The World of Camelot Read online

  ‘What is this man?’ said Percival to the priest of the Mass.

  ‘Sir,’ he replied, ‘you have heard how Joseph of Arimathea brought the good King Evelake into this land from the city of Sarras. And ever Evelake sought the Holy Grail, coming so close to it that God was displeased with the king and struck him almost blind. Then the king cried mercy, saying, “Lord, let me not die till the good knight of my blood of the ninth degree be come, so that I may see him and kiss him, when he shall achieve the Sangrail.” And this prayer was granted, for he heard a voice that said, “When that knight shall come, the clearness of your eyes shall be restored and your wounds shall he healed.” Now this same man you see here is King Evelake, who has lived three-hundred winters this holy life. And, sir, men say that the knight is even now in the court that shall heal him.’

  Therewith Sir Percival departed, and met about noon some twenty men of arms that carried in a bier a knight deadly slain.

  ‘From whence are you?’ they asked Sir Percival.

  ‘Of the court of King Arthur,’ he answered.

  Then they cried all at once, ‘Slay him!’

  So they rushed together, giving many sad and fierce blows. Percival’s horse was slain under him. And he also might have suffered thus had not, by adventure, Sir Galahad, bearing the red arms, come unto those parts. And when he saw all those men upon one knight he cried, ‘Save me that knight’s life’.

  Then Galahad smote out on the right hand and on the left hand, and it was a marvel to see how he put those men to a rebuke. After a time they fled into the thickness of the trees, and Sir Galahad followed them hard.

  When Sir Percival saw him chase them so, he knew well it was Sir Galahad, and made great sorrow that he had no horse. ‘Fair knight,’ he called loudly, ‘abide and suffer me to thank you. You have done much for me.’ But Galahad rode so fast he soon was out of sight.

  Still Percival followed after on foot, calling out. Soon came a knight riding, clean armed and on a black horse, and behind him pricked a yeoman on a hackney as fast as he might, crying out, ‘Woe is me, he has stolen my horse, wherefore my lord will slay me. Sir, take my hackney and pursue him as best you may, and I will follow on foot.’

  Sir Percival mounted on the hackney and followed the black horse, that went but at an ambling pace. Soon Sir Percival overtook the knight and they fell to words, and then to battle. The knight dressed his spear and smote the hackney dead, giving Percival a great fall, and then rode on his way.

  ‘Abide, wicked knight,’ roared Sir Percival in mad anger. ‘Coward and false-hearted knight, turn again and fight with me on foot.’

  But he answered not and went his way. Then Percival cast his helm and sword on the earth and sorrowed till night, when he laid him down and slept.

  He waked at midnight and saw a woman who said unto him right fiercely, ‘Sir Percival, what do you here?’

  ‘Truly, I do neither good nor great ill,’ he replied.

  ‘If you fulfill my will,’ said she, ‘I shall lend you my own horse that will bear you wherever you wish.’

  Thus it was agreed, and she came soon with a horse that was inky black. Percival marvelled that it was so large and well apparelled, but hardily he leapt upon it and spurred into the forest where the moon shone clear.

  Within an hour the horse had carried him four days’ journey to a rough, roaring water. The horse would have borne him into it. But when he saw the water so boisterous, Percival made a sign of the cross on his forehead. At once the horse shook him off and dashed into the water neighing and bellowing, and it seemed that the water burnt. Then Sir Percival perceived that the horse was a fiend, which would have brought him to his perdition. So he got on his knees and commended himself unto God, and prayed all the night to keep him from such temptation.

  On the morn, in the clearness of the light, he saw he was in a wild mountain closed around by the sea, with wild beasts all about. As he looked into a valley he saw a serpent bring a young lion by the neck. With that came a great lion roaring after the serpent to do battle. Sir Percival thought to help the lion, for it was the more natural beast of the two. Percival gave the serpent a deadly wound, then he did off his helm to gather his wind, for he was greatly heated with the serpent. And the fierce lion went about him fawning as a spaniel, before it took its little whelp and bore it away.

