Читать книгу Lancelot and the Lord of the Distant Isles - Patricia Terry - Страница 5

BESIDE A LAKE SO VAST IT EXTENDED beyond the horizon, the exhausted travelers stopped for the night. Anxious as they were, sleep seemed impossible, but the sound of the water lapping against the shore gradually calmed them, while fatigue overcame the hardness of the ground. At dawn King Ban mounted his still weary horse and rode to the top of a nearby hill for one more sight of Trebe. This was the last of all his castles, and would remain to him only as long as it could hold out against the besiegers. With the queen, their infant son, and just one squire, he had followed a hidden path through the marshes that kept out invaders from the south. Trebe would be in the care of his seneschal while Ban traveled by land and sea to King Arthur’s court. One after another, his allies had fallen to King Claudas; appeals to Arthur, busy with wars at home, had remained unanswered. The seneschal had urged Ban to go to Camelot himself, the better to make Arthur understand his dire need for help. Now Ban, barely on his way, could see in the distance the great walls of Trebe with the early light upon them, and the high tower. Would he succeed, he wondered, in saving this final vestige of his kingdom?

What looked like a patch of mist suddenly became a dense cloud of black in which the tower disappeared and, even as he watched, the castle was enveloped in smoke and flame. Then there was fire everywhere, making torches of lofty halls and turning the sky blood red; and all the land around reflected the hideous brightness.

King Ban knew that he had lost all hope on earth, that he would never regain his kingdom, for he was old and powerless and his son was far too young to help him. He and his lovely highborn wife would live henceforth in exile, dependent on charity, condemned to poverty and sorrow, although he had been a mighty king. In the shock of this understanding, he fell unconscious from his horse, hitting his head so hard that the blood rushed from his ears and nose. He lay senseless on the ground. After a time, he half-opened his eyes, conscious enough to ask God’s forgiveness for his sins, “and I beg you, Lord, to watch over my wife, Elaine, who, by her lineage, belongs to the House of David, but who now lacks all protection in the world. I commend to you the life of my infant son, knowing that the most defenseless orphan has a true father in you, and no one is so weak that you cannot give him power.” With his last strength he plucked three blades of grass, a sign of the Holy Trinity.

King Ban’s stallion, frightened by his master’s fall, had galloped down to the lake, where the other horses were standing. Alarmed, the queen called to the squire, who caught the stallion and rode in the growing light to the top of the hill. He found the king lying dead. The queen heard the young man’s loud cry, put the baby down, and, holding up her skirts, ran through the thick brush to where the squire was weeping beside his lord’s body. She fainted at the sight, regaining her senses only to fill the air with lamentation for her valiant husband, the noble king, now lost to her forever in this life. She was pleading with God to let her die with him, when the thought of her baby suddenly broke in on her grief. She could almost see the helpless child under the hooves of the horses! Half mad with terror, she began running back down the hill, crying for help, stumbling, overwhelmed by the thought that he might have been trampled. Branches tore at her hair, drew blood from her face. By the time she reached the shore of the lake, it was broad daylight. The queen saw her baby, untouched by the horses, lying naked in the lap of a young woman who was smiling at him, caressing him, lifting him up to hold him tight against her breast, kissing his eyes and mouth, and no wonder! for the beauty of the child was truly astonishing.

Queen Elaine cried, “My child! Please, dear sweet lady, for God’s sake, give me the child! He’ll have suffering enough, for his father has just died, and now he is alone in the world, robbed of the many lands which should have been his.” The stranger made no reply, seemed not even to have heard. But when the queen drew closer, she stood up, still holding the child, and went quickly to the water’s edge. Then, without so much as a glance at the queen, she put her feet together and jumped in.

Elaine would have followed her, had the squire not arrived in time to hold her back. The infant and the unknown woman had disappeared, leaving not even a ripple on the surface of the lake. The queen had lost all she loved in the world, and her grief was beyond telling. Husband and king now dead, her only child drowned or abducted to some spellbound watery depth, her past and her future were both stripped away.

On the road by the shore, an abbess was passing by with a few nuns and her chaplain. At the sound of Elaine’s piteous laments, she stopped to see if she could be of help. “May God grant you comfort,” she said.

“Indeed, good mother, there is no one who needs it more than I do.”

The abbess saw how beautiful she was, despite her grief, and said, “Tell me who you are.”

“I am a woman who has lived too long.”

But the chaplain told the abbess that she was a queen, the wife of King Ban.

“No, I am only the queen of sorrows,” said Elaine. “If you really wish to help me, I beg you to make me a nun. There is nothing in the world I care about now, and the world can do without me easily enough. Otherwise, I will wander in the forest until I die.”

“My lady, if it is truly your desire to be a nun, we thank God that so worthy a queen will join our company. You shall have the place of honor among us, as is fitting, since your husband’s forebears established and built our abbey. But please tell us what has happened to you.”

