Gawain still fights, cursing his enemies, his helmet long gone, his lank hair flinging sweat. Parcefal and his horse warriors are closer, parting the Saxons as the sea turns before a ship’s bow. But our enemies are too many. They are all around us. I twist and strike. I crack shields and break spear staves. Blades strike me, perhaps biting, perhaps not. Bronze scales fly from me, glittering in the grey day.
There are too many.
A blow staggers me. I cut low, taking a man in the thigh. A blade scrapes off my helmet and I turn, driving my sword into an open mouth.
Too many.
Gawain is sheeted in blood but fighting still. Cursing still.
Arthur is behind me, barely upright and glimmered with blood yet reaping lives with Excalibur.
We will not yield. We are the swords of Britain. The lords of battle.
Another blow puts me down on one knee and I parry a spear with my knife and lunge with Boar’s Tusk. I cannot breathe. There is no air. They are all around us, darkening the world like an unnatural dusk. I think of her and I stand again, spinning, sweeping my blades around to throw men back. Gasping for breath.
Lancelot. I am here.
I thrust and withdraw. I sweep a sword wide and hack into flesh.
I am with you, Lancelot.
She has come. She is inside me as she has always been.
Do not fear, my heart. I am with you now.
There are too many. But I am Lancelot.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
I cannot find a breath.
I am with you.
I fall and I rise.
And I rise.
Author’s Note
THE ROOTS OF this novel go all the way back to 1995. I had dropped out of uni and into the music business, and I read Bernard Cornwell’s The Winter King, the first in his Warlord Chronicles trilogy about King Arthur. I was mesmerized, so much so that during that time I was either floating through the cheesy world of pop or else wading through the mud and gore of a fifth-century Britain ruled by a reluctant warlord. Cornwell’s retelling of this island’s greatest myth struck a resonating chord inside me. I saw in vivid detail this world which he had re-created. I felt it, heard it, smelled it. And it’s fair to say these books crystallized in me what had up until then been a somewhat vague, if enduring, ambition to become a writer. Before The Winter King, I knew I wanted to write, to explore language creatively and express myself through writing. After that book, I realized that I needed to feel completely immersed in such tales of the past again. And that the best and most indulgent way to do that would be to write them myself. I’ve been trying to immerse myself neck-deep ever since.
Fast forward, then, to 2012. The Bleeding Land was published and I was head down in the fray writing the sequel, Brothers’ Fury, continuing the story of a family ripped apart by that most brutal conflict the English (or British) Civil Wars. Even in the midst of the conflict (and by conflict I mean the actual day-to-day writing, which for me, at least, is a struggle), I was peering with one beady eye through the cannon and musket smoke to the next story. And whilst hoping to seize upon a big name to inspire an idea, it struck me. Yes, the story of Arthur has been told and retold in hundreds of ways over hundreds of years, from Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain (c. 1138), the works of late-twelfth-century French poet Chrétien de Troyes, and Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur, to T. H. White’s The Once and Future King, Rosemary Sutcliff’s Sword at Sunset, and Bernard Cornwell’s Warlord Chronicles. The screen, too, has burned brightly with Arthuriana, from the 1963 movie The Sword in the Stone, to John Boorman’s 1981 fantasy film Excalibur, and Guy Ritchie’s 2017 movie King Arthur: Legend of the Sword. And of course one can’t not mention Monty Python and the Holy Grail. And yet throughout all the adaptations of the myth, we’ve seen little of Arthur’s greatest knight and closest friend, the man whose tragic love affair with Arthur’s wife Guinevere presaged the downfall of a kingdom. We’ve all heard of Lancelot, and of that most celebrated love-triangle in European literature, but many of us don’t know much more than that. In literary terms, we might call Lancelot an under-developed, even flat character. The editorial note might say: ‘This character could do with another scene or two. Could benefit from some fleshing out.’
I thought, wouldn’t it be something to find out who Lancelot is, to get inside his skin and rewrite his story for today? Not that I sat down and started writing it back then. I still had Civil War to wage and Viking ships to row. Indeed, I would write The Rise of Sigurd trilogy and co-author a book with Wilbur Smith before I got there, but I knew that in Lancelot I had a great title. Well, you’ve got to start somewhere.
Eventually (you’re not ready till you’re ready), it was this story’s time and I wondered which of the numerous versions of the myth I would use as my running thread. But being me: lazy, impatient, far more eager to get creating than I am to wade through research and reference material, I decided to figure it out as I went. This, then, is my warning, my disclaimer to the reader who may stumble across this note before buying or borrowing the book. (If you’ve already read the book, too late!) It’s my way of saying, don’t waste your time holding my story up against Tennyson and de Troyes, searching for the touchstones in this tale, trying to draw forth the old motifs and classic influences like so many swords from the Arthurian stone. I’m no academic. No Arthurian expert. I’m just a storyteller. I’m the kind of person who’s as likely to be inspired by the Disney cartoon as by some literary masterpiece.
