Arthur's Tomb - The Last Meeting of Lancelot and Guinevere
She knew she shouldn’t be here, knew it would do no good, but she had to speak to him one last time. There was so much she had left unsaid, and his final, angry words had lodged like a poisonous arrow in her heart.
Guinevere, Whore of Britannia.
She could only thank God that her father had not been alive to witness her disgrace. He would surely have died from shame had he known what she had done, and how she had betrayed the man he had so carefully picked out for her.
She was long past trying to shift the blame, painting Lancelot or Mordred as the villain. She had chosen to dally with both of them, and it was she who had to bear the consequences.
Lancelot, banished. Mordred, dead. Arthur, dead.
All because of her.
She felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and she used the sleeve of her habit to wipe them away. Had the Reverend Mother seen such an act, using the holy garment to wipe away her sinful tears, she would have been scandalised. How many genuflections and Hail Marys would it take to make up for the sin, Guinevere wondered. How many hours would she have to spend in the chapel, kneeling before the crucifix, her knees screaming in pain, before she would be forgiven?
But she would go through with it, all of it, if it was asked of her. She had come to the convent as penance for her sins. She hoped that, if she withdrew from the world of men, and spent the rest of her days in solitude and prayer, she might be forgiven. If not, at least she would never need to reveal her shame to the outside world again.
She was close now, she recognised the path that led to the tomb. She lifted her habit slightly, being careful not to reveal her ankles, so that the skirt did not drag along the closely packed dirt. She would confess her sin of leaving the convent to the Reverend Mother in the morning, when she returned, and would do whatever penance was required. She only hoped that the older woman would understand why she’d had to come here.
Guinevere picked up her pace slightly, her sandals scuffing along the path, as she saw it. The massive, white block of stone came slowly into view, the murals on the side leached of all colour in the moonlight. As she came closer, she was able to make out more details of the monument, and her heart rate quickened. Her palms started to sweat, and she wiped them on her skirts with no care for the holy habit. The Reverend Mother would have wept had she seen, but she was far from Guinevere’s thoughts.
She approached the tomb of Arthur, King of Camelot, with her heart in her throat.
The stonemason who had hewn Arthur’s likeness onto the lid of the tomb had been highly skilled. Looking down at the stone figure of her husband in eternal repose, Guinevere could almost believe that it was truly him. The crown on his head, Excalibur resting across his chest, his hands clasped at the hilt of the sword, the stone cloak folded around his figure...
She reached out a hand, and ran her fingers down the side of the stone face, and a sob escaped from between her lips. She had almost believed that she would touch warm flesh, not icy stone.
On the sides of the tomb were murals showing the defining moments of Arthur’s life. Guinevere was surprised to see that their marriage was painted there. She had not thought the men who made this tomb would want her association with Arthur to be known. But then, she supposed, she had been Arthur’s faithful queen before she had bedded Lancelot.
At the front of the tomb, carved into the stone, was an inscription in Latin.
Hic jacet sepultus inclitus rex Arthurus
There was no mention of his mighty deeds, of the many betrayals he had suffered, no wishes for him to rest in peace, nothing extravagant or elaborate at all. Just those six simple Latin words. It didn’t seem right, somehow, that the inscription should be so short. Not for Arthur, not after everything he’d done.
Guinevere cricled the tomb in its entirety. She touched the brightly painted murals, ran her hands over Arthur’s stone body, before she came to kneel at the side of the tomb and clasp her hands in prayer.
“Miserére mei, Deus, secúndum magnam misericórdiam tuam;
et secúndum multitúdinem miserationum tuárum: dele iniquitátem meam.
Amplius lava me ab iniquitáte mea et a peccáto meo munda me.
Quóniam iniquitatem meam ego cognósco, et peccátum meum contra me est semper.”
It had been the first prayer that had come to her, the Miserere, the one she had recited day after day since she had come to the convent.
“Have mercy on me, O God, according to Thy great mercy;
and according to the multitude of Thy tender mercies: blot out my iniquity.
Wash me from my iniquity; and cleanse me of my sin.
