow wide circles of farewell, and then vanished back into the water, taking the great sword with it from the eyes of this world. And no widening ring of ripples told where it was gone.

  Sir Bedivere, blind with tears, turned and stumbled back to the chapel and his waiting lord.

  ‘It is done as you commanded,’ he said.

  ‘And what did you see?’ said the King.

  ‘I saw a hand that came out of the lake, and an arm clothed in white samite; and the hand caught Excalibur and brandished it three times as though in leave-taking – and so withdrew, bearing the sword with it, beneath the water.’

  ‘That was truly spoken and well done,’ said the King; and he raised himself on his elbow. ‘Now I must go hence. Aid me down to the water side.’

  And Sir Bedivere aided him to his feet and took his weight upon his own shoulder, and half-supported, half-carried him down to the lake shore.

  And there, where before had seemed to be only the lapping water and the reeds whispering in the moonlight, a narrow barge draped all in black lay as though it waited for them, within the shadows of the alder trees. And in it were three ladies, black-robed, and their hair veiled in black beneath the queenly crowns they wore. And their faces alone, and their outstretched hands, showed white as they sat looking up at the two on the bank and weeping. And one of them was the Queen of Northgalis, and one was Nimue, the Lady of all the Ladies of the Lake; and the third was Queen Morgan La Fay, freed at last from her own evil now that the dark fate-pattern was woven to its end.

  ‘Now lay me in the barge, for it has been waiting for me long,’ said Arthur, and Sir Bedivere aided him down the bank, and gently lowered him to the hands of the three black-robed queens, who made soft mourning as they received him and laid him down. And the Lady of the Lake took his battered head into her lap; and kneeling beside him, Queen Morgan La Fay said, ‘Alas, dear brother, you have tarried overlong from us and your wound has grown chilled.’

  And the barge drifted out from the shadows under the alder trees, leaving Sir Bedivere standing alone upon the bank.

  And Sir Bedivere cried out like a child left in the dark, ‘Oh, my Lord Arthur, what shall become of me, now that you go hence and leave me here alone?’

  And the King opened his eyes and looked at him for the last time. ‘Comfort yourself, and do the best that you may, for I must be gone into the Vale of Avalon, for the healing of my grievous wound. One day I will return, in time of Britain’s sorest need, but not even I know when that day may be, save that it is afar off … But if you hear no more of me in the world of men, pray for my soul.’

  And the barge drifted on, into the white mist between the water and the moon. And the mist received it, and it was gone. Only for a little, Sir Bedivere, straining after it, seemed to catch a low desolate wailing as of women keening for their dead.

  And then that too was gone, and only the reeds whispered on the desolate lake shore.

  And Sir Bedivere turned and stumbled away, making for the dark woodshore that was not far off and seemed to offer shelter from the terrible white moonl
ight and the loneliness that the barge had left behind.

  All night long, blind with grief and stumbling with the weakness of his wounds, he wandered among alder woods and sour willow scrub, until at dawn he came upon a wattle-built chapel with the ruins of living-cells clustered about it. From one cell, less ruined than the rest, came the faint gleam of a rushlight, and sounds of movement within; and making towards it, he fell across the threshold; and the ancient and ragged hermit, who had once been the Archbishop Dubricius, took him in and cared for him.

  8

  Avalon of the Apple Trees

  AS SOON AS he received Sir Gawain’s letter, Sir Lancelot set to gathering all the fighting men of Benwick, and when they were gathered, and arms and stores made ready with all haste, and the needful ships and galleys brought together, he sailed with them across the Narrow Seas, and landed in Dover.

  From the Dover men he demanded what was the news of the High King. And they told him of the battle that had been fought out there on the shore, close on a month before, and how the High King had beaten Mordred back and come at last to land; and they told how Sir Mordred had fled away westward with Arthur close upon his heels; and they told him of the shadowy tidings that had come back to them of a last terrible battle fought somewhere in the West, and how in that battle both armies were brought to naught, and Sir Mordred slain, and the King slain also, or, as some said, not slain but borne away into Avalon to be healed of his wounds. But of that, no man knew for sure, and all seemed wrapped in mist and shadows.

  But when Sir Lancelot asked as to the fate of Sir Gawain, that they knew full well; and they led him within the castle, to the chapel, and showed him before the altar the new-laid slab of grey stone beneath which the last of the Orkney breed lay buried.

  And Sir Lancelot kneeled down, smelling the sea wind through the high unglazed windows, and hearing the crying of the gulls, and wondered if Sir Gawain was in any way aware of them too; and if they seemed to him one with the sea wind and the gulls of his northern home. And there he remained all night, his great ugly head bowed and the tears falling on his joined hands, praying for the soul of Sir Gawain, and weeping for the wild, fiery-haired and fiery-hearted knight who had been for so many years his friend, and then his enemy, and who he now felt to be his friend again.

  And in the morning he called all his knights and nobles together and said to them, ‘My brothers, I thank you all for coming with me into this country, but it seems we come too late; and for that, the grief will be upon me through every day of my life that yet remains to me. Nevertheless, do you wait here under the command of my cousin Sir Bors for one month, and obey and follow him as you would me. But if at the end of that month I have neither returned to you nor sent you any word, then do you return to your own land, and God’s grace go with you.’

  ‘And you?’ said Sir Bors. ‘What is it that you do, during this month?’

  ‘I go westward,’ said Sir Lancelot, ‘first to London, that I may be sure that all is well with the Queen, and thence westward still, towards Avalon; and after that – I do not know.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Sir Bors, ‘to ride alone through Britain in the present state of the realm is surely madness; for you shall find few enough friends in the wilderness, and may have sore need of trusted men at your back.’

