The World of Camelot Page 11

  At Candlemas it so befell at Corbin that the nephew of King Pelles was made knight. After the ceremony he gave presents of gowns and robes to many about the court. Among these was Sir Lancelot, the fool without wits, who was awarded a scarlet robe. When he put this on and walked with lords and ladies, he seemed the handsomest and best-made man in the court.

  Thus dressed, Sir Lancelot entered a little garden and lay down by a well to sleep in the heat of the day. Soon Dame Elaine and her maid came to play in the garden, and they saw this sleeping, goodly man.

  ‘Peace,’ said Elaine softly, ‘say no word.’

  Then she looked closer and knew him truly for Sir Lancelot, and she fell so much to weeping that she was sick. She ran to King Pelles, crying, ‘O father, help me now if ever. Sir Lancelot lies sleeping by our garden well, and he is distracted out of his wits. He has on a scarlet robe and nought else besides.’

  ‘I may hardly believe it,’ said the king, ‘but hold you still, and let me deal.’ He called to him his most trusted people, and they carried him asleep to the chamber in the tower where the vessel of the Holy Grail stood. Then Lancelot was laid down and the priest uncovered the holy vessel, and it shone around the chamber. And so by miracle and virtue of the Holy Grail, Sir Lancelot was made whole and recovered his wits. In a little time, he awoke and groaned and sighed, saying, ‘Good folk, I am so sore’. He looked about him suddenly, and marvelled that King Pelles and Dame Elaine were there. He regarded himself, and felt shame at his condition.

  ‘Lord Jesu, how came I here?’ he said in wonder. ‘For God’s sake, my lord, tell me.’

  Then all that had come to pass was told to him, and again he hung his head and said, ‘For the love of Christ, keep your counsel that I was mad, for I am sore ashamed that I have been thus miscarried. Now I am banished from Logris forever, that is to say banished out of the land of England.’

  For a fortnight he lay without stirring, till all his hurts were better. Then he sent for Dame Elaine.

  ‘Lady,’ he said, ‘you know how for your sake I have had much travel, care and anguish. I know well that I did you wrong when I drew my sword upon the morn I lay with you. Will you now, for my love, beg from your father some little place where I may live? For I may never come again to the court of King Arthur.’

  ‘Sir,’ she replied, ‘I will live and die with you, or for your sake. Where you will be, my lord Lancelot, doubt not that I will be with you, to do you all the service that I may.’

  So Sir Lancelot departed with Dame Elaine to the Castle of Bliant, a place upon an island removed from men, which they called the Joyous Isle. And here he hid under the name of Le Chevaler Mal Fet, that is to say ‘the knight who has trespassed’. He dressed in sable, and his shield was sable. On this isle he made a statue of a queen all in silver and another statue of an armed knight kneeling before her. Once every day he would look towards the realm of Logris, towards the court of King Arthur and Queen Guenevere, and his heart would nigh burst.

  Now, even on this isle Sir Lancelot still had remembrance of past days and the adventures that had befallen him. And when he heard that there was jousting not three leagues from his castle, his heart yearned for that noble exercise of arms. So he announced a great tourney at the Joyous Isle, which was attended by five hundred knights. For three days together Lancelot did mighty deeds of arms and overcame all who stood against him. This contented him well, and at the end of the tourney he made a great feast.

  While they feasted with banners and music and dancing, and all manner of good cheer, Sir Percival and Sir Ector rode through that country and would have gone to the castle. But they could find no bridge over the water to the Joyous Isle. As they were searching, they saw a lady with a sparrowhawk on the far bank. They called to her, to know who was in the castle.

  ‘Fair knights,’ she replied, ‘in this castle is Elaine, the most beautiful lady of the land. And with her is a knight, as mighty a man as ever lived, who is called Le Chevaler Mal Fet.’ Then she told them how the knight had come mad to this place, and how he had been cured. ‘Ride a way round the shore,’ she added, ‘and you shall find a boat for yourselves and your horses.’

  When they found the boat, Percival dismounted and halted Ector, saying, ‘Abide here awhile, until I know what manner of knight he is. It would be shame for both at once to do battle with him.’