  Then Sir Percival was alone, but comforted himself in Jesu Christ. For in those days there were but few people that believed in God perfectly. In those days the son spared not the father no more than a stranger. But Sir Percival was not one of them. Thus, when he had prayed, he saw the lion come again and lie down at his feet. All that night, the lion and he slept together.

  In the morn, he arose and blessed himself, though he felt himself feeble. Then as he looked towards the sea he saw a ship come sailing covered in a rich silk, with an old man therein in the likeness of a priest.

  ‘God keep you,’ said the old man, ‘but of whence be you?’

  ‘I am of King Arthur’s court,’ replied Percival, ‘a knight of the Round Table. I and many fellows are in quest of the Sangrail. But here I am in great duress, and never like to escape out of this wilderness.’

  ‘Doubt not,’ said the old man, ‘if you be as true a knight as the order of chivalry requires, and of good heart, no enemy shall slay you. But I am come to comfort you.’ He spoke this and departed.

  While Sir Percival sat upon the rock thinking upon this, and stroking the lion that ever kept him company, he saw another ship come as if all the wind of the world had driven it. It was covered with the blackest silk, and in it was a lady of great beauty.

  ‘I have come out of the waste forest,’ said this lady, ‘where I found the red knight with the white shield.’

  ‘Ah, madam,’ said Percival, ‘with that knight I would gladly meet.’

  ‘Sir knight,’ she replied, ‘if you shall do my will, I shall bring you unto that knight.’

  So Percival promised to fulfill her desire, and then she asked him if he had ate any meat of late.

  ‘Nay truly, madam,’ he said, ‘none this three days. But late I spake with a good man that fed me his good and holy words, and refreshed me greatly.’

  ‘Beware, sir,’ she replied, ‘that same man is an enchanter and a multiplier of words. If you believe him you shall plainly be shamed, and die on this rock for pure hunger. But if you be a young and goodly knight, I shall help you.’

  ‘What are you that proffer me such kindness?’

  ‘Sir, I dwelt with the greatest man of the world and he made me so fair and clear that there was none like me. And of that great beauty I had a little pride more than I ought. So he drove me from his company, and from my heritage, and never had pity of me. As you are a good knight, I beseech you to help me. And as you are a fellow of the Round Table, you ought not to fail a gentlewoman who is disherited.’

  Then Sir Percival promised her all help. As the weather was hot, she called forth a pavilion from the ship, saying, ‘Sir, now rest you in the heat of the day.’ She put off his helm and put her cool hand upon his brow, and so he slept.

  When he awoke there was all manner of meat set upon a table, and he drank the strongest wine he ever knew. Therewith he was a little heated. So he beheld the lady and thought she was the fairest creature ever seen. He proffered her love and prayed that she would be his. But she refused him, in a manner so that he would be the more ardent on her. Then when she saw him very well heated, she gave herself to him, on understanding that he should do whatever she commanded.

  ‘Now shall you do with me,’ she said, ‘whatsoever it pleases you.’

  She unclothed and lay in a bed of the pavilion, and Sir Percival laid him down by her naked. As he lay, by adventure and grace he saw his sword on the ground with a red cross on the pommel. Then he bethought him on his knighthood and his promise unto the good old man. He signed the cross on his forehead, and therewith the pavilion turned upside down and changed into a black cloud of smoke.
r />   ‘Sweet Father, Jesu Christ,’ Sir Percival cried out adread, ‘I am nigh lost, but let me not be shamed.’

  And from the ship came a voice of Despair, saying, ‘Ah, Sir Percival, you have betrayed me.’ With that she went with the wind and the gale, and it seemed that all the water burnt after her.

  Then in sorrow Sir Percival drew his sword and said, ‘Since my flesh shall be my master, I shall punish it.’ And he thrust himself through the thigh, so that the blood started about him as he cried, ‘O good Lord, take this in recompense for what I have done against you.’

