‘Sir,’ Arthur replied, ‘I am sure that he will become known to you before we leave this place.’ The king blew the horn to signal the end of the tournament, and the heralds proclaimed that the victor was the knight with the red scarf. The King of North Wales came up to him. ‘Fair knight, God bless you. You have worked wonders today. Come with us now, so that we can properly honour you.’
‘Lord king,’ Lancelot replied, ‘if I have won the victory, I have been badly wounded in the fight for it. I must find someone who can heal me. So, fair lords, allow me to leave you. I do not need honour. I need my life.’ He rode off, groaning all the while, until he came to the wood where he had arranged to meet Sir Lavane. ‘Sir Lavane!’ he cried out. ‘Sir Lavane! Help me to take this spear from my side.’
‘Sir,’ he replied, ‘I will do whatever you wish. But this might kill you.’
‘If you love me, draw it out.’
Lavane did so, and as the spear came out Lancelot gave a great shriek. The blood burst from the wound, and Lancelot lay on the ground groaning. For a while he fainted with the pain. ‘What shall I do?’ Lavane cried aloud. He turned Lancelot’s head into the cool breeze, and then waited for any sign of recovery. Eventually Lancelot opened his eyes. ‘Help me on to my horse,’ he whispered. ‘Within a mile or two there lives a hermit who is a good healer. He was once a knight, Sir Baudwin of Britain by name, but he left his worldly possessions for the sake of God. He is my cousin. He is the one man who may be able to assist me.’
Sir Lavane helped Lancelot on to his horse, and they rode on together; all the while Lancelot’s blood ran down the flanks of his horse on to the earth. The hermitage was within a wood, close beside a steep cliff and a stream. Lavane beat on the door with the butt of his spear. ‘Let us in, for God’s sake.’ A young boy came to the door and asked them what they wanted. ‘Fair son,’ Lavane replied, ‘go to your lord, the hermit, and tell him that there is a knight here who is badly wounded and who needs his help. Tell him this also. The knight has done more valiant deeds today than anyone before.’
The hermit, a handsome and stalwart man, heard his words and came out. ‘What knight is he?’ he asked. ‘Is he from the court of King Arthur?’
‘I do not know his name, sir. Or from what court he comes. But today he has performed marvellous feats of arms.’
‘For whose sake did he fight?’
‘I know only that he fought against the knights of King Arthur.’
‘There was a time,’ Sir Baudwin said, ‘when I would have thought the worse of him for that. I was once of their fellowship. Still, those times are long gone. I thank God that I am now otherwise disposed. Where is he? Let me see him.’
Lavane brought the hermit to Lancelot. The knight was leaning over his saddle, bleeding and in pain. The hermit thought for a moment that he recognized him, but the knight was so pale and drawn that he could not tell. ‘What knight are you?’ the hermit asked him. ‘Where were you born?’
‘My fair lord,’ Lancelot replied, ‘I am a stranger to this realm. I have ridden through many countries to win honour.’
Sir Baudwin noticed a scar on his cheek, and knew at once who it was. ‘Oh, my lord,’ he said, ‘why did you try to hide your name from me? I know you very well. You are Lancelot, the noblest knight in the world.’
‘Since you know me,’ Lancelot replied, ‘then help me. I do not care if I live or die, as long as I can be free of pain.’
‘You will live. No doubt about it.’ Sir Baudwin called two of his servants, and they took Lancelot into the hermitage; he was laid gently upon a bed, and was given some wine to drink. In those days hermits were nobly born, and were able to dispense food and drink to those who came to them.
Lancelot is discovered
The king and his court were feasting together, after the great tournament, and Arthur asked about the knight who wore the red scarf on his helmet. ‘Bring him before us,’ he said. ‘We should praise and reward him for his valour.’
‘He is badly wounded,’ the King of North Wales told him. ‘He is not likely to live.’
‘Is he so badly hurt? Does anyone know his name?’
‘No one, sire. We do not know from where he came or where he has gone to.’
The king was troubled by this. ‘If he were to die, it would be the greatest sorrow I have suffered. He is such a noble knight.’
