The King Arthur Trilogy (63 page)

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 moonlight 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.

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 find 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.’

‘That will I. But you know well that I was never one gifted with prayer, though that was not for lack of trying. Therefore if my praying will suffice for but one of us, I shall do well enough, thinking that your soul is maybe the lighter for my prayers. I believe that God will not begrudge me that.’

And he put out his hand to touch her. But she drew back. ‘Nay,’ she said, ‘never again.’

His hand fell to his side, and they looked at each other, the one long moment. And the whitethroat in
the medlar tree was singing, singing as though the heart would burst within his breast.

Then Guenever turned and walked away. And Lancelot stood watching her go, until the shadows of the cloister had gathered her into themselves. And then he turned and made for the outer courtyard where his horse was waiting for him, blundering as he went, like a man who has lost his sight.

So Sir Lancelot rode on westward, making for the marshlands close about Avalon, and seeking always for further news of King Arthur. And so he came one evening up from a country of reeds and winding waterways and damp alder woods on to higher ground, and saw before him a wattle-built chapel with a cluster of patched-up bothies around it, all set between two hills, and heard a little bell that rang to Mass.

And Sir Lancelot dismounted and led his horse up the last slope, and hitched its bridle to the low-hanging branch of an ancient apple tree, beside the chapel; and he went in to hear Mass.

It was dim and shadowy within the chapel, after the westering sunlight that had filled his eyes outside, and at first he did not know the aged and withered holy man with scarcely any voice left to him who celebrated the Mass for the great Archbishop Dubricius; but little by little, as though his eyes and his heart cleared together,
the recognition came to him, and he knew also that the brown-robed brother who aided him was Sir Bedivere. He was not surprised, but accepted them as right and fitting; and he saw that they knew him and accepted his coming as right and fitting also, the most natural thing in all the world.

And when the Mass was over, they welcomed him and bade him come with them to their living quarters, and there they supped on black rye bread and spring water, and spoke together of the things nearest to their hearts.

‘What of the King?’ Lancelot asked.

But they could tell him no more than Bedivere had already told in his letter to the Queen. And Lancelot was puzzled. ‘But this place is Avalon,’ he said, half in question. ‘Bedivere, you said – the King said he was for Avalon, to be healed of his wound.’