‘TALES UNTOLD, SO SAYS LANCELOT’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

TALES UNTOLD, SO SAYS LANCELOT

With a retinue of eight knights lifting his body, Lord Galehaut, a Knight of the Round Table, was carried to his grave.  Ferried behind two white stallions from Tintagel Castle, King Arthur’s fortress on the sea, Lord Galehaut was brought to Joyous Gard, to be buried. And when the time comes, I shall lay next to him.  

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You don’t need to open literature to know of me.  The fables and stories of lords and maidens, of magic and sorcerers, of King Arthur and Guinevere, of Camelot and the Knights of the Round Table.  I am Sir Lancelot. 

In truth, only the wealthy and powerful earned idolization in Sixth Century writing.  With tedium and boredom stretching the days of the royal and rich, it is understandable that love often became obsession, with little else to do when not training for war or warring.  Most women had no voice or rights.  Only beauty was prized, when not seen by protective family as a detriment, fearing expected abuse by men’s base desires.  From Cleopatra to Helen of Troy, beauty was, for the most part, the primary pedestal on which a woman was valued.   

I loved Guinevere.  She was exquisite; beauty beyond description.  Forbidden as she may have been, I often could think of nothing else.  The love for King Arthur, my chosen brother now and in Heaven, should have made it impossible for me.  And when he discovered she and I had bedded, he never spoke to me again.  I should be grateful he didn’t have me put to death.

But this isn’t the story I mean to tell.  The days of Camelot are recited with varied dramatic plots and interpretations over many centuries.  But during those years of battle sieges and knightly protection, there was a figure, believed to be the son of a giant — part God if you ask me — that came to Camelot.

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In the Sixth Century of our Lord, there had been no one I met that stood taller than I.  At more than 195 centimeters in height (about 6 foot 5 inches), Lord Galehaut was the first and only man from Rome’s Empire to the realm of Logres to put me in his shadow.  No woman or man, enemy or friend could deny his physical dominance. 

In battle or tournament, I dressed with a face-shield for protection and anonymity, which was not unusual.  Fighting for King Arthur and Briton against the Saxon devils, I began as one of the youngest men knighted to be at Camelot’s Round Table.  Barely 16, I’d been brought to Castle Tintagel by the woman I called my mother, Viviene, the Lady of the Lake. I was put to test by King Arthur, jousting in five tournaments against formidable knights, winning all my competitions.

(My father who was himself royalty, died when I was a young child, leaving my birth mother abandoned and destitute. Finding me wandering alone, the Lady of the Lake took me to her magic realm and raised me as her own.  I knew none of this until I was a grown man).

My battle artistry, though practiced against burlap sacks and other lifeless targets, was either inherited from birth or gifted by my upbringing beneath the enchanted lake.  On the battle field, I was known as the Black Knight.  In those first years, I never fell in tournament or war.  To hear Galehaut tell it, that is what gained his attention.

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The earliest Camelot accounts don’t mention me.  My presence was erased for nearly 700 years.  Not for my pairing with Elaine de Corbenic, who gave birth to my bastard son, Sir Galahad.  Nor for my unbearable longing for Guinevere, breaking King Arthur’s heart.  But for indictments of an intimate nature between Lord Galehaut and myself.  During war’s despair and aloneness, no one questions Man’s shared desires.  In cases when the perfumes of a woman are not within reach, men will do what they must.  But loving another man this way?  No. It is rumored that Greek and Roman soldiers took young slave boys with them into battle to use as you might a woman.  As for allegations of love between Galehaut and myself, there is no proof.  But it is true.  I care not if that is the cause for my being deleted from early manuscripts.  I would have done anything for my Lord, Galehaut.  And with the exception of a brief period of the Round Table writings, Galehaut was rendered insignificant or banished from the stories of Camelot altogether. 

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We met on the battle field. 

A difficult charge.  Defending the King’s realm, I didn’t have the heart to tell my Lord, King Arthur, that our army was outnumbered and out fought by Saxon invaders led by an exceptional warrior.  As the battle day was nearing its end, there was no denying the exhaustion of my remaining men.  Yet, within sling range, I saw the Saxon giant, known as Lord of Distant Isles, rein his horse to a full stop mid-field, his shield barely marked and his lance, unbroken.  His flanks fell back, as he stood alone.  In the quiet, the giant brought his mount to a canter and rode without his lance lowered for battle.  He dismounted before Arthur.  He took a knee, bowing before my King. 