‘Do you know anything about him?’ the King of North Wales asked.
‘I believe that I know something. I will tell you more when I have received some word of him.’
Sir Gawain stood up. ‘In the name of Jesus, I will go in search of him. We cannot let the noble knight lie wounded in this realm. It would be a grave dishonour to us all.’
‘Well said, Sir Gawain,’ the king replied. ‘I hope that your search is successful, and that you find the knight alive.’
Gawain called for his squire, and together they rode in the woods and forests some six or seven miles from the court. But they found no trace of Lancelot. Two days later the court removed from Camelot and slowly returned to London. Gawain himself was lodged at Astolat on the way back, in the same chamber that Lancelot had used. He was resting there when the lord of the castle, Sir Bernard, came in to greet him. He had with him his daughter, Elaine, the Fair Maid of Astolat. ‘Tell me,’ Sir Bernard asked him, ‘who did best at the tournament? Who was the victor?’
‘There was only one champion that day,’ Gawain told him. ‘I do not know his name, but he bore a white shield and on his helmet he wore a red scarf. He beat down forty knights of the Round Table.’
Elaine smiled and clapped her hands. ‘God be praised. He is the perfect knight. He is my first and only love. I will never have another.’
‘Oh, fair lady,’ Gawain asked her. ‘Is he really your love?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
‘So do you know his name?’
‘No. Nor do I know from where he comes. But, as God is my witness, I truly love him.’
‘How did you first meet him?’ Elaine then told him the story of how Lancelot borrowed the shield of her brother so that he might not be recognized at the tournament. ‘I still have his shield,’ she said. ‘He gave it to me.’
‘May I see it?’
‘It is in my chamber, sir, kept in a wooden case. Come with me. I will take you to it.’
‘No, daughter,’ Sir Bernard said, ‘that would not be proper. Call for it to be brought to you.’ So the wooden case was carried to her. She opened it, and showed Gawain the shield.
He knew at once to whom it belonged. ‘Ah, good Jesus. Now my heart is heavier than it ever was before.’
‘Give me the reason, sir.’
‘I have my reasons. Is he really your love?’
‘I love him. But I am not sure that he loves me.’
‘You are right to love him, lady. He is the most valiant, and the most noble, knight in the world.’
‘I knew that as soon as I saw him.’
‘His name is Lancelot. I know his shield. You are blessed. In all the last twenty-four years I have never known him to wear the token of any lady. Yet I fear for you. It may be that you will never see him again in this world.’
Elaine almost swooned. ‘Is he dead?’
‘Perhaps not. But I believe that he has been wounded so badly that he may not recover.’
‘How may this be? How was he hurt?’
‘The spear of Sir Bors pierced his side.’
Elaine turned to her father in her distress. ‘Father, will you give me permission to ride after Sir Lancelot? I must reach him. Otherwise I will go out of my mind with grief.’
‘Go, good daughter. Rescue him, if you can.’
So she made herself ready for the journey, weeping all the time. Gawain himself rode back to the court of the king in London, where he told Arthur that he had found Lancelot’s shield in the safe keeping of the Fair Maid of Astolat.
‘I suspected this,’ the king replied. ‘I saw Lancelot in the garden
of Sir Bernard’s castle. That is why I would not let you go after him at the tournament. Yet one thing still puzzles me. I have never known him to wear the token of any lady before. So why did he carry the red scarf?’
‘I only know, sir, that the Fair Maid of Astolat loves him very much. She has now ridden out to find him.’
When Guinevere heard from her husband that Lancelot had carried the token of another lady, she went almost insane with wrath. She called Sir Bors to her. ‘Have you heard,’ she demanded, ‘how Lancelot has betrayed me? I do not care if he dies now. He is a false traitor.’
‘You must not speak of him so, madam.’
‘And why not, Sir Bors? He is a traitor. Did he not wear a red scarf at the tournament?’
‘Madam, I am sorry that he wore that token. But I am sure that he meant no ill towards you. He wore it so that no one would recognize him. That is all.’
‘The more shame on him,’ the queen replied. ‘For all his pride, Sir Bors, you proved yourself to be the better knight.’