The queen related how her lord had lost his kingdom, how they had left Trebe in a desperate effort to seek King Arthur’s help, how he had met his end there on the hill, and how a demon disguised as a woman had stolen her son away, “leaving me bereft of all I loved.”

When her long golden hair had been shorn, she took the veil. The squire, moved by the event, renounced the world as his lady had done, there on the shore of the lake. The king’s body was carried to the abbey and buried with solemn ceremony. Every day after mass, the queen would go to the lake where her son had disappeared, to remember him, to weep for her loss, and to pray.

Lancelot was too young to remember anything of his life before he was carried off by the Lady of the Lake, an enchantress named Viviane who had learned her arts from Merlin. The great wizard had lost both heart and judgment to her great beauty, and Viviane had used all her wiles to delude him, knowing that his father was a devil who had seduced a mortal woman. She also knew by what magical and illicit impersonation he had brought about the birth of King Arthur. In exchange for promises of love, she had persuaded him to teach her sorcery and had soon learned what she needed to imprison him, alive but sleeping, in a secret cave in a forest. Merlin was never seen again.

Lancelot grew up in the kingdom Viviane had established beneath what appeared to be an ordinary lake. In that magical place, she had fine houses, great forests full of game, even rivers and brooks. Many knights and noble ladies lived there with her. Only the mother who had borne him could have loved Lancelot more than the Lady of the Lake. Never did he imagine he was not her son. She gave him the most tender care, finding a lovely young woman to nurse him and, after he was weaned, an understanding tutor, suitable for a young boy. When he was three years old, he looked as if he were five. No one had ever seen a more beautiful child, and his beauty only increased as he grew older.

The Lady alone was aware of Lancelot’s true identity. While the people of her household referred to him as “the child,” the Lady liked to call him “my prince,” and would tell him how hard it was to be worthy of a crown, but she seemed to be only teasing. When he asked about his father, she would only say he had been a very great man. He imagined someone taller and stronger than anyone around him, some warrior even more valiant than the heroes of whom poets sang, a man to whom he could give his admiration and his love.

The Lady taught him all that makes a noble life, and provided him with companions of his own age, including, after a while, his cousins Lionel and Bors. He learned to ride fine horses and to hunt. In little time, he acquired the rudiments of jousting and soon surpassed his mentors. He liked playing checkers and chess, and read with pleasure. He sang wonderfully well, though he did so rarely. In form he was both graceful and powerful, everything about him perfectly proportioned, although his chest was unusually large. In later years, Queen Guenevere would say that God had made him so to accommodate the great size of his heart.

Even as a young child he had exquisite manners, delighted more in giving than in receiving, and was kind and gentle to everyone. But injustice of any kind aroused in him such fury that his bright and joyful eyes turned black as coals, his cheeks became blood red, his voice rang out like a trumpet, and it was difficult to calm him down. He believed that he was strong enough to accomplish whatever it was in his heart to do.

One day, when Lancelot was eighteen, he went hunting in the forest, where he never failed to bring down some worthy prey. This time, however, his quarry was exceptional – a stag of immense size, which he killed with a single arrow. He sent it as a gift to the Lady. He himself rested for a while through the heat of the afternoon, and then rode home. The Lady saw him arrive, sitting his horse with the grace of a born rider. He was dressed all in green, with a garland on his head, like springtime itself, she thought, or the promise of fruit not yet ripe, and her eyes filled with tears. When the youth came to greet her, she turned aside, weeping. He asked what was wrong, but she didn’t reply. At last she uttered a few words, ordering him to go away. Confused and upset, he rushed back to the courtyard where he had left his horse. He had just mounted again when she reappeared, seized the bridle, and told him to dismount. When they were alone in her room, she asked where he had intended to go.

“Since you were angry with me, and wouldn’t tell me why, I thought I would go to King Arthur and ask to be made a knight.”

She laughed at him, saying that he had no idea how courageous a knight had to be, how ready to risk his life for anyone who might need his help. What made him think, she asked, that he was capable of valor? “Your valor has never been tested.” In truth, she knew very well that he was by nature proof against fear and would freely sacrifice a life of comfort for the opportunity of winning the highest rewards of honor, but she still had to ask the question. Though heartsick at the thought of giving him up, the Lady realized that it was time. She embraced him, weeping with regret, and promised she would take him to King Arthur. She told him this about knighthood: “In the sight of God, all human beings are equal. There came a time, however, many years ago, when the strong began to take advantage of the weak; then other men, skilled in warfare and empowered by a sense of justice, became the defenders of those unable to defend themselves. Thus there arose an order of Knighthood. Knights live in the service of all who need protection, especially widows and orphans, and the Holy Church, which relies on them as a mother relies on her sons. To be a true knight is not a privilege of birth. It is granted only to the great of heart, and to those whose deeds demonstrate their worth. A knight’s true identity comes from the life he lives. A knight must achieve for himself an illustrious name. And so it will be with you.”