Head lowered, the Lord of Distant Isles said, “I have never seen man, noble or soldier, fight with the majesty of your Black Knight.  I yield to you, my Lord.  I will not take your land and castle.  This soldier, whoever he may be, is Godlike and worthy of the day’s victory, unchallenged.”

“Stand, Sir,” said King Arthur.  “If I am not to battle or yield to your armies, send them on.  You fight with dignity and power.  Join my Knights of the Round Table and you may stand side by side with the Black Knight and the other worthy knights protecting the lands of Logres.” 

Cerdic of Wessex, enemy to King Arthur, ruled the Saxon lands.   While Lord Galehaut had fought loyally, he abandoned his allegiances and joined the Round Table, knighted with the sword, Excalibur, by King Arthur himself.  But it was not for love of Briton and the Logres realm.  Sir Galehaut did this for me. 

It was a fast and equal friendship.  He and I rode in battle together.  We often slept side by side when traveling or in camps; and when accessible, bathed together in springs.  There was no one I trusted or loved more.  Our conversations, complex and easy, never went dry.  I did not talk with women this way; not even Guinevere. 

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I have loved two people in my life.  Queen Guinevere and Lord Galehaut.  Both had my heart and devotion. How the passion between Guinevere and I played out has been written over and over.  It killed my brother-ship with Arthur and was eventually the cause for Guinevere’s exile to a secluded convent where she would die of starvation. 

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Patrolling the realm as a Knight of the Round Table and protector of the Briton lands, I was ambushed near Saxon Rock, where I alone fought 20 soldiers.  I left the 20 men bloodied or dead.  But l barely escaped.  My horse, who stayed as brave an ally as I have ever known, died from battle wounds after carrying me through the assault.  I walked until I could walk no more.  Four of my brothers found and carried me back to safety.  My wounds were numerous and painful.  Sir Gawain, a fellow Knight and a true friend, brought a surgeon to tend to me.  The doctor performed what he could, sewing my torn shoulder and other open wounds.  I would not be able to access the magic from witches at Lady Viviene’s secret realm beneath the lake. I was on mortal fields of war.

With little evidence of improvement, my men lowered me into a pool of warm spring water believed to have healing minerals, hidden by rock caves some distance from our camp.  Submerged to my chin, I ordered my men to leave me be.  I closed my eyes and lay neck deep until I drifted into either dream or fantasy.  I lost all sense of time. 

While in a dreamlike state, I heard a voice.  “You shall not die here. I will not allow it.” 

I did not open my eyes.  I felt hands caring and with purpose, run tender fingers through my blood-knotted beard, washing the clots free, as a nurse might remove mud from a child’s hair after play.  I reached my injured hand up to find his, and we threaded our fingers together.  “I will not die as long as you do not leave me.” 

“I will never leave you.” 

Sir Galehaut, Lord of Distant Isles, no longer dressed in chain mail armor, disrobed what remained of his clothing and slid into the mineral pool beside me.  We sat naked, side by side, hand in hand, beneath the warm water.  Turning me cautiously onto my side away from his face, he wrapped his giant arms around my bruised and broken body, pulling me with impossible gentleness into his chest.  Not since I was a boy cradled by the Lady of the Lake had I felt this secure.  Myself being 183 centimeters in height (about 6 foot 1), there had been no one larger than I from the time I turned 10.  Galehaut, pressed against my back, fitted to my frame, his arms enveloping me as I fell into his body.  “I am here, Lancelot.  I am your servant, my knight.  I am here.”

I have loved Arthur, my friend and King.  But this total and utter adoration was nothing I have known with another man.  I pulled away only enough to turn and face my companion.  Without pause, I pressed my lips to his and kissed him deeply, and said,  “I will not die.  Not here, not now.” 