‘No, madam. That is not right. He beat me and my fellows. He was better than any of us. He could have killed us if he wished. I am only sorry that I wounded him so badly.’
‘I hate him. I despise him. Sir Gawain tells the king that there is some great love between him and the Fair Maid of Astolat.’
‘Sir Gawain may say what he pleases. But I know that Sir Lancelot extends no favours to any lady, or gentlewoman, or maiden. He treats them all equally. I trust him. And now I will myself go forth to find him. God send me good news.’
Lancelot and the Fair Maid
The Fair Maid of Astolat had ridden to Camelot in order to find the knight she loved best in the world, and by good fortune she came upon her brother. Sir Lavane was exercising his horse. She called out to him, and he rode over to her. ‘Where is Sir Lancelot?’ she asked him as soon as he came close.
‘How do you know, sister, that the knight I serve is Lancelot?’
‘Sir Gawain told me. He recognized the shield that he left with me.’
Together they made their way to the hermitage. Sir Lavane led her into the chamber where Lancelot lay, and when she saw him so pale and so sick she fell to the ground in a swoon. When she had recovered herself she could scarcely rise. ‘What is this, my lord? Why are you in such a woeful state?’
Sir Lancelot asked her brother to take her up and bring her to his bedside. ‘What is the matter with you, fair lady?’ he asked her. ‘Your distress only increases my pain. Be cheerful. If you have come to comfort me, you are welcome. If God is gracious, I shall soon be healed of this small hurt I have suffered. But who told you my name?’
‘Sir Gawain knew your shield.’
‘If my name is known, I may be harmed.’ He feared that Gawain would tell Guinevere about the red scarf, and that he would therefore incur the deadly anger of the queen.
Elaine never left his side, but watched over him day and night. Lancelot then asked Lavane to ride to London and find Sir Bors. ‘You will know him by the scar on his forehead,’ he told him. ‘He will be looking for me, since it was he who hurt me. Bring him to me.’
Sir Lavane rode to the court, and made inquiries for Sir Bors. Eventually he found him, and explained his mission. ‘You are welcome,’ Bors said to him. ‘Of all men, I wish to see Sir Lancelot.’ Together they rode to the hermitage.
When Sir Bors saw Sir Lancelot lying, pale and disconsolate, he wept for a long time. He was at last able to speak. ‘Oh, my lord Sir Lancelot, God bless you and send you a speedy recovery. I am in despair at the wound I gave you. I might have killed the noblest knight in the world. I am nothing but a coward. God will hold me in His greatest displeasure, I know that. I am filled with shame. Will you ever be able to forgive me?’
Lancelot held out his hand. ‘Good cousin, you are welcome here. Do not feel grief. It was my own fault. It was my own pride that made me hide my shield. If I had told you my name, I would not have been wounded. There is an old saying that kinsmen should never do battle against one another. I ignored that. So say no more. What is done cannot be undone. I will soon be cured, I am sure of it. Let us talk of other things.’
Sir Bors then sat on the bed, and whispered to him that Guinevere was very angry with him for wearing the token of another woman. ‘Why is she so angry?’ Lancelot asked him. ‘I only wore it so that I would not be recognized.’
‘I have told her that. But she will not listen.’ Then he whispered even lower. ‘This young lady ministering to you. Is she the one known as the Fair Maid of Astolat?’
‘Yes. I can find no way of getting rid of her.’
‘Why should you? She is pretty enough. I wish to God that you took her rather than Guinevere. And I can see that she loves you.’
‘I am sorry for it.’
‘She is not the first to have fallen for you.’
‘What am I supposed to do?’ So they conversed.
Within three or four days Sir Lancelot began to grow stronger. Sir Bors told him of a tournament to be held at Camelot between King Arthur and the King of North Wales. It was to take place on the feast of All Hallows. Lancelot raised himself from his bed. ‘Is that so? Stay with me a little longer until I am whole again. I hope that I might take part.’ They were together for almost a month, while Elaine continued her ministrations. No mother could have taken better care of a child than the Fair Maid of Astolat cared for her charge.
