Le Morte D'Arthur (Volume 2) by Sir Thomas Malory

*contains spoilers*

As I stated in my blog about Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte D’Arthur (Volume 1), the complete text, consisting of all twenty-one Books, was published in its entirety for the first time in 1484 by William Caxton. Penguin Classics, however, are good (great, in fact) enough supply an updated version in two still lengthy but much more digestible and separate volumes. You can of course read the text in its more complete and original form in Malory: Complete Works (published by Oxford Standard Authors), but if you’re getting into the medieval tales of knight errantry for the first time, I’d suggest the Penguin editions as a reliable toe-dipper.

It’s at this point, in Le Morte D’Arthur (Volume 2), when Malory begins to address the issue concerning the title of the work: the actual death of King Arthur. But before everything begins to unravel, and before the knights of the Table Round descend into nihilistic and violent chaos, we are first reminded of what made this rather romantic period of knight errantry so appealing to authors and nobles alike. The perfect summation of this comes in the rather large and sturdy form of Sir Launcelot du Lake; “…and wit ye well there was never seen in Arthur’s days one knight that did so much deeds of arms as Sir Launcelot did three days together…he had the better of all five hundred knights, and there was not one slain of them.” The carbuncle in the crown of this quote might not necessarily be where you think it is; it’s not so much that Launcelot was so victorious and so impervious to harm – though that is obviously indicative of his greatness – but that not one of his adversaries perished or were hurt too badly. All were spared in defeat, and all were treated like gentlemen of a noble order with great respect and honour even after they were unhorsed; “And after that Sir Launcelot made them all a great feast.”

The nobility and respect that each knight affords another is what separates the knights of the Table Round from anyone anywhere else in the world doing whatever it is they do, and the Round Table itself is a microcosm of what the rest of the medieval world could be if only they took note. The Round Table is indiscriminate and all are welcome, if only they would take heed of the ways of knight errantry; “Merlin made the Round Table in tokening of roundness of the world, for by the Round Table is the world signified by right, for all the world, Christian and heathen, repairen unto the Round Table.” Even Moors such as Sir Palomides are welcome and encouraged to join, and Sir Palomides himself ends up performing great and noble deeds because of this; but this by no means suggests that all who are granted a seat will act according to the implied statutes. Sir Palomides, as an appropriate example, continues his secret love for La Beale Isoud though he knows it to be wrong, and in turn his jealousy of Sir Tristram de Liones grows to the point of potential dishonour. Even the great Sir Launcelot continues his affair with Queen Guenever, though more should really be expected of The Best Knight the World Has Ever Known. King Arthur’s vision of an everlasting and growing empire of noble knights ends up faltering because men, as noble as they can become in feats of arms, will always be the mortal, sinful, flesh and bone humans they were born as, regardless of their titles or allegiances. The beginning of the end is brought about by the well-circulated rumours of Launcelot and Guenever’s affair being (finally) brought to the attention of the up-until-then blissfully unaware King Arthur. Each knight is only noble up to a point.

To compound the schism brought on by full knowledge of the affair, which is stitched but never fully healed over, King Arthur then sends each knight on his own separate voyage in quest of the Sangrail (or Holy Grail), though the whys and wherefores remain obscure. In the process, Malory turns what was a collection of knight errantry tales into an allegorical text akin to the likes of William Langland’s Piers Plowman and the dual-authored The Romance of the Rose; “Sir Gawain, him seemed he came into a meadow full of herbs and flowers, and there he saw a rack of bulls, an hundred and fifty, that were proud and black, save three of them were all white…” The knights begin to experience portentous and deeply religious dreams about their respective virtues, faults and fates. They each in turn begin to question their own worth and eligibility to stand up to the task of seeking out the Sangrail in such a holy quest as this. Characters emerge that bear warnings; Book XVI’s hermit, for instance, tells Gawain that “there shall die many [knights]: every each of them shall slay other for sin…” By this point, however, much of the damage has already been done – Gawain himself has just unknowingly slain his own brother Uwain, and the hermit’s words come too late for help and too early for solace.

Eventually, as the dissipation reaches its most piercing pitch, the knights are scattered, and the ways of knight errantry become extinct; “And never was there seen a more dolefuller battle in no Christian land; for there was but rushing and riding, foining and striking, and many a grim word was there spoken either to other…” Gone now are not just the heroic feats of arms and noble adventures, but also the chivalric conduct and respect afforded to the order’s fellow brothers. Our printer William Caxton rather beautifully sums this work up in more positive terms following the astounding journey we’ve all been through together, despite the sad end of King Arthur at the hands of his own, scheming son, Sir Mordred; “…for this book was ended the ninth year of the reign of King Edward the Fourth, by Sir Thomas Malory, knight…Thus endeth this noble and joyous book entitled Le Morte Darthur.” Noble and joyous, most definitely.