Men are not by nature, gentle creatures.  Sex can be violent.  When with Guinevere, which at this date in time had only been once, the passion that took over was heated and frantic from our extended and secret longing.  When finally we were alone in her bed chamber, I clumsily spread her legs and with untamed desperation, thrust myself inside her over and over as she moaned, digging her fingernails so deep into my skin, blood was let.  At first I did not know if she was in pain or rapture when she arched her back and screamed as I unleashed what felt like decades of imprisoned energy.  It was violent ecstasy.

With Galehaut, this was unexplainable passion of a different breed, as our mouths opened upon each other.  I was in physical pain, but not from him.  He could break me easily in this state.  Instead, an action of uncommon trust came over me.  An experience neither of us questioned, I said, “I am yours, my Lord.”  This stimulation, arousal man to man, was unexplored desire in love.  I had seen him naked many times before but now I looked on his beauty with awe and longing.  He was a perfect specimen, whether giant or human by definition.  I had not considered that this coupling meant something different for Galehaut.  He never mounted or enslaved any women of conquered villages as spoils of war, which soldiers tend to do.  He had not a woman he longed for or was promised to for betrothal.  He was completely mine. 

There had always been ties between Galehaut and I.  On the day he knelt before Arthur and took his place with the Knights of the Round Table, he told me in private he would never be anywhere but beside me.  For myself, we had been linked by valor and battle and that was the clear bond.  But for Galehaut, he had seen the destiny of our love from the moment he saw the Black Knight defend a losing Kingdom. 

Galehaut helped me back to a bed set for me at the camp.  He would be riding back to Castle Tintagel and the Knights of the Round Table come daylight.  He slept beside me.  In the morning, when I awoke, he had gone. 

The travel home was uncomfortable and took longer than expected.  But I did recover and took my place among the other exceptional knights once more.   

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There is a great deal of Medieval history that has been scribed.  Disputed or not, I will leave that to the curious to research for themselves.  As for Galehaut and I, we rode together many times over the years and just as often, were sent to separate fields to defend or conquer.  And when together alone, we had passion and love.  

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Toward the Northern Territory, traveling alone, I was surprised by a band of robbers.  Without armor for bodily protection, I still was able to fight them off but suffered life threatening wounds.  Once they retreated, I walked toward a wide stream, removing my blood-soaked garments, thinking I would find some relief.  Before I reached the river, I fell to my knees and lost consciousness.  My bloody clothing was discovered at the water’s edge, but not I.  It was reported back to Camelot that I had drowned.  

When the news of my death reached the Knights of the Round Table, Sir Galehaut stood and walked to his sleeping chamber, bolting the door.  He refused all company, food or drink.  He would not even accept a royal visit from Guinevere, who herself was privately mourning.  After days of Galehaut refusing anyone’s service, Gawain came to his chamber.  With no response to his demand for entry, Sir Gawain brought two men and, employing a wooden ram, knocked open Galehaut’s door.  The Lord of Distant Isles lay on the floor, no breath left in his body.  Sir Gawain knelt beside him, tears running down his face. 

I had not drowned.  I’d been rescued by a hermit who found me unconscious by the water.  With a cart and mule, he towed me to his hut, hidden in the forest where he tended me back to health.  When strong enough, I traveled back to Castle Tintagel.     

As I approached, the draw bridge was lowered.  Two knights on stallions rode to meet me, which I thought unusual.  Sirs Yvain and Percival.  With what at first appeared to be great concern for my health and safety, they rode with me flanked in-between them as we crossed over the moat.  I did not ask for Guinevere nor Arthur, who even in his denial of me, I held hope would again embrace me.  Still weak, I dismounted.  My two comrades escorted me to a quarters reserved for members of the Round Table.  Agravain and Tristan joined Yvain and Percival, but not Galehaut.  Sir Gawain came in last, kneeling before me. 

“My Lord and friend.  We believed you to be dead.  We thought...” said Gawain.  

I interrupted, “I was not able to send a message.  I was rescued by a kind hermit who nursed my wounds.  But my hands were injured and he could neither read nor write.”

“The Queen will be very relieved, my Lord.  She has been beside herself in sorrow,” said Percival. 

