by Michael Foss
‘Lady,’ said Lancelot with reproach, ‘why have you betrayed me?’
‘She did it,’ said Phelot, ‘as I commanded her. But there is no help for you. The hour is come when you must die.’
‘Shame on you,’ said Lancelot, ‘an armed knight to kill an undressed man by treason.’
‘You get no further grace from me.’
‘Truly, that shall be to your shame. But take my harness and hang my sword on a bough, that I may reach it if I can. Then do your best to slay me.’
‘Nay, I know you better than that. You get no weapon from me.’
‘Alas,’ cried Lancelot, ‘that ever a knight should die weaponless.’
He reached around him in the tree until he found a heavy spike of a branch, which he broke away with his body. Then he climbed lower. When he was just above his waiting horse he leapt to the other side, to get the horse betwixt him and the knight. Sir Phelot ran after him, lashing with his sword, but Lancelot put away the stroke with the heavy bough. Then he returned a crushing blow to the head of the knight, so that he fell in a swoon. He picked up the knight’s sword and struck his head from his body.
When she saw this, the lady cried out weeping. But Sir Lancelot turned on her, saying with anger, ‘You are the causer of this death. With falsehood you would have slain me, and now it is fallen on you both.’
Without more words Lancelot dressed and armed himself as fast as he might, lest the knight’s people come to find him. Then he took horse and departed, with thanks to God that he had escaped this adventure.
Now Sir Lancelot was somewhat weary for travel. He wished to see again the face and person of Queen Guenevere. So, two days before the feast of Pentecost, he came home to the court of Arthur, all stained and bespattered from the road. The king and all his knights, and the queen also, were most glad of his coming. And there were in the court at that time many whom Sir Lancelot had helped and comforted in his adventures. With loud voices they spoke the praise of this knight.
Then Sir Lancelot had the greatest name of any knight in the world, and he was the most honoured by both high and low.
One time, upon Whit Sunday, a hermit came to King Arthur as the knights sat at the Round Table. And when the hermit saw the Seat Perilous left empty at the table, he asked the king why that seat was void.
‘One only shall sit there,’ said Arthur, ‘and he shall be destroyed.’
‘Know you who that man is?’
‘Nay, I know not.’
‘But I know,’ said the hermit, ‘though he that shall sit there is as yet unborn and ungotten. But his time comes, for this same year he shall be gotten. Then he shall sit in the Seat Perilous, and he shall win the Holy Grail.’ The hermit said his words, and went on his way.
Now, after the feast of Pentecost Sir Lancelot set out on adventures once more, as is the manner of knighthood. He rode through country strange to him, seeking new fortune. In a wild part, as he passed over the Bridge of Corbin, he saw a tall tower in a town full of people who cried out to him, ‘Welcome, Sir Lancelot, you are of such renown we know you by your device. O flower of knighthood, help us in our danger. Within this tower is a dolorous lady, suffering pains these many winters, for she boils in scalding water. Sir Gawain was here and could not help her, so he left her in pain.’
‘I am as likely as Gawain,’ said Lancelot, ‘to leave her in pain.’
‘Nay, we trust that you shall deliver her.’
‘Well,’ he replied doubtfully, ‘then show me what I shall do.’
They brought Sir Lancelot into the tower and unlocked the doors of iron into the scalding chamber. Inside it was as hot as any stew, and in the hot mist Lancelot saw a lady as naked as a needle. Five years before Queen Morgan le Fay had by enchantment put the lady into the pains of that heat, because the queen was jealous of her beauty; nor might the lady be delivered until the best knight in the world came to rescue her.
When the heat had rushed from the door, Sir Lancelot led her from the scalding chamber and the people brought her clothes. She arrayed herself, and Lancelot thought that she looked a fair lady, a most fair lady, just one jot less beautiful than Queen Guenevere herself. Then she and Lancelot went to the chapel of the tower to thank God for her deliverance. And all the people, rich and poor, as they gave thanks also, thought on one more request to ask this good knight. ‘My lord,’ they said, ‘since you have delivered this lady, save us also from a serpent that lives here in a tomb.’
They brought him to the place, and Sir Lancelot could not deny them. He came near the tomb and saw these letters writ in gold:
Here shall come a leopard of kings’ blood, and he shall slay this serpent. And the leopard shall engender a lion in this foreign country, and this lion shall surpass all other knights.