For I acknowledge my iniquity, and my sin is always before me.”
It seemed appropriate to say this prayer here, at Arthur’s tomb, when it had been her sin that had led to his death.
“Tibi, soli peccávi et malum coram te feci; ut iustificéris -”
“Guinevere?”
For a moment, a glorious moment of Divine madness, Guinevere thought the voice had come from Arthur’s tomb. The angels had come to raise him from the dead and forgive her for the terrible crimes she had committed!
“Arthur!” she cried aloud, opening her eyes and lifting her head.
But there was nothing.
The tomb lay quiet, untouched by holy hands, and Guinevere felt a crushing grief overcome her.
No Arthur, no angels, no forgiveness.
“Guinevere.”
The voice sounded again, from behind her. It was both shocked and glad, uncertain and hopeful.
She got to her feet and slowly turned to face him, her heart beating so hard she thought her ribs would break.
There he was, in all his glory, wearing a red robe over a homespun brown shirt and trousers. His sword rested in the scabbard at his hip, the gold hilt glinting dully in the moonlight. His thick brown hair was a mess, his beard was in need of a trim, and his eyes were round as the full moon.
“Lancelot.”
“Oh, oh Guinevere.”
He took a step towards her, reaching out his arms as if to embrace her, and she recoiled from his touch. She pressed her body back against Arthur’s tomb, resting her hand over the stone Excalibur, trying to ward off sin.
Lancelot stopped and lowered his arms. He looked at her properly for the first time, taking in her nun’s garb and her stricken expression. His own expression morphed from one of startled delight to one of complete horror in less time than it took to blink.
“Guinevere, what have you done?” he asked, his voice desperate.
For a moment, she had no answer. Her words stuck in her throat, choking her, before she mastered herself and said, “I am atoning for my sins.”
“What sins? Not love, surely, for love is not a sin.”
“Through my wanton and adulterous ways, I brought about the death of my husband and the destruction of Camelot,” she said. “I repent, and I suffer my penance.”
“Suffering?” Lancelot sounded like he was choking. “Penance? You did not bring about Camelot’s fall, dearest Guinevere. It was Arthur. Arthur and his vanity that -”
“No!”
Guinevere’s shout in the night was so loud that several birds resting in the trees took flight in alarm. It echoed through the still air, a haunting song of denial and ruin.
She shook her head, tears beginning to slide down her cheeks. “I destroyed Camelot,” she said, her voice much quieter now. “My husband is innocent. He is pure, while I am defiled.”
“I will not hear this!”
Lancelot came right up to her and took her in his arms. She put her palms against his chest, trying to push him away, but he pressed his lips to hers.
Oh, the shame!
Bent backwards over her husband’s tomb, in the arms of the man she had loved adulterously, Guinevere struggled to remember how his lips had ever given her pleasure. All she felt now was revulsion.
He broke their kiss, but kept his face close to hers, cupping her cheeks with his hands.
“Please, Guinevere, tell me you remember -”
She pushed him back, hard, and he stumbled slightly.
“No,” she said, her voice full of tears. “No, Lancelot, never again! I will not let you lay your hands on me, your name shall not pass my lips. Now, and for all eternity, you are dead to me. Deus animae tuae misereatur!”
She turned from him to kneel again before Arthur’s tomb. She bowed her head, clasped her hands, and began to recite her prayer once more.
Lancelot stood there, stricken. He could feel his heart breaking, and was certain that cruel death was not long in coming. Surely, surely, he could not survive this pain.
“Guinevere,” he begged her. “Guinevere, my darling, I beseech you! Come with me!”
She ignored him, and the Latin Miserere continued to fall from her lips.
“I cannot live without you!” he cried. “Guinevere, you are my soul!”
“Cor mundum crea in me, Deus, et spíritum rectum innova in visceribus meis...”
“Gwenhwyfar,” he pleaded, using her proper Welsh name.
He thought he saw her stiffen, and her prayer faltered slightly. She remembered, then, how he used to speak to her in her mother tongue. How they used to lie together, entwined, while he whispered the endearments of her ancestors into her neck and breasts.