“I will visit with her shortly.  I should like to first bathe and dress appropriately.  And I should like to see Sir Galehaut.”

Gawain began speaking: “Lord Galehaut, he is...  not here, my Lord.”

“He is dead,” said Agravain plainly.  “He is dead.”  

Absolute silence.  Then, “where is he?!” I screamed.

Sir Gawain stood, saying “My Lord, his body is —“

“Take me to him!” 

That is the last I remember of the day. 

Galehaut was lain out on a table, not meant for death.  In secrecy, Sir Gawain took me aside and told me Galehaut had died of a broken heart.  Believing I had been killed, Sir Galehaut, Lord of Distant Isles, did not want to live anymore.

The Knights of the Round Table were permitted the honor of burial on the grounds of Castle Tintagel.  But I wanted to bring Galehaut to my home.  And though King Arthur would not travel there, white horses carried Galehaut, Knight of the Round Table, to be buried at Joyous Gard. 

I did not speak of my great love to anyone.  It was simply assumed that my closest friend had died.  And that’s not incorrect. 

I would return to Guinevere’s bed a number of times before she was publicly shamed and exiled by Arthur.  I walked away from the Knights of the Round Table and returned to my home at Joyous Gard.  I would outlive King Arthur, Guinevere and of course, Galehaut. 

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Honoring my wishes, I was buried next to Sir Galehaut, so we may lie together for eternity.  And though my love for Guinevere would be scribed and rewritten over the centuries, my love for and time with Galehaut vanished from the tales of Camelot and the Knights of the Round Table, like fallen leaves in an autumn wind. 

Andrew Sarewitz has published more than 70 short stories (website: www.andrewsarewitz.com. Substack access is @asarewitz) as well as having penned scripts for various media. Mr. Sarewitz is a recipient of the 2021 City Artists Corp Grant for Writing. His play, Alias Madame Andrèe (based on the life of WWII resistance fighter, Nancy Wake, the “White Mouse”) garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights in San Jose, CA; produced with a multicultural cast and crew. Member: Dramatists Guild of America.

AXL, THE DOG

Photographer - Tobi Brun

AXL, THE DOG

In one of my previous careers, I worked at an art gallery. Back then, there was a celebrity with whom almost everyone in the neighborhood was familiar. Named after the lead singer for Guns and Roses, Axl was an English bulldog. For whatever reason, he never developed beyond the
size of a large puppy, which kept him adorable, even when fully grown. Though owned by the woman I worked for, he was also the mascot for her business, Mimi Ferzt Gallery, which represented post-Stalinist, nonconformist Russian and Baltic States art.

There is no Mimi Ferzt. In between occupants for the gallery space, an independent movie production filmed at the location and put the name Mimi Ferzt on the doors. The name is a play on words: “Me Me First.” In the film, Mimi was a gallery owner. With the name still prominently displayed, it was decided that keeping the name Mimi Ferzt added an allure and mystery to the gallery’s biography. We got a kick out of artists who told us that Mimi had said she promised to give them an exhibition. The gallery was a spacious, square room with a ceiling that reached a height equaling three stories. Other perks included stark white walls, polished wood floors, a century-old decorative tin ceiling and a large, custom built reception desk that had been left by the previous tenant, a museum that relocated to Connecticut. Having been a non-profit venue subleased to Mimi Ferzt, the monthly rent remained well below market value. It was located in the very desirable neighborhood of SoHo.

When I first met Axl, it was love at first sight...at least for me. Still a puppy, he would sit between my legs under the reception desk, and gently chew and lick my fingers. Within about 30 seconds, tiny red spots spread up my arm. I soon faced the realization that I was allergic to
Axl, as I am to most cats and some long haired dogs, such as Shelties, who have a double layer of dog fur that produces a dander similar to that of cats.

But I was not allergic to Axl’s coat... just his saliva. I was able to scratch his belly and pet him, but I had to stop him from kissing or cleaning me with his tongue. Sometimes I couldn’t resist allowing the affectionate bonding he offered. After a few moments of being licked, I would have to excuse myself to one of the gallery bathrooms and flood my arm with cool water and soap. In time, the rash would vanish.