Sir Lancelot lifted the tomb and out came a fiendish dragon, spitting fire from its mouth. He drew his sword on the dragon, skipping nimbly to avoid the horrible flames. They fought long but at last, by a lucky stroke, Lancelot cut through the dragon’s neck. While they were fighting many had come to watch, and among them was King Pelles, the good and noble knight.
When the dragon was dead, Pelles saluted Sir Lancelot. ‘I am King Pelles,’ he said, ‘king of the foreign country, and near kinsman of Joseph of Arimathea. What, sir, is your name?’
‘Know you well, sir, my name is Sir Lancelot du Lake.’
Then they made much of each other, and so went into the hall to take their repast. As they ate, a dove entered at the window with a little censer of gold in its mouth. Suddenly there was such a savour, as if the chamber were flooded with all the spices of the world. And there appeared on the table every manner of meat and drink that they could think on. Next a maiden came in, holding a golden vessel betwixt her hands. Then the king and all about him knelt devoutly and offered their prayers to God.
‘O Jesu,’ said Lancelot softly, ‘what may this mean?’
The king replied with reverence, ‘This is the richest thing in the world of men. This is the Holy Grail. When this thing goes about, the Round Table shall be broken.’
When this sight was gone, leaving all in amazement, King Pelles still made much of Lancelot, for he schemed to this intent: he wished Sir Lancelot to lie with his daughter Elaine and get a child upon her. Such a child would be named Galahad, and he would grow into the good knight by whom all the foreign country would be brought out of danger. By Galahad also the Holy Grail would be won.
Thus Pelles schemed, but it was not easily done. For the enchantress Dame Brisen told him that Lancelot loved none but Guenevere. Therefore, it must be the work of enchantment to make him lie with Elaine. So Brisen sent a false messenger to Lancelot, bearing as a token a ring such as Guenevere was wont to wear.
‘Where is my lady the queen?’ said Lancelot with most eager joy.
‘At the Castle of Case, but five miles hence.’
Lancelot rode there in all haste, and was received right worthily by such servants as a queen would have about her. The queen, they told him, was abed. Dame Brisen led him to a bedchamber and gave him a cup of enchanted wine. He drank and soon became so besotted and mad that he would brook no delay. He leapt from his clothes and into the bed, thinking that maid Elaine was Queen Guenevere. He was glad indeed; and so was Elaine, that she had Sir Lancelot in her arms. For she knew that that same night Galahad would be gotten on her, he who would prove the best knight of the world. All long night they twined together in joy and gladness, and the windows were covered so that no chink of light might disturb them.
Well after dawn, when the sun was high, Sir Lancelot awoke and went to the window. As he drew the covers and opened the window, the light flowed in and the enchantment was gone. Then he knew himself for what he was, and knew also that he had done amiss.
‘Alas,’ he cried, ‘that I have lived so long, for I am surely shamed.’
He went to the bed and took his sword in hand, saying, ‘Traitress, who are you with whom I have lain this night? Prepare to die.�
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But Elaine sprang from the bed all naked and knelt before him shivering. ‘Good courteous knight,’ she implored him, ‘descended from kings’ blood, have mercy on me. I am Elaine, daughter of King Pelles. Slay me not, for you have planted in my womb he who shall be the most noble knight of the world.’
Sir Lancelot thought on this and considered it well, and then he forgave her. For the fault was not hers. She was a fair lady, and lusty and young, and as wise as any maid living. So he took her in his arms and kissed her, and wiped away a tear. Then he dressed and armed himself and made ready to depart, at which she said to him with a voice mild and sad, ‘My lord, I beseech you see me again as soon as you may, for I have only obeyed my father’s prophecy. By his command I have given you the greatest riches and the fairest flower, which is the maidenhead that I shall never have again. Therefore, gentle knight, owe me your goodwill.’
So Sir Lancelot took sweet leave of young lady Elaine and rode away to the Castle of Corbin. And when her time came she was delivered of a fine child, and this baby was christened Galahad.
