Chrétien de Troyes, Lancelot: The Knight of the Cart (c. 1170s)

Students were not the only group to gain a sense of group solidarity in the twelfth century. Nobles forged a common class identity during this period in part through new forms of vernacular literature that flourished in aristocratic circles. Long poems examining the relationships between knights and their lady loves were especially popular. The following excerpt is from one such poem, Lancelot: The Knight of the Cart, written in Old French by Chrétien de Troyes (c. 1150–1190) in the 1170s. Attached to the court of the count and countess of Champagne in the city of Troyes, located southeast of Paris, Chrétien used his poems to entertain his audiences while instructing them in the ways of courtliness and proper knightly behavior. Set against the backdrop of King Arthur’s court, the poem recounts the adventures of Arthur’s best knight, Lancelot, in his quest to rescue Arthur’s queen, Guinevere. She had been kidnapped by the villain, Méléagant, and was being held hostage in his castle. Lancelot’s loyalty to his king was not the only emotion driving his quest; he was also passionately in love with Guinevere. In the scene that follows, he has just arrived at Méléagant’s castle after having overcome numerous obstacles; these included crossing the Sword Bridge, which was composed of a razor sharp blade from end to end. Méléagant is enraged by Lancelot’s success and, as described below, meets his adversary in combat while scores of people look on, including Guinevere and Méléagant’s father, King Bademagu.

From Chrétien de Troyes, Lancelot: The Knight of the Cart, trans. Burton Raffel (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1997), 113–21.

And then the combatants, freed

For their fight, ordered the crowd

To withdraw, set their shields

In place, their arms through the straps,

And, aiming their spears, dashed

At each other, striking so fiercely

That the points went two arms deep,

And the shields split and shattered

To bits. Their horses, too,

Came smashing breastplate into

Breastplate, with incredible force,

And the crashing shock of shields

And helmets, horses and men,

Sounded for all the world

Like a towering clap of thunder,

And every strap and belt

And spur and rein and girth

Broke, and even the heavy

Saddles snapped at the bow,

And neither knight was shamed

Or surprised to be tossed to the ground,

As everything underneath him

Gave way. They leaped to their feet

And continued the combat like a pair

Of wild boars, not bothering with insults

Or boasts, but striking each other

With heavy blows of their steel

Swords, like men who violently

Hate one another. Their slashing

Strokes often cut

Through helmets and mail shirts, making

Blood spurt from the metal.

They fought savagely, giving

And taking mighty blows,

Cruel and heavy. Each

Assaulted the other on equal

Terms, neither able

To gain the slightest advantage.

But it could not last: he

Who had crossed the Sword Bridge was surely

Weakened by all his wounds,

As everyone watching knew,

And those who favored that knight

Were terribly worried, seeing

His strokes weaken, sensing

Him getting the worst, afraid

That Méléagant would seize

The upper hand and victory

Would be his. A buzzing murmur

Ran through the crowd. But up

In the tower, at a window, a wise

Girl was watching, and she thought

To herself the knight most certainly

Wasn’t fighting so terrible

A battle for her, nor

For anyone standing in the crowd

Of ordinary people,

But strictly and solely for the queen

And no one else—and if

He knew she was at a window,

Watching from on high, it might give him

Strength and courage. And had she

Known his name, she’d have gladly

Told him (calling down

From the tower) that his love was there,

And he could glance up, and see her.

So she hurried to the queen and said,

“My lady, in the name of God,

For your sake and ours, please,

Tell me that knight’s name,

If you know it, so I can offer him

Help.” “Young lady,” said the queen,

“Your request, it seems to me,

Contains nothing in any way

Hateful or wicked, but only

Concern for his good. As long

As I’ve known him, this knight’s name

Has been Lancelot of the Lake.”

“Oh God!” said the girl. “How my happy

Heart is leaping with joy!”

Then she jumped to the window and shouted,

As loud as she could, in a voice

That everyone heard: “Lancelot!

Turn your head up and look—

See who’s here, watching!”

As soon as he heard his name,

Lancelot turned and looked

Behind him, and saw, seated

High at an open window,

What more than anything else

In the world he wanted to see.