Thanks to the size of the room, Axl and I were able to run around inside the gallery. Sometimes I would gallop or skip. I’m sure I looked ridiculous. On or off his leather leash, Axl began to prance next to me, like a miniature, short-legged thoroughbred. With all four paws off the
ground, he would arch his back, extend his front legs forward and hind legs behind him in what practically appeared to be a graceful ballet jump, which I’m sure looked even more hilarious next to my animated movements. I believed I was a genius, having taught Axl to show off
these skills. At some point I was informed that English bulldogs had been trained to “prance” for centuries. It was part of his inherited lineage. In the European tradition, bulldogs had been sent out into bull-fighting rings prior to the battle between the matador and bull. I’m guessing
it had something to do with the small dogs taunting and angering the bull.

English bulldogs, an invented breed, are thought to have originally been a mix of Asiatic mastiff and pug. Now registered as purebred, they are expensive to acquire. Whatever the origins, they are not able to copulate naturally. That means someone has to extract the semen from a
male and insert it into a female English bulldog. Don’t ask me how all of this is performed. A turkey baster comes to mind.

English bulldogs aren’t known for their intelligence. They are fairly low on the totem pole for canine smarts. But they are usually very sweet. Axl was no exception. He was affectionate and cuddly and easy to love. When taking Axl for a walk on the streets of SoHo, inevitably we would be stopped multiple times by strangers who wanted to pet him. Axl’s master was generous in allowing me to take him out. Maybe walking a dog can become a chore day after day. His owner was happy to have others take him around the neighborhood during work hours. One of the funniest experiences I remember having was being stopped by Drew Barrymore. She asked his name and leaned down to pet him. I said, “Axl, you’re such a celebrity.” Immediately, Drew stiffened, stood erect and walked away. Even though I had said Axl’s name, she heard what I said as being about her.

A year down the line, I was offered a job at a competing gallery and accepted the position as Assistant Director. A few years later, I learned that the owner of Mimi Ferzt had gone to Russia to look for artwork to add to the gallery’s inventory. Apparently while there, she had also adopted a puppy and brought him back to New York. I don’t know what kind of dog it was, but something considered rare and exotic in America. He looked like a small, short haired grey wolf.

I hadn’t visited Mimi Ferzt Gallery in a long while. I stopped in to say hello to some of my former colleagues. One of these employees told me that the new dog was hostile and didn’t belong in a city apartment. He had constantly gone after Axl. Axl was now quarantined in the
basement of the gallery, cordoned off in a small space next to the staircase. He had one of those plastic cones around his head, which always looks funny to me. As if the dog was wearing a lamp shade or a large collar that belonged to Queen Victoria. But this was not amusing at all. Axl had been attacked by the Russian dog, and now had stitches in his ears and the back of his head. The cone was to protect Axl from disturbing the sutures while his wounds heeled.

I went down to the gallery basement to see Axl. He was sitting quietly in his little cubby hole, blocked from getting out by a wooden board. I leaned over and said, “Hello, Axl.”

He looked at me for a moment. Then he started growling and barking incessantly. Nonstop and angry. I believe he recognized me and was barking in fury. Why did I let this happen? Where had I been? Why didn’t I protect him? I walked upstairs, shaken and heartbroken. Then I found out that his owner wanted to give him away. Apparently, his novelty had worn off. I offered to take him. But it was not to be. He was
given to strangers. And from what I was told, Axl died within the year. I don’t hold the secondary owners responsible. But I do blame the gallerist for not letting me take him.

Bulldogs aren’t known for living long lives, but at the very least, Axl could have spent his final days safe and with someone who loved him and whom he had known since puppyhood.

Around that time, I became friendly with an artist from Rome, living and working in New York City. When applying for a financial grant to subsidize an artist’s studio, he asked me to write him a testimonial for the Approval Board. As a thank you, he gave me one of his paintings, which hangs outside of my bedroom. It’s of an English bulldog.

Andrew Sarewitz has published more than 60 short stories (website: www.andrewsarewitz.com) along with several scripts. Mr. Sarewitz is a recipient of the 2021 City Artists Corp Grant. His play, Alias Madame Andrèe, garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights in San Jose, CA.