  So Percival went over the water, and right gladly the knight of the isle fought with him. They were both strong men in prowess and worthiness. From noon to eve they fought, then they rested all breathless.

  ‘You fight boldly,’ said Lancelot. ‘My name is Le Chevaler Mal Fet. Now tell me, gentle knight, what is your name?’

  ‘Truly, it is Sir Percival de Gales, brother to the good knight Sir Lamorak, and King Pellinore was our father.’

  ‘What have I done to fight with you?’ cried Lancelot. ‘You are a knight of the Round Table, and once I was your fellow.’

  He threw aside his sword and shield and fell on his knees, so that Sir Percival marvelled what he meant. ‘Knight, whosoever you may be,’ he said, ‘by the high order of knighthood, tell me your true name.’

  ‘So help me God, I am Sir Lancelot du Lake, son of King Ban of Benwick.’

  ‘But how is this?’ said Percival. ‘I was sent by Queen Guenevere to seek you two years ago. Yonder, on the other side of the water, is your brother Sir Ector. Now, for God’s sake, forgive me whatever offence I have done to you.’

  ‘It is soon forgiven,’ replied Sir Lancelot.

  Sir Ector was sent for, and all night long they spoke, and many other nights besides, to tell each other the tales of their adventures. Thus they passed the time in joy and mirth. But when Percival and Ector were ready to depart, they asked Sir Lancelot what he would do now, whether or not he would go with them to King Arthur.

  ‘Nay, that may not be,’ said Lancelot. ‘I am too shamed to go there ever more.’

  ‘Sir, I am your brother,’ replied Sir Ector, ‘and you are the man in the world I love the most. I would never counsel you to do anything dishonourable. But King Arthur and all his court, and in especial Queen Guenevere, made such a grief at your absence that it was a marvel to hear. It has cost my lady the queen twenty thousand pound to seek you out. Will you disappoint her? And remember, my lord, your great renown, for there is none living that bears such a name. Therefore, brother, make ready to ride to the court with us, and I dare say never a knight will have a better welcome than you.’

  Sir Lancelot thought well and long. Then he said, ‘Well brother Ector, ride on, and I will be with you’.

  So he departed the Joyous Isle, and Dame Elaine watched him go in great sorrow. She could not prevent him, for his life must be lived amid great matters. Within five days Lancelot came to Camelot, that in English is called Winchester. The king, the queen and all the knights welcomed him with the greatest joy, and when they heard the whole of his adventure the queen wept as if she would have died.

  ‘O Jesu,’ said King Arthur, ‘I marvel for what cause you went out of your mind. I and many others deem it was for love of fair Elaine, by whom you are noised to have gotten the child Galahad.’

  ‘My lord,’ he replied, ‘if I did any folly I have paid my price.’

  The king spoke no more. But all Sir Lancelot’s kin knew the lady of his love and the cause of his madness.

  Sir Tristram and La Beale Isoud

  In the country of Liones there was a man called Meliodas, a most likely knight and a king also, but one that held his land under obeisance to King Arthur. By fortune, he wedded Elizabeth, sister of King Mark of Cornwall. Within a while Elizabeth waxed great with child. She was a meek lady and well she loved her lord, and he loved her, so there was great joy betwixt them.

  But another lady had long loved Meliodas. When she saw she could not have him, and knowing he was a great huntsman, she removed him from the hunting field by enchantment and made him prisoner in an old castle. Elizabeth missed her lord and became nigh out
of her wits. Even though she was great with child, she summoned a gentlewoman and ran into the forest to seek Meliodas.

  Deep in the forest she could go no further, for she began to labour of her child. There, in trees and dark bushes, she had many grim throes. Her gentlewoman helped her all she might, and so by miracle of Our Lady of Heaven she was delivered with great pains. But she had suffered so much weakness and cold that deep draughts of death took her. Needs she must die and depart from this world, there was no help for it.

  ‘When you see my lord Meliodas,’ she whispered dying to her woman, ‘tell him what pains I endure here for his love. I die for his sake, and I am full sorry to depart from him out of this world. Therefore pray him to be friend to my soul. Now let me see my baby, for whom I have had all this sorrow.’