  Therewith he clothed and armed him, and wrapped a piece of his shirt to staunch his bleeding, and said to himself the while, ‘Wretch that I am, how near I was to have lost my virginity, that which may never be recovered once lost.’

  As he made this moan, he saw coming from the Orient the ship of the good old man. When he was landed, Sir Percival went unto him weakly and told him what had passed.

  ‘O knight,’ said the good man, ‘you are a fool. That gentlewoman was the master fiend of hell, that has power above all devils. Now beware, lord Percival, and take this for an example.’

  Then the good man vanished way. So Sir Percival took arms and entered into the ship, and departed from thence.

  The Way to the Spiritual City

  When Sir Gawain first departed on the adventure of the Holy Grail he rode many journeys forwards and backwards, but nothing worth the name did he discover. At last he came to the abbey where Galahad had found the white shield, and he asked of the monks the way to pursue after Sir Galahad.

  ‘Certes,’ Gawain told them, ‘I am unhappy that I took not the way he went. If I meet him I will hold fast to him, for all marvellous adventures come to him.’

  ‘But what, sir, are you?’ asked a monk.

  ‘Truly, I am a knight of King Arthur that am in the quest of the Sangrail, and my name is Sir Gawain.’

  ‘Well, sir,’ said the good man, ‘we know the noise of your fame. Sir Galahad will not be of your fellowship, because you are wicked and sinful and he is full blessed. But tell me, sir, how stands it betwixt God and you at this time?’

  So Sir Gawain showed his life to that good man. And the monk reproved him, saying, ‘When you were first made knight you should have taken to knightly deeds and virtuous living. But you have done the contrary, and have lived mischievously many winters. Yet Sir Galahad is a maid, and a sinner never. And for that reason he shall achieve wherever he goes, which neither you nor none of your fellowship shall attain. For you have lived the most untrue life that ever I heard. So now, Sir Gawain, you must do penance for your sins.’

  ‘Sir, what penance shall I do?’

  ‘Such as I will give,’ said the good man.

  ‘Nay,’ replied Gawain, ‘I may do no penance. For we knights adventurous often suffer great woe and pain.’

  ‘Well,’ said the good man. And then he held his peace.

  So Sir Gawain departed and rode long. But he found not the tenth part of adventure as he was wont to do. He rode from Whitsuntide until Michaelmas and found nothing that pleased him. So it befell on a day that Gawain met with Sir Ector de Maris, and after either made great joy of the other they complained that they could find no adventure.

  ‘Truly,’ said Sir Gawain, ‘I am nigh weary of this quest, and loath to follow further in strange countries.’

  ‘I marvel,’ said Sir Ector, ‘that I have met with twenty knights, all fellows of mine, and they all complain as we do.’

  ‘But I wonder,’ said Gawain, ‘where is Sir Lancelot, your brother?’

  ‘Truly, I hear nothing of him, nor of Galahad, Percival nor Bors.’

  ‘Let them be,’ said Gawain, ‘for they four have no peers. And if they fail of the Sangrail, it is a waste for all the remnant to try to recover it.’

  Ector and Gawain rode eight more days. Then they came to a wasted empty chapel, all broken, and there they set their spears by the door and made their orisons a great while, till for heaviness they fell asleep. Within a while they awoke yawning and Sir Ector said, ‘Truly, I shall never be merry till I hear tidings of my brother Lancelot.’

  As they sat talking they saw a hand showing unto the elbow, covered with a red silk cloth. Upon that hung a bridle, and held within the fist was a great candle that burned clear. It passed before them into the chapel and vanished away.

  Anon came a voice that said, ‘Knights full of evil faith and poor belief, for this reason you have failed. Therefore you may not come to the adventures of the Holy Grail.’

  ‘Ector,’ cried Gawain, ‘heard you those words?’

  ‘Yea, I heard all. Now let us go to some hermit that will tell of this vision, for it seems to me we labour all in vain.’