And then, from the moment he saw her,

He neither moved his head

Nor looked in any other

Direction, fighting with his back

To his enemy, and Méléagant

Immediately began to press him

As hard as he could, delighted

To think that, now, the knight

Could no longer face him and defend

Himself. And his countrymen, too,

Were delighted, while the men of Logres

Were so sick at heart they could not

Stand, many falling

To their knees, but many fainting

Away, stretched on the ground.

Sorrow and excitement were everywhere.

But the girl, high at her window,

Shouted down once more:

“Ah, Lancelot! Can you really

Be as stupid as you look?

You seemed to be all

That a knight should be, till now:

You had me convinced that God

Had never made a knight

Who could challenge you for courage

And strength and virtue. And now

We see you fighting backwards,

Looking away from your enemy!

Do your fighting with your face

Turned to this tower, so you’ll see her

Better! Let her shine on you!”

Outraged at the insult, and deeply

Shamed, Lancelot bitterly

Cursed himself for letting

The combat go against him,

Here in the sight of them all.

With a leap, he drove behind

Méléagant, forcing

His enemy to stand with his back

To the tower. Méléagant

Struggled to regain his ground,

But Lancelot charged him, striking

So many powerful strokes,

Swinging with all his strength,

That he forced a further retreat,

Two or three unwilling,

Unwelcome steps. Between

The strength Love had lent him,

Offered in willing assistance,

And the hate swelling in his heart

As the battle wore on, all

His powers and quickness had returned.

Love and his mortal hate—

Fiercer than any ever

Known—combined to make him

So fearsome that Méléagant

Was suddenly afraid,

For never in all his life

Had an enemy seemed so strong,

Or pressed and hurt him so badly

As this knight was doing. He tried

As hard as he could to keep him

At a distance, feinting, ducking,

Bobbing, badly hurt

Each time he was hit. Lancelot

Wasted no breath on threats,

Kept driving him toward the tower

And the queen, over and over

Coming as close as he could,

Forcing Méléagant back,

Each time, barely a foot

Away from stepping out

Of her sight. So Lancelot led him

Up and down, this way

And that, always making him

Stop in front of his lady,

The queen, who’d set his heart

On fire, just knowing she was

Watching—a fiercely roaring,

Burning-hot flame impelling him

Straight at Méléagant

And pushing his helpless enemy

Forward and back like a cripple,

Tugging him along like a blind man

Or a beggar at the end of a rope.

The king saw his son

Utterly overwhelmed

And was filled with pity and compassion:

He had to help, if he could.

But the queen, he knew, was the only

Possible source of assistance,

So he turned to her and spoke:

“Lady, for as long as you’ve been

In my land you’ve had my love

And honor; I’ve served you well,

And always gladly, in every

Way I could. Let me

Ask you, now, to repay me.

And the gift I ask you to give me

Could only be granted out

Of the purest love. I can see

Quite well—there’s not the slightest

Doubt—that my son has lost

This battle. And I speak to you, now,

Not on this score, but because

It’s clear that Lancelot

Could easily kill him, if he chose to.

I hope you want that no more

Than I do—not that my son

Has treated you well—he hasn’t—

But simply because I beg you

For your mercy. Let him live.

Let the final blow be withheld.

And thus you can tell me, if you choose,

How you value the honor

I’ve shown you.” “Dear sir, if that’s

What you want, I want it, too.

I certainly hate and loathe

Your son, for the best of reasons,

But you indeed have served me

So well that it pleases me

To please you by stopping the battle.”

They had not whispered private

Words; both Lancelot

And Méléagant heard them.

Lovers are obedient men,

Cheerfully willing to do

Whatever the beloved, who holds

Their entire heart, desires.

Lancelot had no choice,

For if ever anyone loved

More truly than Pyramus

It was him. Hearing her response,

As soon as the final word

Fell from her mouth, declaring,

“Dear sir, if you want the battle

Stopped, I want that, too,”

Nothing in the world could have made him

Fight, or even move,

No matter if it cost his life.

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS