The World of Camelot Page 16

  At once he laid his hand on the sword. He lightly drew it out of the stone and put it in the sheath, and said to the king, ‘Now it goes better than it did beforehand. This sword sometime belonged to the good knight Balin le Savage. With it he slew his brother Balan through a dolorous stroke, the same that Balin gave unto my grandfather King Pelles, who is not yet whole, nor shall be till I heal him.’

  As they spoke, there came riding down the river a lady on a white palfrey who said weeping to Sir Lancelot, ‘How changed is your great doing since this day in the morn.’

  ‘Maiden, why say you so?’ asked Lancelot.

  ‘You were this day,’ she replied, ‘the best knight of the world. But now there is one better than you, as is well proved by the adventure of this sword that you durst not set to your hand. Therefore remember, henceforth think not yourself the best knight of the world.’

  ‘I know well,’ said Sir Lancelot, ‘I was never the best.’

  ‘Yea,’ said the maiden, ‘that you were, and are yet of any sinful man of the world. And now, my lord Arthur, the hermit Nacien sends word that you shall have the greatest honour that ever befell king in Britain. For this day the Holy Grail will appear in your house, and feed you and all your fellowship of the Round Table.’ And so she departed.

  ‘Now,’ said King Arthur, ‘all you of the Round Table will depart on this quest of the Sangrail, and never shall I see you again all whole together. Therefore, let you joust in the meadow of Camelot, so that men may speak of such a day after your death.’

  But this moving of the king was to see Sir Galahad proved. So Galahad put on his helm and a noble coat of mail, but he would take no shield, not even at the king’s asking. Then he took a spear and dressed him in the midst of the meadow, when the queen was in a tower to behold him with all her ladies. And he began to break spears marvellously, so all men had wonder of him, for he surmounted and defouled all other knights save twain, Sir Lancelot and Sir Percival.

  After he had done great deeds, Sir Galahad alighted at the queen’s request and unlaced his helm, that the queen might see his face. She beheld him long, and said, ‘Truly, I dare say Sir Lancelot begat him, for never two men resembled more in likeness. Therefore, his prowess is no marvel. For he is come of the best knights in the world, of the highest lineage. Sir Lancelot is of the eighth degree of Our Lord Jesu Christ, and thus Sir Galahad is of the ninth degree.’

  When the tourney was finished, the king and all estates went home unto evensong in the minster, and after that to supper. Then anon they heard cracking and crying of thunder. In the midst of this blast there entered a sunbeam seven times clearer than any seen before, and of a sudden they were alighted by the grace of the Holy Ghost. Then every knight looked one to another, and each looked fairer than ever before, so that all were struck dumb.

  At this there entered into the hall the Sangrail, covered with rich silk of white and gold. And all the hall was filled with good odours, and every knight had such meats and drinks as he best loved. And when that Holy Grail had been borne through the hall, though none saw who bore it, suddenly the holy vessel departed. Then all had breath to speak.

  So the king yielded thanks to God, and after a while Sir Gawain said unto all the company, ‘Now one thing still beguiles us. We could not see the Holy Grail, it was so preciously covered. Wherefore I will make here a vow: that tomorrow I shall labour in the quest of the Sangrail, and never shall I return again unto the court till I have seen it more openly.’

  When they of the Round Table heard Sir Gawain say so, they arose up and made such vows as he had made. But King Arthur heard this and was greatly displeased, for he knew well that they might not gainsay their vows.

  ‘Alas,’ said he to Gawain, ‘you have nigh slain me with your promise. Through this you have bereft me of the fairest fellowship and the truest of knighthood that was ever seen. When all depart from hence they shall never meet more in this world, for many shall die in the quest. I have loved you all as well as my life, therefore it shall grieve me right sore, the loss of this fellowship.’ Therewith the tears fell in Arthur’s eyes.

  ‘Ah, comfort yourself,’ said Sir Lancelot. ‘For it shall be unto us a great honour, and much more than if we died in any other place. As to death, that we are sure of.’

  ‘I say these doleful words out of my love,’ replied the king. ‘For never Christian king had so many worthy men as I have had this day at the Round Table, and that is my great sorrow.’

  When the queen and the ladies knew these tidings they all had much heaviness, and many of those ladies that loved knights would have gone with their lovers. But an old knight in religious clothing prevented them and said, ‘None in this quest may lead lady nor gentlewoman in so high a service. I warn you plain, he that is not clean of his sins shall not see the mysteries of Our Lord Jesu Christ.’

  At last the knights went to their rest. And in honour of the highness of Sir Galahad, he was led into King Arthur’s chamber and there rested in the king’s own bed.

  On the morn, after the service in the minster, King Arthur accounted those who had undertaken the quest of the Sangrail. He found they were a hundred and fifty, and all were knights of the Round Table. So all these knights put on their helms and departed, and recommended them all wholly unto the queen. Then there was weeping and great sorrow among the rich and the poor, even in the streets of Camelot. When he saw this, King Arthur turned away and could not speak for tears.

  Now, Sir Galahad rode four days without a shield. At the fourth day he came to an abbey where behind the altar hung a shield as white as any snow, with a red cross in its midst. There were two knights there of the Round Table who would have assayed for this shield. But one of the monks told them, ‘Sirs, this shield should be hung only about the neck of the worthiest knight of the world. Therefore I counsel you knights to be well advised.’

  But one of the knights, King Bagdemagus, still assayed the shield, and bore it from the church. He had not gone two miles when a white knight on a white horse rode on to him and burst his mail, and pierced him through the right shoulder, and took the white shield from him, saying, ‘Knight, you have done yourself great folly, for this shield is only for him that shall have no peer.’

  Then the white knight said to the squire of Bagdemagus, ‘Take this shield unto the good knight Galahad that you left at the abbey, for it behoves unto no man but Sir Galahad.’

  Galahad received this shield and blessed his fortune, commending himself to God. He hung the white shield about his neck and rode onwards to a hermitage where by adventure he met and saluted the white knight.

  ‘Sir,’ asked Galahad, ‘be many marvels fallen by this shield?’

  ‘Thirty-two years after the Passion of Jesu Christ,’ said the knight, ‘Joseph of Arimathea, he who took down Our Lord off the Holy Cross, went from Jerusalem with a great party of his kindred. So they journeyed till they came to a city called Sarras, where King Evelake made war against the Saracens, and in especial against his cousin King Tolleme. On a day, when the kings faced each other in desperate battle, Joseph told Evelake that he should surely be slain except he leave the old law and believe upon the new law.

  ‘Then he showed King Evelake the right belief of the Holy Trinity, which the king agreed to with all his heart. And this shield that you have was made for King Evelake. When he won the battle, he was gladly baptized, and the most part of his people with him. Soon after, Joseph wished to depart, and Evelake went with him, even unto this land called Great Britain. Not long after, Joseph was laid on his deathly bed. Then Evelake made much sorrow and said, “For love of you I have left my country. Give me now some token that I may think on you.”

  ‘So Joseph, who was sore bleeding at the nose, took the king’s shield and made on it a cross of his own blood. “Now may you see a remembrance that I love you,” said Joseph, “and you shall think on me whenever you see this shield. And the last of my lineage, the good knight Galahad, shall finally have this shield about his ne
ck, and shall do many marvellous deeds.” Thus in years this shield came to Nacien, the holy hermit, till this day when I gave it unto Sir Galahad.’

  He told all this, and then the white knight vanished away.

  Then Galahad rode a long time into a waste forest, and there it happed that he met with Sir Lancelot and Sir Percival. But they knew him not, for he was newly disguised. When they met, they dressed themselves each to other and jousted before a hermitage where a recluse lived. But when this holy woman saw Sir Galahad, she cried out, ‘God save you, best knight of the world’. Then she looked towards Lancelot and Percival and said further, ‘Certes, if yonder two knights had known you as well as I do, they would not have encountered with you.’

  But Sir Galahad was adread to be known. So he smote his horse with his spurs and sped away. Then the other two got up on their horses and rode fast after him, but soon he was out of their sight. With this, Sir Percival would turn again to the recluse with heavy cheer.

  Sir Lancelot would not go now with Percival, for he was too sad. So he rode far and wide in a wild land, following no path but as strange adventure led him. At last he came to a marble stone by a stony crossroads, though it was so dark he knew not what it was. Nearby was an old chapel where Lancelot tied his horse, did off with his helm and hung his shield on a tree. The chapel door was wasted and broken. Within he found an altar richly arrayed with cloth of clean silk and a silver candlestick bearing six great candles. Then Sir Lancelot had great will to enter the chapel, for he was heavy and dismayed. He put off his harness and ungirt his sword. He took his shield from the tree and laid himself down upon it, to sleep before the cross.

  So he fell into half-waking and half-sleeping, and thus he saw come by him two white palfreys bearing a sick knight on a litter, which rested before the cross.

  ‘O sweet Lord,’ the sick knight sighed, ‘when shall this sorrow leave me? And when shall I be blessed by the holy vessel? For I have endured thus long, and for little trespass.’

  With that Sir Lancelot saw the great candlestick come before the cross, though nobody brought it. Also there was a table of silver, and the holy vessel of the Sangrail. Therewith the sick knight sat up and held out both hands and said, ‘Fair sweet Lord, present in this holy vessel, make me whole of this malady.’

  On hands and knees he crawled to touch the holy vessel. When he had done this, he was whole again. ‘Lord God,’ he said most humbly, ‘I thank you, for I am healed.’

  Then the holy vessel went into the chapel, and Lancelot knew not where it had gone. For he was so overtaken with sin that he had no power to rise. But the once-sick knight dressed himself and kissed the cross, and said to his squire who brought him his harness, ‘Certes, I thank God I am right well. But I marvel of this sleeping knight here, who had no power to wake when the holy vessel was brought herein.’

  ‘I dare say,’ said the squire, ‘that he dwells in some deadly sin yet unconfessed.’

  So the knight went on to dress himself, save helm and sword, which he took from Lancelot. And when he was clean armed, he took also Lancelot’s horse, for it was better than his. Thus he departed.

  Soon Sir Lancelot awaked and wondered whether he dreamt or not. Right so he heard a voice saying, ‘Sir Lancelot, harder than is stone, more bitter than the wood, and more naked and barer than the leaf of the fig tree. Go from hence, and withdraw from this holy place.’

  These words went to his heart, for he knew not wherefore he was called so. He knew not what to do and departed sore weeping, and he cursed the time that he was born. For he deemed that he would never have honour more. He went to the cross and found his helm and sword and horse taken away. He called himself a very wretch, and said to himself thus: ‘My sin and wickedness have brought me into great dishonour. When I sought worldly adventures for worldly desires, I always achieved them. And never was I discomfit in any quarrel, were it right or wrong. Now I take upon me the adventures of holy things and I see that my old sin hinders and shames me, so that I had power neither to stir nor speak when the holy blood appeared before me.’

  Thus he sorrowed till it was day and he heard the fowls sing. With the rising of the sun he was somewhat comforted. But when he remembered that his horse and harness were gone, he knew truly that God was displeased with him. So he went on foot. By prime he came to a high hill with a hermitage, and knelt wearily before the hermit and cried mercy from Our Lord for his wicked works. And when the hermit had said his Mass, Lancelot prayed him for charity to hear his life.

  ‘My name is Sir Lancelot du Lake,’ he said unto the hermit, ‘that has been right well spoken of. But now my good fortune is changed, and I am the most wretched of the world.’

  The hermit beheld him and marvelled how he was so abashed.

  ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘there is no knight living now that ought to give God so great thanks as you. For He has given you beauty, seemliness, and great strength above all others. Therefore you are beholden unto God more than any other, to love Him and dread Him. For your strength and manhood will little avail you if God be against you. And for your presumption to be in His presence, where His flesh and blood were, when you were in deadly sin that caused you to be blind with worldly eyes. For He will not appear where such sinners be, except unto their great hurt.’

  ‘Now,’ Lancelot wept, ‘I know well you say truth.’

  ‘Sir,’ said the good man, ‘hide none old sin from me.’

  And then Sir Lancelot told that good man all his life, how he had loved a queen unmeasurably and long. ‘And all my great deeds of arms I did the most part for that queen’s sake, were it right or wrong. Never did I do battle all only for God, but to win honour and cause me to be better beloved. Now counsel me, good father, I pray you.’