The journey that King Ban had undertaken was completed now by his son, although Lancelot had never heard his own name or his father’s. That spring, not long after Whitsuntide, the Lady of the Lake, her hopeful ward, and a great retinue set out on the lengthy journey to the coast of Gaul. From there, they went by boat to Great Britain and then started on the road to King Arthur’s court. It was a magnificent procession that rode across fields and through the forest toward Camelot, the horses and their riders all in white, silver, and ivory, silk and brocade. A squire carried a fine silver helmet, another a pure white shield, another a spear, another a ceremonial robe for Lancelot to wear when he was knighted. Then came the Lady in white samite, her cloak lined with ermine, riding an exquisite snow-white mare that moved as softly as a cloud. The boy who rode beside her on a tall and spirited hunter could not have been more wonderful to behold, princely in his bearing, with innocence and energy shining from his whole being. They were attended by Bors and Lionel, his young cousins, who would perhaps return this way themselves one day. No eyes could look elsewhere when the procession at last crossed the bridge into King Arthur’s high city.

The king was quick to agree that so promising a youth should become a knight. The Lady, however, insisted that he must be knighted in his own arms and attire. To this the king objected. He was accustomed to making his knights a gift of their armor, so that they would be known to belong to his household. When the Lady would not yield, Sir Yvain and Sir Gawain, both knights of the Round Table, convinced the king that an exception should be made.

So the Lady of the Lake succeeded in her mission. As she was taking leave of Lancelot, she told him for the first time that she was not his mother, although she loved him fully as much as if she were. His father was one of the noblest knights in the world, she said, and his mother one of the loveliest and most worthy ladies who ever lived. More than that, she told him, he would learn before long, but not from her. She commended him to God and kissed him and, just before leaving, said, “My prince, you will find that the more great and perilous deeds you undertake, the more you will be ready to do others. Should there be any that prove beyond your powers, be assured that no other knight on earth could accomplish them, either. So go your way with confidence, my beautiful, noble child. Your quality is such that men will always aspire to win your friendship, and women will love you above all others.” Too choked with sorrow to say anything more, she embraced him once again and turned away. The boy was deeply moved, and his eyes filled with tears. Wordlessly, he kissed his cousins to bid them farewell.

Queen Guenevere heard that the young man dressed in dazzling white who had come to court with the Lady of the Lake would be made a knight the very next morning. It was the Feast of Saint John, which some people still called Midsummer Eve. Such haste surprised her, but when the king and the two greatest knights of the realm assured her that the candidate was worthy of such an honor, she was eager to see him. Sir Gawain had promptly taken charge of the stranger, inviting him to rest and refresh himself in the comfort of his lodgings. In this welcome the young man found a reassuring promise of friendship, a kindness never to be forgotten. Radiant with expectation, he rode with Gawain through streets thronged with the curious, all of them gazing at the youth in admiration. The king received him in the great hall. The queen was at his side, and it was the queen alone whom the newcomer saw on entering. He could scarcely believe there was such beauty in the world – even the Lady of the Lake could not be compared with her. And in this he was right, for the queen was beauty itself, and her goodness was held to be even more perfect than her beauty. It was said of her that she ennobled all who came into her presence.

When she took his hand, he jumped at her touch as if she had awakened him from sleep. She asked his name and where he came from, but he was too abashed to utter a word. The ten years of age separating them made her too remote, too intimidating. When she asked him again, very gently, he murmured that he did not know. Realizing that she herself must be the cause of his embarrassment, and not wanting to add to his discomfort, the queen said nothing further. After a while she rose and went to her rooms.

That night the young man kept vigil in the church of Saint Stephen, wondering how his life would now be changed and praying for guidance. Yet always foremost in his mind was his memory of the queen. The next morning, in full armor, he knelt before the king, who touched his shoulders with the sword Excalibur. It was a jeweled and gleaming weapon, a marvel forged, it was said, by hands that were more than human, extracted by the sorcerer Merlin from an enchanted lake and entrusted to King Arthur for the duration of his life. With this sword, the king granted the young man knighthood. He gave him no sword of his own, planning to complete the ceremony later. Truth to tell, Arthur saw in this radiant youth the promise of a new and glowing presence at his Round Table. The manner of his arrival, his tie to the Lady of the Lake, his extraordinary beauty – everything suggested an exceptional destiny. The king wished to devise some special rite to mark his passage into knighthood.

The interruption pleased the youth, for he secretly hoped that the sword of knighthood would come to him from someone else. He went to take leave of the queen. Kneeling in front of her, he said, “My lady, if it please you, wherever I go in the world, and whatever I may do, it shall be as your knight.”

“Thank you,” she said, “that would please me very much.”

“With your permission, I will leave tomorrow morning.”

“Farewell, then, and God protect you, dear friend.”

And he answered silently, “My lady, I thank you with all my heart for granting me that name.”