Lancelot is healed
One day Sir Lancelot asked Elaine and the hermit to search for certain healing herbs in the wood. As soon as they were gone he put on his armour and mounted his horse; he wanted to see if he was fit for combat. But his horse was frisky; it had not been ridden for a month, and now wished to prove its mettle. It leaped up when it felt the spurs in its side, and Lancelot was forced out of the saddle. As he fell forward his wound burst open, and the blood poured out. ‘Help!’ he cried to Sir Bors. ‘Help me! I fear that my end has come!’ He fell to the ground.
Sir Bors and Sir Lavane rushed to his side, and cried out in their distress. Elaine heard their cries in the wood, and ran from among the trees. When she saw Lancelot lying on the ground, in his armour, she screamed aloud. She came over to him and, kissing him, tried to wake him. ‘You are false traitors!’ she shouted at Sir Bors and her brother. ‘How could you allow him to leave his bed? If he dies, I will blame you both. I will see that you come to trial!’
The hermit now emerged from the wood. He spoke little, but it was clear that he was very angry with Bors and Lavane. ‘Help me bring him in,’ was all he would say. They laid him in his bed, and the hermit placed some herbs to his nose and put some water in his mouth. Still he did not stir. Eventually the hermit was able to stop the bleeding. After an hour or so, Lancelot opened his eyes. The hermit asked him why he had been so rash. ‘Sir,’ he replied, ‘I wanted to test my strength. Sir Bors has told me of a tournament. I wanted to see if I was ready for it.’
‘Ah, dear sir,’ the hermit replied, ‘your courage will be your undoing. You must not allow your heart to rule your head. Listen to me. Let Sir Bors go on to the tournament. You must remain here with me. When he returns, he will find you to be fit and well again.’
What else could Lancelot do but agree? ‘Go forth to the tournament,’ he told his friend. ‘Do your best. I am sure that you will beat all challengers. I will remain here, at the mercy of God, and wait for your return.’
Sir Bors rode off, but first he went back to the court at London where he told them all of Sir Lancelot’s plight. ‘I am sorry for it,’ the king said, ‘but I thank God that he will recover.’
Sir Bors told Guinevere of the dangers Lancelot had faced in the tournament. ‘He did all for love of you, my lady.’
‘Oh yes? I still spurn him. For all I care, he might as well die.’
‘Madam,’ Bors replied, ‘he will not die. If anyone else had spoken in this way, his kinsmen would have avenged him. And consider this. You have in the past condemned him, only to confess yo
ur fault later. You have always found him to be a true knight to you.’ Sir Bors left her, and joined the tournament. Here he performed splendid feats of arms, but all the time he was eager to return to Lancelot. He hurried back to the hermitage after three days, and rejoiced to find his friend on his feet. ‘I am recovered,’ Lancelot told him. ‘I am whole again.’
The death of the Fair Maid
On the following morning they took their horses and rode on to Astolat, where they wished to say farewell to Sir Bernard. Elaine came into the chamber where he was lodged. ‘My lord,’ she said, ‘now I see that you are about to leave me. Have mercy on me. Do not let me die.’
‘What do you wish me to do, lady?’
‘I wish you to marry me.’
‘Marry? That is not my fate. I will never be a husband.’
‘But can you be a lover?’
‘Jesus defend me. What reward would that be to your father and your brother?’
‘In that case, I must die for love.’
‘You will not, dear lady. You must understand that I will never be married. But I promise you this. Whenever you do marry, I will give you and your husband the sum of a thousand pounds each year.’
‘That is not for me, sir. You must either marry me or become my lover. Otherwise my good days are gone.’
‘Dear lady, these are two things I cannot do.’
When she heard him, she screamed and fell into a faint. Her ladies carried her into her chamber, where she wept continually.
Sir Lancelot prepared himself for his departure, and he asked Sir Lavane what he proposed to do. ‘I wish for nothing except to follow you,’ Lavane said to him. ‘Unless of course you drive me away or command me to leave you.’
‘Then ride with me.’
Sir Bernard now came to him. ‘My daughter,’ he said, ‘will die for love of you.’
The Death of King Arthur Page 25