  ‘Ensure me that you will forbear that queen’s fellowship as much as you may.’

  And Lancelot promised him so, by the faith of his body.

  ‘Look then,’ said the hermit, ‘that your heart and your mouth accord, and you shall have more honour than ever you had.’

  ‘But, good father, I wonder of the voice that said to me marvellous words.’

  ‘Marvel not, for it seems God still loves you well. A stone is hard, like unto your obduracy, my lord Lancelot, for you will not leave your sin. And never would you be made soft, neither by fire nor by water, nor by the heat of the Holy Ghost that may not enter you. And the voice called you bitterer than wood, for where overmuch sin dwells there may be but little sweetness, wherefore you are likened to an old rotten tree.

  ‘And now I shall show you why you are more naked and barer than the fig tree. When Our Lord preached in Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, he found all hardness in the people where none in the town would harbour him. And in the midst of the way there was a fig tree, well garnished of leaves, but fruit it had none. Then Our Lord cursed the tree that bore no fruit, which betokened Jerusalem. So you, Sir Lancelot, when the Holy Grail was brought before you, were found to have no fruit, nor good thought, nor good will, but all defouled with lechery.’

  ‘Certes,’ lamented Sir Lancelot, ‘all is true. From henceforth I cast me, by the grace of God, never to be so wicked again, but to follow knighthood and do feats of arms.’

  Then the good hermit gave Sir Lancelot penance and enjoined him to pursue knighthood, and afterwards he absolved him.

  At that time, when Sir Galahad had sped away so fast and Sir Lancelot had ridden alone in the wild ways, Sir Percival turned again unto the recluse. He knelt at her window and gave her his name, and begged her help to find the knight with the white shield and the red arms.

  ‘Truly, madam,’ he said, ‘I shall never be at ease till I may fight with him, for I have the shame of his blows yet.’

  ‘Ah, Percival,’ said she, ‘I see you have a great will to be slain, as your father was, through outrageousness.’

  ‘Madam, it seems by your words that you know me.’

  ‘Yea, well I ought to know you, for I am your aunt, though I be now in a religious plac
e. Sometime I was called the Queen of the Waste Lands, the queen of most riches in the world. But my riches never pleased me so much as does my poverty now.’

  Then Sir Percival wept for very pity to find his aunt, so she asked him, ‘Nephew, when heard you tidings of your mother?’

  ‘Truly, I heard none of her,’ he said, ‘but I dream of her much in sleep. Therefore I know not whether she be dead or alive.’

  ‘Certes, nephew, she is dead. After your departing she took such a sorrow that anon she died.’

  ‘Now God have mercy on her soul. I regret it sore. We must all change from life into death. But, fair aunt, tell me what is that knight? Be he the one that bore the red arms on Whit Sunday?’

  ‘That is he,’ she replied, ‘who went in red arms. That same knight has no peer, for he works all by miracle, and he shall never be overcome by earthly man’s hand.’

  ‘Well, madam,’ said Percival, ‘now that you tell me this I will never have ado with Sir Galahad but by way of kindness. But for God’s love, fair aunt, teach me some way where I may find him, for much would I love his fellowship.’

  ‘Then you must ride unto his cousin-german, at the castle called Goothe. And if he can tell you no tidings, ride straight unto the Castle of Carbonek, where the maimed king is lying, for there shall you hear true tidings of him.’

  With sorrow they departed one from the other, and Sir Percival rode till evensong. Then he heard a clock smite, and was aware of a house well closed in with walls and deep ditches. He knocked at the gate and was led unto a chamber where he had right good cheer that night.

  On the morn, at Mass, he saw a pew closed with iron. And behind the altar was a rich bed clothed with silk and gold, and on it a man or woman, for the face was covered. At the consecration, the one on the bed rose up uncovered and Sir Percival saw an old man with a golden crown upon his head, and his body naked unto his navel. This body was full of great wounds. And ever he held up his hands towards Our Lord’s body, crying, ‘Sweet Father, Jesu Christ, forget me not.’ And so he lay down, still mumbling his orisons, and he seemed to be of the age of three-hundred winters.