  Then she looked sweetly on her child and said, ‘Ah, little son, you have murdered your mother. I suppose that you, who are a murderer so young, will grow into a manly man. Good gentlewoman, because I die of this birth, I charge you that this child shall be christened Tristram. Pray tell this to my lord Meliodas, for Tristram names a child of sorrowful birth.’

  Therewith the queen gave up the ghost and died. Her woman laid her in the shade of a great tree, and lapped the baby as best she could against the cold. And there she waited till the barons that were looking for Elizabeth came by and they saw the queen was dead.

  In the meantime Meliodas had escaped his prison. But when he heard of his queen’s death, his sorrow was such no tongue might tell it. He buried her most richly and christened the baby as she had commanded, calling him Tristram, the sorrowful-born child.

  Seven years Meliodas endured without a queen, and all this time Tristram was nourished well. Then the king wedded again, and his wife had children. But young Tristram alone rejoiced the land of Liones, and the queen was jealous for her own children. She ordained a poison for Tristram. A poison was put in a silver cup for him to drink. But the queen’s own child, being thirsty and finding the cup by fortune, drank freely of it and suddenly died. The king understood nothing of this treason. But when the queen again tried poison, the king himself found the cup and would have drunk, had not the queen run crying and pulled the cup from him.

  Then the king, remembering how her first-born was poisoned, drew his sword and with a great oath demanded what manner of drink this was. She said the truth. ‘Well,’ replied Meliodas grimly, ‘therefore you shall taste of the law.’

  By the assent of the barons she was damned to be burnt. A great fire was made, but just as she was led to execution young Tristram knelt before the king his father and besought a boon. ‘Well?’ said the king.

  ‘Sir, grant me the life of the queen my stepmother.’

  ‘It is unrightfully asked,’ replied the king, ‘for you ought to hate her, she who would have poisoned you. It is for your sake that I have cause to condemn her.’

  ‘I beseech you, sir, forgive her. God will forgive her, and I do. Grant me my boon, for the love of God.’

  Meliodas turned away, saying, ‘I grant you the gift of her life. Go to the fire and take her, and do with her what you will.’

  After this, the king would never have more ado with her, at bed or at board. Nor would he suffer young Tristram to abide at his court any longer.

  So it was ordained that a well-learned gentleman, whose name was Gouvernail, should take young Tristram into France, to learn languages, and nurture, and deeds of arms.

  ‘Sir,’ said Gouvernail to Tristram, ‘it is meet that a young squire learns many things. It is best to begin with God. Put your entire trust in Him. He will never desert you. For those things you lack, ask Heaven. Then be ever humble, and banish pride from your heart. Be generous, give freely to the knight without portion, to the landless man, to the poor labourer, to the widow and the orphan. Share among them your wealth, your gold and silver, your rich furs, both the thick gris and the light vair. The more you give away, the more honour you will have, and thus the richer you will be.’

  For seven years in France Gouvernail taught Tristram many things. He loved God. He was envious of no man and destroyed the good name of none. He learnt to serve his lady, and to this end he was joyous day and night. He was gentle, sweet and pleasant. He was not silent in counsel, but spoke according to season and gravely. He was neat in dress, slandered none, gave with generous heart. By long practice, he knew well how to sing and dance, and he was fierce in jousts and deeds of arms. In time of peace, it needs must be that he get his lady’s consent and go about to seek adventures.

  ‘After God’s name,’ said Gouvernail, ‘in especial remember two things: spare no pain, peril or labour to win love. And be worthy of your fathers, for the old saying truly says, “The son of a cat ought to catch mice”.’

  In seven years Tristram had learnt all that he might and came home again to his father King Meliodas. He was a worthy young man. He had applied himself on harping and on instruments of music, and he was a harper passing all others. As he grew in might and strength he laboured ever in hunting and hawking, no gentleman more, and he knew all manner of beasts of the chase. Thus all gentlemen that bore arms honoured Tristram for the goodly knowledge that noble men should have and use, and shall do so to the day of doom. In this way men of worship may distinguish a gentleman from a yeoman, and a yeoman from a villain. He with gentle qualities draws all men unto him, to follow noble customs.