As for Cornwell’s tour de force, though I loved it deeply, I didn’t fancy having my one-volume story being compared with his three-book masterwork, and so I did what I tend to do. I went my own way. I started writing and almost immediately I felt that, for better or worse, this would be unlike any book I’ve written before. But then, just as I was finding my feet with the tale, my father fell suddenly ill. After several brutal weeks, and unimaginably, given his energy, determination and personal charisma, he died just two days before his seventieth birthday. He was gone. My world fractured and in the black shadow of shock and grief, I questioned everything. How trivial, even frivolous, to sit here making up stories in the midst of death and loss. How could I think that what I was doing was worthwhile? How did it make sense to be sitting here at my desk making stuff up while my heart was breaking?
And yet, some other part of me asked, in a guilty whisper, why do we write and read stories, if not to escape the mundane realities and torments of our lives? For a while I did not hear this small voice, and the writing was hard. During that time, the last place I wanted to be physically was stuck in a room on my own. Mentally, the last place I wanted to be was hanging out inside my own head, writing what is in essence a tragedy. Moreover, I wondered what was the point in writing books at all if my father wasn’t around to be proud of me for it. It was a precarious time for me.
But writing is my job, and my publisher had signed up Lancelot, and, well, what else was I going to do? And so, I set my mind to doing the best I could. My father would never get the chance to read this book, but I did get to tell him, in the hospital, that he would be in it. Not as a character but as an inspiration, because of the courage he showed in those dark days. And because I knew I would give this book my best shot, if only for him. And so, whatever story I had originally set out to tell, it transmuted into … something else. It became less a story of events, of heroic deeds and familiar Arthurian tropes, and more a tale of love and loss, of all that might have been, and of a sense of time and place which stays with a person, so that even though time has moved on, and you are a man, and everything has changed, you are still the boy you were, and in many ways nothing has changed at all.
Lancelot is, then, in every sense a reimagining. For me it was a journey of spirit and memory, of imagination and of the senses. I hope that for you it is at least a passable story, though I sincerely hope you forgive me if it perhaps wasn’t quite the Arthurian tale you expected. I did my b
est. Promise.
Stephen King said no one writes a long novel alone. Well, this is a fairly long novel and I would like to take this opportunity to thank some of the people who have played a part in it.
Both Bill Hamilton and Simon Taylor championed Lancelot from the beginning and first mention of the title. Taking on an Arthurian book is somewhat intimidating, yet with those two gentlemen in my corner I knew I was in safe hands. They gave me the confidence to believe I had more than just an idea, and when the story was written, Simon’s editorial wisdom was, as always, so gratefully received. To Jennifer Custer, who has the task of trying to convince foreign publishers that they should take this book, but who has by now left A. M. Heath to pursue new goals, I’ll always be grateful. It never stops being a thrill seeing my tales in Nynorsk or Hungarian or Cyrillic script, even if sometimes when some foreign edition turns up I don’t know which of my books it is or what language it’s in! All the best for the future, Jennifer, and if right now you’re on a 3500 km hike through the Appalachian Trail, I hope you’ve remembered your bear spray.
Here’s to my friends in the Historical Writers Association. I can’t tell you how cathartic it is to listen to others enthusing and bitching in equal measure about the business of writing and the state of publishing. This is a weird, unhealthy, isolating addiction that we have. Whilst drowning in silence and bathed in the screen’s glow, it’s comforting to know that one is not alone. A particular shout out goes to Manda Scott for helping me learn from the dreams and give myself fully to the words. Integrity in one’s creative writing is as important as the words themselves. Thank you, Manda, for inspiring me to strive for it. To Katy Gulliver, for being willing to read an early draft with all its many faults, and for your first impressions, thank you! And to Anthony Hewson, who read the manuscript, gave of his expertise and told me when I’d gone a metaphor too far or when the prose was turning just a shade too purple. Anthony, you are the bee’s knees and I’m glad to know you. My band of brothers with whom I raided Lindisfarne Priory and shared a saga-worthy experience, thank you. Drew, Phil and Pietro, I can’t think of better companions with whom to get stranded on St Cuthbert’s Island in the dangerous dark as the tide floods in. It was an amazing distraction from the writing and I’m sure it did me the world of good, and whilst it may have been the mead, I swear I heard the ghost of St Cuthbert laughing at us.
To my creative partner in crime Philip Stevens (who when he’s not busy being a film director or lecturing also happens to be the voice of my audiobooks) thank you seems short change. Phil has lived and breathed this story from beginning to end. He’s had to put up with me on the other end of the phone trying to write myself out of troubled waters and tight corners. With his uncanny storytelling instinct, Phil would often respond to my ramblings with: ‘If I were shooting this as a movie …’ This sometimes led us on wild and wonderful diversions, but ultimately those eight words from Phil would have my fingers tapping away again in no time at all. Phil, I hope the end result lives up to all our excited expectations.
