When Queen Guinevere learned that the king was dead, and that all his knights were killed, she rose up and with five ladies made her way to the abbey at Amesbury. She was professed, and took on the nun’s habit of black and white; her life was spent in penance for her sins. And the people marvelled at her devotion.
Some men also say that Arthur is not dead, but by the will of Jesus Christ he will come to us again when we need him. I do not know. I will only say that here in this world he changed his life and that on his tomb at Glastonbury was written: HIC IACET ARTHURUS, REX QUONDAM REXQUE FUTURUS. That is to say: Here lies Arthur, the once and future king.
The Dolorous Death and Departing out of This World of Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere
Sir Lancelot had received the letter written by Gawain, and had learned of the treachery of Mordred. He was told, also, of Mordred’s pursuit of Guinevere to the walls of the Tower. He summoned his knights, and angrily addressed them. ‘Now I know of the double treachery of Mordred. He has brought woe and wickedness into Arthur’s land. This letter from Gawain – on whose soul God have mercy – tells me that the king is hard pressed on all sides. He has been betrayed by his own subjects. In this letter, too, Gawain begs me to visit his tomb. His sad words will never leave my heart. He was the noblest knight on earth. In an unhappy hour I was born, destined to slay Sir Gaheris, Sir Gareth and now Sir Gawain. Why cannot I kill Mordred, who deserves to die?’
‘Leave off your complaints,’ Sir Bors told him. ‘Your first task is to avenge the death of Gawain. You must visit his tomb, as he asks you. Then you must march against Mordred and fight for Arthur’s sake as well as for the honour of Queen Guinevere.’
‘Your advice is sound and strong, Sir Bors. Let us make haste.’
He marshalled his forces, and sailed with them over the sea to the shores of England. He had with him seven kings, and the sight of their armies was astounding. The people of Dover, however, cried out to him that he had come too late. They told him that both Arthur and Mordred were dead, having fought hand to hand, and that one hundred thousand warriors were slain on the field of battle. Sir Lancelot bowed his head. ‘This is the heaviest news that I have ever heard,’ he said to them. ‘It touches my heart. Grant me this favour, good people. Take me to the tomb of Sir Gawain.’
So they brought him to Dover Castle, where the body of Gawain was buried. Lancelot kneeled in front of the sepulchre, weeping, and prayed for the soul of the noble knight. That night he proclaimed a great gift-giving. All those who came to the town would be granted fish and flesh, wine and ale, together with twelve pence. Dressed in a cloak of mourning, Lancelot himself distributed the pennies to the people. He wept, and urged them all to pray for the repose of Gawain.
On the next morning the priests and canons of the region assembled together for a solemn requiem. Lancelot paid one hundred pounds for perpetual masses to be performed in memory of the dead man; the seven kings each offered forty pounds, and a thousand knights each pledged one pound. So the soul of Gawain was secured.
Lancelot lay on the sepulchre for two nights, sighing and sorrowful. Then on the third day he summoned the leaders of his host. ‘My fair lords,’ he said, ‘I thank you all for accompanying me here. As you know very well, we have arrived too late. I will regret this all my life, but who can rebel against death? It must be so. But I will do this. I will ride to my good lady, Queen Guinevere, and try to comfort her. I have heard that she is in great distress, and that she has fled somewhere to the west. I will follow her. I ask all of you to wait here for my return; if I do not come back within fifteen days, then board your ships and unfurl your sails. Return to your own lands.’
Sir Bors stepped forward. ‘It is not wise, sir,’ he said, ‘to ride alone through this realm. You will find few friends here.’
‘I know that. But I forbid you, or anyone else, to follow me. I must make my own way.’
Lancelot would listen to no arguments. He mounted his horse, and for seven or eight days he rode westward. Then by chance he arrived at the nunnery of Amesbury, where Guinevere had been appointed as abbess. She was walking in the cloister when she saw him and, in her amazement, she fainted into the arms of the gentlewomen who attended her; they found it hard to keep her from falling on to the earth. When she had recovered from her swoon, she addressed them. ‘You may marvel, fair ladies, at my fainting fit. I have been surprised by the sight of the knight over there. Call him to me.’
When he came into the cloister, she pointed to him. ‘Through the deeds of myself and this man, all the wars have risen in England. We are responsible for the deaths of the noblest knights in the world. Because of the love that this man and I shared, my most noble king and lord has been slain. Therefore, Sir Lancelot, know this. I have come to this place to do penance and prepare my soul. I trust through the grace of God to climb into heaven and see the face of Christ Our Saviour; on the day of doom, I hope to be seated on His right side. Sinners such as I have become saints in heaven. So, Sir Lancelot, I command you now to leave my company. I forbid you to see my face on this earth. Turn again and go back to your kingdom. Keep it safe from woe and warfare. I loved you well, in former times, but now I can no longer serve you. Both of us have been the ruin of knights and kings. I beg you now to return home, and take a wife who will live with you in bliss. Pray for me, Lancelot, and plead with God to forgive my sins.’