  It befell at this time that King Agwisance of Ireland sent unto King Mark of Cornwall for the tribute that Cornwall had paid for many winters. King Mark was seven years behind with payment. He was unwilling to pay and sent a message to Agwisance saying, ‘If you will have your tribute, send me a trusty knight that will fight for your right.’

  At this the King of Ireland was wonderfully angry. He called to Sir Marhaus, the good knight and the brother of the queen.

  ‘Brother Marhaus,’ he said, ‘I pray you go to Cornwall for my sake, and do battle for our tribute.’ And Sir Marhaus consented, for he wished to have ado with right worthy knights, and advance by deeds of arms.

  There was sorrow in Cornwall when Sir Marhaus arrived. He was one of the most famous knights of the world, and there was none in Cornwall that dared have ado with him. Thus Sir Marhaus abode in his ship at anchor, and every day sent to King Mark for his tribute, or else to fight. High and low, the king looked for a champion. Some counselled him to send to King Arthur for one of his knights. But Sir Marhaus was a knight of the Round Table, and any of that fellowship would be loath to battle with him.

  Soon word came to the court of Meliodas how Sir Marhaus abode fast by Tintagel and none dared fight him. When young Tristram heard this he was ashamed for the men of Cornwall.

  ‘It is to our dishonour,’ he told his father, ‘that Sir Marhaus should depart to Ireland without battle. If I were made knight, I should match him. I pray you, father, let King Mark make me knight. Then I shall meet this champion of Ireland.’

  ‘Let it be so,’ replied King Meliodas, ‘as your courage shall rule you.’

  Then Tristram rode to his uncle Mark, saying, ‘Sir, if you will give me the order of knighthood, I will do battle with Sir Marhaus.’

  When the king knew his name, and saw that he was well made and big, though but young in age, he made him knight and sent him forth unto Sir Marhaus. And when the king and barons of Cornwall beheld how Sir Tristram departed to fight for their land with such high courage, both men and women wept to see so young a knight put himself in jeopardy for their cause.

  Sir Tristram went to the island, where six ships lay at anchor. Under the shadow of the ships hoved Marhaus of Ireland. Tristram mounted and dressed his shield and harness, saying to his man Gouvernail, ‘Where is this knight with whom I must have ado?’

  ‘Do you not see him, sir? He is ahorse under the shadow of the ships, with spear in hand and shield at the ready.’

  ‘Ha,’ cried Tristram, ‘now I see him well enough. Now commend me to my uncle Mark. Let him know that I will never yield for c
owardice. If I am slain, let him inter me in Christian burial. And now, upon your life, come not near this island until the battle is done. I shall win, or I shall be overcome.’

  Gouvernail departed weeping and Tristram advanced into the sight of Sir Marhaus, who looked on him kindly.

  ‘Young knight Tristram,’ he said, ‘why are you here? Repent of your courage, for I have been tried and matched with the best knights of the world. Go back, I counsel you.’

  ‘Fair and well-proven knight,’ Tristram replied, ‘know that I am a king’s son born, and I shall fight with you to the uttermost to deliver Cornwall from your tribute. Know also that your noise and fame, as one of the most renowned knights of the world, gives me courage to have ado with you. I trust to God that I shall be worthy of this trial.’

  Then they fought for more than half a day and both were sore hurt, so that their fresh blood flowed from gaping flesh. But Sir Tristram was younger and better-winded than Sir Marhaus, and on a sudden with a mighty stroke he smote Marhaus through the helm and into his brainpan. Thrice he pulled to free the sword. When that was done, Sir Marhaus rose grovelling, threw his weapons aside, tottered to his ships and fled away.

  ‘Sir knight of the Round Table,’ Tristram shouted after him, ‘why do you flee? You do yourself and your kin great shame. I would rather be hewed in an hundred pieces than withdraw.’ But Sir Marhaus fled and answered no word.