But, even though she faltered, she did not stop, did not turn around, and Lancelot felt defeat settle upon his shoulders.
He turned from the sight of her, suddenly unable to bear it, and walked away. Each step took an eternity, each breath was laboured, and his tears traced burning paths down his cheeks.
He did not know how far he had come before rage wrapped her hand around his heart. He stopped, his breathing heavy, and gave a blood curdling scream.
“Damn you, Arthur! Damn you to the deepest, darkest depths of Hell!”
At Arthur’s tomb, Guinevere shuddered to hear Lancelot’s curse. Her own tears fell thick and fast, and her prayer was punctured by sobs.
“Deus animae tuae misereatur, Lancelot,” she whispered. “God have mercy on your soul.”
Author's Notes
I wrote this story a few days ago, after being inspired by Dante Gabriel Rossetti's artwork, which is included in this post.
I have always been intrigued by the story of Lancelot and Guinevere, especially considering Lancelot was a late addition to the Arthurian Cycle. Lancelot was invented by Chretien de Troyes some time between 1177 and 1181, hundreds of years after the original stories of Arthur had been told. In the original story, Guinevere has an affair with Mordred, Arthur's nephew, not Lancelot, and then flees to a convent after Arthur and Mordred are killed in battle and Camelot is destroyed. de Troyes created the story of Guinevere's adultery with Lancelot, which led up to her affair with Mordred and the destruction of Camelot.
Why do I find this story so fascinating? I think because it has echoes of the romance between Helen and Paris from Greek myth. Helen runs away from her boring, loveless marriage into the arms of a handsome boy, and by the time she realizes her mistake, it it too late for her to turn back. At least, that's how Homer tells it, modern interpretations have Helen and Paris deeply in love, without a trace of the regret in Book III of the Iliad, but, I digress.
Guinevere too leaves a boring and loveless marriage, falling into the arms of a handsome knight. The only difference between the stories (aside from the fact that they were told thousands of years apart) is that Guinevere chooses to carry out her affair while still living in her husband's palace, and with a close friend and ally of her husband. Lancelot and Guinevere are no strangers, their's was not a sudden love that erupted like a volcano when they first looked into each other's eyes. Lancelot had, for many years, been in love with Guinevere, but had done the right thing by only showing his affection through gestures. This was called courtly love, and was considered the appropriate way for a knight/gentleman of the court to show his affections for a lady who was already married. As long as neither of them consummated their love, there would be no repercussions.
It is when Lancelot and Guinevere cross the boundary from courtly affection to physical union, i.e. sex, that Guinevere becomes an adulteress. Lancelot could be considered guilty of seducing a marries woman, but, in many accounts, Guinevere enters willingly into physical intimacy with him. It is this passion that, understandably, drives a wedge between Lancelot and Arthur.
Arthur banishes Lancelot and orders Guinevere to be burned at the stake. She escapes the pyre when Lancelot attempts a rescue, and he and his men accidently kill Gawain's brothers, which infuriates Gawain. Gawain then convinces Arthur to ride to war against Lancelot. Arthur leaves Guinevere, still under a sentence of death, in the care of his nephew Mordred, who seduces her, sleeps with her, and claims Arthur's crown for himself. When Arthur hears of this, he returns to Camelot, makes war with Mordred, and is fatally wounded by his nephew's sword. Mordred is also killed, and Guinevere flees to a convent, where she lives out the rest of her days.
When I looked at the picture by Rossetti, I wondered what Lancelot and Guinevere might have said to each other over Arthur's tomb. I wondered how Guinevere would have felt, blaming herself for her husband's death. And I wondered how Lancelot would have felt when, after all the obstacles that had stopped him from being with Guinevere had been removed, she refused to come with him.
I leave it up to you to decide what you take from the story but, please, take something away with you.
~ Australian Kiwi
P.S. The Latin prayers I use in this story are still in use by the Catholic Church today. Translated from Latin, the title of this story means 'God have mercy on your soul'. In Arthur's time, if he existed, England would still have been Catholic, and the nobility would have been well versed in Latin, which was the language of the church.
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