‘So, sweet madam, you would like me to go home and get myself a wife? No. It cannot be. I will never be false to you in this life. Instead I will pursue the same course as you have done, and put on the habit of a monk or hermit. I will pray for you day and night.’
‘Keep that promise, sir. Can it be true that you will never turn towards the world again?’
‘Do you not trust my word? Have I not kept all my promises to you in the past? If you can forsake and forget the world, then so can I. In the days when I sought the Holy Grail, my sole weakness was my love for you. Otherwise, with clean heart and will, I would have passed all other knights in the quest. So, fair lady, I will follow you now in search of holiness. If you had retained any joy in earthly things, I would have taken you back to my kingdom. But I find you changed. I promise you, therefore, that I will dedicate my life to prayers and devotions. I will seek out a friar, and become his fellow. I will live in poverty, and do penance. Yet before I go, good queen, give me one kiss.’
‘No, sir. I will not do that. I ask you to leave aside such thoughts.’
So they left one another, but with such long lamentations that all those around them began to weep. Lancelot cried aloud, as if he had been pierced by a lance. Guinevere swooned. And the good nuns carried the queen to her chamber.
Sir Lancelot rode away and, weeping, roamed through the wood all that day and night. By chance he came upon a chapel and hermitage, half-hidden between two great cliffs of rock, where he heard the mass bell ringing. He rode up, tied his horse to the wooden gate, and entered the chapel. And who did he find there but the holy hermit, once Archbishop of Canterbury, and Sir Bedevere? After the mass was over the two knights talked over the events of the time. When Bedevere had told his story of Arthur’s death and departing, Lancelot lay down upon the earth and wept. ‘Alas,’ he said, ‘who can trust this world?’
He kneeled before the archbishop, and begged to be confessed and to receive Holy Communion. He asked to become his brother in Christ. ‘I bid you welcome,’ the archbishop said. ‘You may serve with Sir Bedevere.’ He blessed him and clothed him in the habit of a hermit. So Lancelot served God, day and night, with prayer and fasting.
The great host of Lancelot’s army remained at Dover for fifteen days before sailing back across the Channel. But Sir Bors and some other knights stayed in England, with the sole purpose of locating Lancelot. Then by good fortune Sir Bors rode the same way as Lancelot, and found the chapel between the rocks. He heard the mass bell, too, and after the service was over he begged the archbishop to enrol him in the same habit as Lancelot and Bedevere. He was j
oined here by seven other knights, who for six years lived in prayer and penitence.
After the years were over, Lancelot was ordained as a priest by the archbishop. He recited the mass each morning, with the other knights around him as his servers with bells and candles. They no longer considered themselves to be knights, and let their horses wander away in the wood at will. They had no regard for worldly riches, but reverenced only the kingdom of God. They grew thin and pale, but they were willing to endure pain for the sake of spiritual reward.
One night Lancelot was vouchsafed a vision. He was told to hasten to the abbey at Amesbury, where he would be granted full remission of his sins. ‘By the time you arrive there,’ the messenger told him, ‘Queen Guinevere will be dead. Take your fellows with you, and find a bier for her. You must then carry her body back with you here, to Glastonbury, and bury her beside her husband, Arthur.’ Lancelot was granted this vision three times that night and, in the morning, he rose up and told the archbishop.
‘You must obey this summons,’ the archbishop said. ‘You must journey to Amesbury.’
Lancelot took his companions with him, and they made their way on foot to the abbey. It was some thirty miles distant, but they were so weak and weary that it took them two days.
When they arrived at the abbey, they were told that Guinevere had died just half an hour before. The ladies informed them that she had prophesied their coming, and that she knew they were prepared to take her corpse to the tomb of her husband. The queen had said, in hearing of them all, ‘I beseech Almighty God that I may die before I see Lancelot again.’
‘And this,’ one of the ladies told them, ‘was her incessant prayer for two days before her death.’
Sir Lancelot was taken to her bedside; he wept only a little, but he sighed very deeply. He performed the rites of the dead, and in the morning said mass for the sake of her soul. A horse-bier was brought to the abbey, and Guinevere was placed upon it. A hundred candles were lit around her, and the holy men offered up incense and prayer as they carried the queen to Glastonbury. They sang hymns, and beat their breasts, as they made their slow way.