About this time King Arthur came back in triumph from his wars in France and ordained a celebration, a great feast for all the lords and ladies of England. King Pelles spared no cost to send his daughter Elaine to the feast. She was finely arrayed in the richest robes, and a hundred lords and ladies were of her party on the highway. When she came to Camelot, she dazzled the eyes of the court, even the eyes of the king and queen. But Queen Guenevere gave her good greetings with her face only, not with her heart. And when Sir Lancelot saw her, he was so ashamed he would neither salute her nor speak to her, and yet he thought her as fair a woman as he had ever seen. This coldness made Dame Elaine so heavy she felt her heart would burst, for she loved him out of measure.
‘This unkindness,’ she wept to her woman Brisen, ‘near kills me.’
‘Peace, madam,’ said Dame Brisen. ‘Tonight I undertake he shall lie with you.’
In the evening, the queen commanded that Elaine should sleep in a chamber near unto hers, under the same roof. Then Guenevere sent for Lancelot and told him to come to her chamber in the night, saying, ‘Or else I am sure you will go to that woman’s bed, by whom you had Galahad.’ And Lancelot promised her faithfully. But Brisen, by her crafts, knew this promise.
When all folks were abed, Brisen came to Lancelot’s side and whispered, ‘Sir Lancelot, do you sleep? My lady Guenevere lies waiting for you.’ Lancelot threw on a long gown and grasped his sword. Then Brisen led him by a finger to Elaine’s bed, though he knew it not. As they welcomed each to the other’s arms, and began to kiss and fumble, the queen sent her own woman to fetch Sir Lancelot to her. But the woman found the bed cold and the knight away.
Then the queen was nigh out of her wits, writhing like a mad woman, so that she slept not four or five hours. In the chamber close by, Sir Lancelot embraced his lady and then fell asleep. Soon he began to talk in his sleep, calling often the name of his love Queen Guenevere. He chattered like a jay, and so loud that the queen, all restless in her chamber, heard him say her name. Then she was more mad than before, and began to choke and cough very loud in her confusion. At this, Lancelot awoke. He heard the hemming and hawing in the next chamber and suddenly saw where he was. Then he knew well that he lay not with the queen. As he leapt wildly from the bed in his shirt, he met Guenevere coming in at the door. She rebuked him fiercely, saying, ‘False traitor knight, avoid my sight, avoid my chamber, and never more abide in my court.’
‘Alas,’ cried Lancelot in despair, and in his shame he ran to the bay window and threw himself into the garden, plunging through thorns that scratched his face and body all over. Half-naked still, he rushed from the garden, as wild and mad as ever man was. And so he wandered for two years, so strange that none might know him.
When Dame Elaine saw her love leap from the window, she turned to the queen and rebuked her.
‘Madam,’ she said, ‘you are greatly to blame, for now you have lost him. Alas, you do great sin and dishonour to yourself, for you have a lord of your own. There is no queen in the world that has such a king as you have. And, but for you, I might have the love of Sir Lancelot. I have true cause to love him, because he has my maidenhead and I have gotten his son Galahad, who in his time shall be the best knight in the world.’
‘Dame Elaine,’ replied Guenevere, ‘when it is daylight I charge you to avoid my court. And for the love you owe Sir Lancelot, keep all this to your own counsel, or else it will be his death.’
‘As for that, madam, I dare say he is marred for ever. That is your doing. Neither you nor I are like to rejoice him again.’
‘Alas,’ sighed Queen Guenevere and ‘Alas,’ sighed Elaine, ‘for now I know we have lost him for ever.’
On the morn, Elaine departed in sadness from the court. And when King Arthur and his knights heard what had befallen, and how good Sir Lancelot was gone mad, they made great moan. For, as Sir Bors said, ‘All kings, Christian or heathen, may not find such another knight, of such nobleness and courtesy, such beauty and gentleness. Alas, what shall we do, those of us who are of his blood?’
Then Queen Guenevere took fright at this complaint. She knelt before Sir Bors, Sir Ector and Sir Lionel, those who were of Lancelot’s blood, and begged them to seek him, saying, ‘Spare neither cost nor goods. Find him by all means, for I know that he is out of his mind.’
Swiftly they went away, taking from the queen’s treasure enough for their expense. They rode from country to country, through wastes and wilderness, asking all manner of travellers if they had seen a naked man, in his shirt, with a sword in his hand. Thus they rode for nigh quarter of a year, along and about in many places, and ofttimes they were most poorly lodged for Lancelot’s sake. But never a word did they hear of him. So they returned home for the time being, with hands and hearts empty.