My dear children, Freyja and Aksel, I’m sorry that your pappa wasn’t always fully present during the writing of this book. This story was constantly gnawing away in my skull, like a grub in an apple. I’m certain that over the last year and a half people have said of me, observing my dazed expression, ‘The lights are on but no one’s home.’ It’s good to be back though, and whilst I would never wish the years away, I do look forward to the time when you kids can read Lancelot and at least find out where I was during that time. Freyja, my little bookworm, I’m so proud that you are the reader I never was at your age. So many stories and adventures are yours for the taking. Go for it! Aksel, before you ask, I’m not sure who are the goodies and who are the baddies in this tale, but I promise you there are plenty of swords.
Thank you, Lynne and Andrew, for all your help, for being brilliant grandparents and for giving Sally and me a much-needed break now and again. It’s conducive to the whole sanity thing, believe me. To my wife Sally, what can I say? You have saved me more than once. Without you I wouldn’t have got any further than the title. I mean it. Do you remember the beginning and my all-consuming dream to be an author? All those rejection letters and you saying it’s their loss, keep going. Who’d have thought we’d get to this point, our tenth published novel? Though I wonder if I’ll ever stop feeling like an imposter.
To James and Jackie, in your own ways you both support me unfailingly and are the very best advocates for the books. Thank you! I hope you enjoy this one. If nothing else the size of it surely provides a decent excuse to book a holiday and some peaceful reading time. Sibling obligations must be met, right? To my mother, your strength staggers me. Your love humbles me. Your dedication to your family inspires me. Look, Mum, not a Viking in sight! And I tried not to be too gruesome in this one. I hope I succeeded.
And to my father. I can’t say whether you would have enjoyed this book, but I know you would have read every page. Every word. I hope you would have been proud of me for seeing it through. I’m so glad that I did.
Giles Kristian
8 January 2018
Dramatis Personae
Lancelot – The narrator of the story. Son of King Ban of Benoic
Arthur – A warlord and son of Uther Pendragon, High King of Britain
Guinevere – Daughter of Lord Leodegan
The Lady Nimue – Mistress of Karrek Loos yn Koos (The Mount)
Merlin – Druid and adviser to King Uther
Oswine – Merlin’s Saxon slave
King Uther Pendragon – King of Dumnonia and High King of Britain
Queen Igraine – Wife of Uther Pendragon
Mordred – Son of Arthur and Morgana
Morgana – Daughter of Gorlois and Igraine. Arthur’s half-sister
Lord Constantine – A warlord of Dumnonia. Nephew of King Uther and son of Ambrosius
King Claudas – A king of Armorica (Brittany)
King Ban – King of Benoic and Lancelot’s father
Queen Elaine – Wife of King Ban
Balsant – King Ban’s brother and uncle to Lancelot
Hector – Son of King Ban. Brother of Lancelot
Govran – King Ban’s groom
Benesek – A Guardian of the Mount
Pelleas – A Guardian of the Mount
Edern – A Guardian of the Mount
Madern – A Guardian of the Mount
Bors – Son of King Bors of Gannes. Lancelot’s cousin
Melwas – A warrior of the Mount
Agga – A warrior of the Mount
Gawain – One of Arthur’s warriors
Bedwyr – One of Arthur’s warriors
Cai – One of Arthur’s warriors
Parcefal – One of Arthur’s warriors
Ector – One of Arthur’s warriors
Gofan – One of Arthur’s warriors
Geraint – One of Arthur’s warriors
Lord Leodegan – A lord of Dumnonia. Guinevere’s father
King Menadoc – King of Cornubia
King Cyngen Glodrydd – King of Powys
King Einion ap Mor – King of Ebrauc (King of Northern Britain)
King Gruffyd ap Gwrgan – King of Glywyssing
King Cynfelyn ap Arthwys – King of Cynwidion
King Deroch – King of Caer Gwinntguic
King Meirchion Gul – King of Rheged
King Masgwid the Lame – King of Elmet
King Cyn-March – King of Cornubia
King Aella – Saxon warlord
Uradech – Pictish chieftain
King Syagrius – A king of northern Gaul
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Family history (he is half Norwegian) and a passion for the fiction of Bernard Cornwell inspired Giles Kristian to write. Set in the Viking world, his bestselling trilogies ‘Raven’ and ‘The Rise of Sigurd’ have been acclaimed by his peers, reviewers and readers alike. The novels The Bleeding Land and Brothers’ Fury tell the story of
a family torn apart by the English Civil War and he co-wrote Wilbur Smith’s No.1 bestseller, Golden Lion. In his new novel, Lancelot, Giles plunges into the rich and swirling waters of our greatest island ‘history’: the Arthurian legend.
Giles Kristian lives in Leicestershire.
Also by Giles Kristian
THE RAVEN NOVELS
Raven: Blood Eye
Sons of Thunder
Óðin’s Wolves
THE BLEEDING LAND
The Bleeding Land
Brothers’ Fury
THE RISE OF SIGURD
God of Vengeance
Winter’s Fire
Wings of the Storm
For more information on Giles Kristian and his books, see his website at www.gileskristian.com
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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www.penguin.co.uk
Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Giles Kristian 2018
Map copyright © Liane Payne
Cover design by Stephen Mulcahey/TW
Cover images: woman on horseback © Jiri Hubatka/Alamy Stock Photo
Giles Kristian has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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