When they came to the chapel they were met by the archbishop and Bedevere singing ‘Dirige’ with great devotion. On the following morning the archbishop, now hermit, performed a requiem mass in memory of her. After the service was over the queen was wrapped in thirty layers of waxed cloth; she was encased in a sheet of lead, and consigned to a marble coffin. When she was lowered into the earth, Lancelot lay still upon the ground.
The archbishop bowed over him and whispered in his ear, ‘This is unseemly. You displease God with so much excess of sorrow.’
‘I mean no dishonour,’ Lancelot replied. ‘I trust that God knows my intent. My sorrow was not, and is not, for earthly things that have passed. Yet when I saw Arthur and Guinevere lying here together, in death as they once were in life, my poor heart could not bear the burden of pity. I know too well that my own pride and anger have brought them to this place. They had no peers in Christendom, but my unkindness towards them has undone them. I cannot live. I have no right to life.’
From that time forward Lancelot ate frugally of bread and wished only for a little water; he grew thin and frail, and so weak that few recognized him as the knight he once was. He slept fitfully, praying day and night; he would lie upon the tomb of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere, calling out to Jesus Our Saviour. He could not be comforted.
Within six weeks he was sick unto death. His fellows brought him to bed, where he begged to be given the last rites. ‘Archbishop,’ he said, ‘I pray that you give me the grace owed to all Christian men.’
‘There is no need,’ the archbishop replied. ‘Your blood is sluggish. Nothing more. Once you have rest and nourishment, you will be well again.’
‘My fair lord,’ he said, ‘my time is past. My body longs for the earth. I have seen signs of the end. I will not live till the morning. So I ask you again. Grant me the gift of extreme unction.’ So Lancelot was confessed and anointed. He raised himself at the end of the ceremony and, calling the others to him, he spoke his last words. ‘Once I made an oath,’ he said, ‘that I would be buried at the castle of Joyous Garde. I do not wish to break my oath. So, I beg you, carry me to that place.’
They all went to their beds heavy of heart that night, and lay themselves down in a single chamber. About midnight they were all awoken by the sound of laughter. The archbishop was laughing in his sleep. They woke him, and he sat up with a start. ‘Why did you wake me?’ he said to them. ‘I was never so happy in my life.’ They asked him what he meant. ‘Sir Lancelot was here with me, but there were more angels around him than I could count. Suddenly I saw them lifting him into heaven, and the gates of the eternal kingdom were opened to welcome him.’
‘This is the delusion of a dream,’ Sir Bors said. ‘I am sure that, as we speak, Lancelot is on his way to recovery.’
‘It may be so,’ the archbishop replied. ‘Go to his bedside and see.’
But when Sir Bors and the other hermits hastened to his side, they found him already lying dead. He was smiling, as if he had been surprised by joy, and there arose from his body the sweetest savour they had ever sensed. As dawn broke they were still kneeling in the chamber, their rough cloaks wet with their tears.
The archbishop celebrated a solemn requiem that morning, and the body of Lancelot was reverently placed in the same horse-bier that had borne Guinevere on her last journey. They made their way slowly towards Joyous Garde, with the body surrounded by a hundred burning torches, and after fifteen days they reached the castle. They laid Lancelot’s corpse in the choir of the church there, singing psalms and prayers about the bier. According to custom his face was displayed to the people, as they came to say their devotions. And all who saw him wept. Sir Bors stood before the body, and spoke aloud. His voice rang through the church.
‘Oh, Lancelot, you were the leader of all Christian knights! You were the most courteous knight who ever carried a shield into battle. No one was your match in might or mercy. You were the truest friend, and the most faithful lover, in all the world. You were the most devout of all warriors, and the most courageous. You were meek and gentle as a lamb with the ladies of the court; you were as stern and unyielding as a lion with the enemies of your kingdom!’ There was deep wailing out of measure.
The corpse of Lancelot was displayed for fifteen days before it was prepared for burial beneath the floor of the choir. The archbishop then returned to Glastonbury with his followers.
Sir Constantine, son of Sir Cador of Cornwall, was chosen to be king of England. On his accession he sent for the archbishop, and returned him to his office. The knights who had remained at the hermitage with Lancelot dispersed into their own countries. King Constantine wished them to remain with him in his realm, but they were not willing to stay. They longed to be gone and, when they returned to their own lands, they lived as holy men.
Sir Bors and Sir Hector, however, rode out to the Holy Land where Our Saviour lived and died. They fought against the infidels, and won many victories over their foes. This is what Lancelot, before his death, had begged them to do. Both men died in the same battle, on Good Friday, in the service of Our Lord.
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