Meanwhile Sir Lancelot suffered and endured, running wild and mad from place to place, under snows and rains and hot sun. He lived on fruit and what else he could win from tree, hedge and field. He drank cold water from stream or ditch for two years. He had but little clothing, except his shirt and breeches.
One time in his wandering he came to a pavilion in a meadow and saw a white shield hung in a tree, with two swords and two spears standing near. Some remembrance of deeds of arms touched him, even in his madness. He leapt to one of the swords and began to beat about the shield with a noise of ten men fighting.
At once a little man came forth and tried to take the sword from Sir Lancelot. But Lancelot caught the little man and near broke his neck upon the ground, so that the cries brought from the pavilion a knight dressed in scarlet trimmed with fur. As soon as this knight saw Lancelot he deemed him to be out of his wits, and therefore soothed him with fair speech.
‘Good fellow,’ he said, ‘lay down that sword. It seems to me that you have more need of sleep and warm clothes than a sword.’
‘Nay,’ shouted Lancelot, ‘come not so near, or I will slay you.’
Then Lancelot flew at him, and hit him such a buffet upon the helm that the stroke troubled his brains. He fell to the earth with blood bursting from his mouth, nose and ears. After this blow, Lancelot ran into the pavilion and dashed into the warm bed, and the lady who was already there abed tumbled from the other side in her smock. When she saw her lord lying stunned upon the ground, she wept so loud that her noise roused him. Weakly he shook his head and said, ‘What madman is this? Such a blow I never had before from any man’s hand.’
‘Do not hurt him,’ said the little man to his master. ‘’Tis not honourable to harm a man out of his wits. Yet doubtless he was once of some nobility, fallen mad from heartache. It seems to me he much resembles Sir Lancelot, whom I saw once at the great tournament of Lonazep.’
‘Jesu defend,’ replied the master, whose name was Bliant, ‘that ever noble Sir Lancelot should be in such a plight. Go to the castle and bring me a horse-litter, that we might bear this poor man home.’
The
y took up Sir Lancelot, still lying in the feather bed, and carried him in the horse-litter to the Castle Blank. Then they tied him hand and foot for his own safekeeping, and gave him good meat and drink to bring him back to his bodily strength. But his wits they could not recover. Thus Sir Lancelot lived for more than a year and a half.
Yet he was still not whole in his wit. For another half-year he languished. Then Sir Lancelot heard the noise of a great boar hunt going about the castle, with shouting and hallooing, and horns a-blowing. One of the huntsmen was taking breath under a tree, with his horse waiting and his sword and spear leaning against the saddle. When Lancelot saw this, he leapt on the horse, took the weapons and followed the hunt. After a long chase, Lancelot cornered the boar and dashed at it. But the beast turned nimbly, tore out the lungs and the heart of the horse, and slashed Sir Lancelot through the brawn of his thigh even to the bone. In a rage, he drew his sword and struck the head from the boar with one blow.
All this was seen by a hermit of the woods who went to help Sir Lancelot, asking him how he was hurt.
‘Fellow,’ said Lancelot in churlish anger, ‘this boar has given me a sore bite.’
‘Come with me,’ replied the hermit, ‘and I shall heal you.’
But Lancelot chased the hermit away. The hermit did not go far. He soon found a party of horsemen going through the woods, and together they fetched a cart to carry Sir Lancelot, who did not resist because he was now feeble from loss of blood. They took him to the hermitage, where his wound healed slowly. But the hermit was a poor man and could not find good sustenance for Lancelot, so he waxed feeble both in body and wits. He was as mad as before.
After a time Lancelot ran into the forest, looking like a scarecrow. By fortune his steps took him to the city of Corbin, where Dame Elaine was living. As he ran through the market, boys and young men ran after him, jeering at his madness, throwing turves and offal at him, tripping and striking him. Those Lancelot could lay hands on, he broke their bones, so that they wished they had been elsewhere. But the naked madman was a marvel to behold, and the noise and riot of his passage brought forth the gentlefolk from the castle to see him. They saw that he seemed to be a goodly man, though sore troubled and annoyed. There was some nobility about him, even in madness. They were sorry for him and put him in a little house, with clothes for his body and some straw to lie on. Every day they threw him some meat and set drink by his door, but few dared touch him or hand him food.