  ‘I have ridden the length and breadth of this land with no man at my back before now,’ said Sir Lancelot, ‘and found few friends indeed. One man alone may pass easier than a score, if enemies are around; and be that as it may, this is a quest on which I must ride alone. So fare you well.’

  And next day, at the first paling of the morning, he rode away over the downs and through the Wealden forest towards London.

  But when he reached London city and came to the royal castle, Sir Galagars the castellan told him that Queen Guenever was no longer there. For close on a month ago word had come to them from Sir Bedivere of the great battle in the West, and of Arthur’s passing; and in the night after the word came, she disappeared, and five of her maidens with her.

  ‘Pray you tell me if there is any thought in your mind as to where she can have gone,’ said Sir Lancelot, swaying with weariness and caked with the mire of hard riding, and fighting down the desire to howl like a dog and strike out at the troubled old knight before him.

  And Sir Galagars shook his head and said, ‘Maybe she has gone westward, towards Avalon.’

  ‘And none has sought her?’

  ‘She left word that she knew the place she went to, and none were to seek her,’ said the old castellan. ‘And she is still the Queen, her orders to be obeyed. Nevertheless, we have sought her, and found no sign.’

  Sir Lancelot spent one night in London, and next morning he heard Mass, and then, with a fresh horse under him, set out once more. But now, before all else, he rode westward to find the Queen.

  Hither and yon he rode the forest ways while their green flame of springtime darkened towards summer, praying in his heart that he might find her before she came to any harm, and passing often through stretches of burned woodland made hideous by wrecked homesteads and the bones of men and cattle picked bare by gore-crows that marked the path of Mordred’s westward march. And wherever he came upon living man or woman, he asked for news of a lady riding with five maidens, who might have passed that way. But no one had seen them go by.

  And at last, on the evening of the fifteenth day after leaving London, he came to Almesbury and sought shelter for the night in the great nunnery there. For in those days it was the custom that abbeys both of monks and nuns would have guest-houses within their gates, giving shelter and welcome to all comers, both men and women, be they queens or nobles on fine horses or poor folk who travelled on foot.

  So the Lady Abbess made Sir Lancelot welcome, and sent for servants to stable and tend his weary horse, and herself led him towards the guest-chambers.

  And as they passed along the cloister, Sir Lancelot saw a nun coming towards them, calm and remote in her habit of black and white. Her head was bent, and he could not see her face in the shadow of her veil. But as they drew nearer to each other, she gave a small breathless cry, and her hands that had been hidden in her wide sleeves flew up to her breast. He would have known her hands anywhere. And she swayed, and crumpled to the ground in a swoon. And Sir Lancelot found himself looking down into the face of Queen Guenever.

  He would have stooped to lift her, but the Lady Abbess stayed him with a gesture of one hand, whose calm authority he knew he must not disobey. And other black-and-white sisters came like a gentle flock of birds, and gathered her up and supported her away.

  Next morning early, by special consent of the Abbess, Sir Lancelot and the Lady Guenever spoke together in the north cloister walk. It was a most fair morning of early summer, and in the topmost branch of the medlar tree in the midst of the green and peaceful cloister garth a whitethroat was singing. Lancelot gazed long into the face of Guenever who had once been the Queen; and her black hair with the silver strands in it was hidden by her veil, but her eyes were the same willow-grey eyes that he had always known, only that the shadows in them were deeper now.

  ‘So you are come back from Benwick,’ she said at last. ‘Was that to help Arthur?’

  He bowed his head. ‘Gawain wrote to me – in the hour of his death – and told me of all that had passed, and the fight at Dover; and that Mordred was fled away westwards and Arthur after him. He told me how that you had taken refuge from Mordred in the royal castle at London. He bade me come, for our liege lord the King had sore need of me. And I gathered my fighting men and came with all speed. But when I reached Dover, the last battle was fought and over, and I was too late. And when I came to London, seeking to know if all was well with you before I went on westward after the King, they told me of Sir Bedivere’s message, and how on the night after its coming, you slipped away, and five of your ladies with you, and they could come by no word of you since.’

  ‘And so you came seeking me,’ said Guenever. ‘And fi
nd me as you see me now.’

  ‘Was that for Arthur’s sake?’ said Lancelot.

  And Guenever told him, ‘It was through my love for you and yours for me that all these ills have come about, and my Lord Arthur is slain or gone from us, and the realm of Logres is no more. Therefore, when Sir Bedivere’s letter reached me, I came here secretly, and with those of my maidens who love me best. And in this quiet place I took upon me my vows, to dwell here, a nun, all the days of my life that may be left to me, praying for my soul’s-heal, and that God may forgive me my sinning and you yours. Praying also for the souls of my Lord the King and those, the very flowers of knighthood, who died on Camlann Plain.’

  ‘The King’s death is not sure,’ said Lancelot, not seeking to change her resolve, but only to speak some comfort to her.

  But she shook her head. ‘Not in my lifetime will he come back; not in yours …’ And then she said, ‘In this world, you and I must meet no more. Therefore I set you free, as never I was strong enough to do before. Get back to your own land, and take a wife and live with her in joy. But let you remember always, love, to pray for me, that God may forgive me my sins and grant me my soul’s-heal.’

  ‘Nay, sweet madam,’ said Sir Lancelot, ‘I have loved you since the day that I was made knight, and I grow too old to be changing my ways. Well you know that for your sake I will wed with no lady, though you give me my freedom a hundred times. Never will I be false to you, but I will keep sweet company with you in another way; for the vows that you have taken upon you, I will take also; and change my knightly harness for a hermit’s garb, and pass the rest of my days in prayer and fasting.’ He smiled with great gentleness, the old twisted smile. ‘But always my chief prayers shall be for you, that you shall find peace and your soul’s-heal.’

  ‘Pray for your own,’ said Guenever. ‘Pray for your own.’