  So they inquired of a squire on the path to know where there was a hermit. He told them of a poor house on a little mountain where Nacien was, the holiest man in the country. They rode till they came to the rough mountain and could ride no further. Then they went on foot to a poor house by a chapel where, in a little courtyard, Nacien gathered the plants and herbs that were his meat. When the hermit saw the knights errant he saluted them and made ready to confess them. After they had told him much, he knew well what they were. And he thought to counsel them.

  ‘I will tell you,’ he said, ‘what betokens the hand with the candle. That is the Holy Ghost, where charity is ever. And the bridle signifies abstinence. For when a Christian man’s heart is bridled in, he falls not in deadly sin. And the clear candle signifies the right way of Jesu Christ. And this voice has warned you that you have failed in these three things: in charity, abstinence and truth. Therefore you may not attain the high adventure of the Sangrail.’

  ‘Good sir,’ said Gawain, ‘it seems by your words it will not avail us to travel in this quest.’

  ‘Truly,’ replied Nacien, ‘there be a hundred such as you that never shall prevail but to have shame. And as to you, Sir Gawain, it is a long time since you were made knight, and never have you served your maker. Now you are so old a tree, there is neither leaf nor fruit in you. Therefore bethink you that you yield to Our Lord the bare rind, since the fiend has the leaves and the fruit.’

  ‘Sir, had I leisure I would speak with you,’ said Gawain. ‘But my fellow here, Sir Ector, is gone and awaits me yonder beneath the hill.’

  ‘Better that you were counselled,’ warned the hermit. But Sir Gawain rode away with Sir Ector and dropped quickly off that mountain. And still they rode long and far before they could find any adventure.

  As these two knights were going about and about seeking strange things, Sir Bors also had departed from Camelot in the quest of the Holy Grail. Soon he met a religious man, riding on an ass, and sought counsel of him. For Sir Bors knew that he who brought the quest of the Sangrail to an end would have much earthly honour. So they rode together to a hermitage and prayed. Then Sir Bors clean confessed, and they ate bread and drank water together.

  ‘Now,’ said the good man, ‘eat none other till you sit at the table where the Sangrail shall be.’

  ‘That I agree to,’ said Bors, ‘but how do you know that I shall sit there?’

  ‘Yea, I know it, though there shall be but few of your fellows there with you.’

  ‘All is welcome,’ said Sir Bors, ‘that God sends me.’

  Then Bors took his leave. As he rode on a little from thence he looked into an old tree and saw a great bird on a dry branch without leaves. Below the bird were chicks dead for hunger. So the bird smote itself with a sharp beak and bled until it died among its chicks. And suddenly the young birds took life by the spent blood of the great bird. When Sir Bors saw this, he knew well that it was a great tokening. He went on his way in heaviness and thought, and so by evensong he came to a high tower where he gladly lodged.

  On the morn, further into the forest, at a parting of the paths, Bors saw approaching a small company of knights. As they came closer he saw two knights that led Lionel, his brother, all naked and bound upon a stou
t hackney. And these knights beat Lionel with thorns so sore that the blood trailed down more than a hundred places of his body. But Lionel said never a word, and in his great heart suffered all that they might do.

  At once, Sir Bors dressed himself to rescue his brother. But as he was ready he looked on the other side and saw a knight riding off with a fair gentlewoman towards the thickest place of the forest, and she was crying out, ‘Saint Mary succour your maid.’

  Sir Bors saw and heard all this, but he knew not what to do.

  ‘Must my brother be slain?’ he lamented. ‘Or shall this maid lose her virginity?’

  Then he lifted up weeping eyes and prayed, ‘Sweet Jesu Christ, whose liegeman I am, keep safe Lionel, my brother, while for Mary’s sake I shall succour this maid.’

  By great strength Bors beat down the knight and rescued the lady. But he could not stay for thanks, so he commended her to God and rode fast after Lionel, following the trace of his horse. In a while he overtook a man in religious clothing, riding a horse blacker than a berry. Sir Bors called out to him, ‘Sir, I seek my brother. Have you seen a misfortunate, naked man beaten by two knights?’

  ‘Ah, Bors, discomfort you not,’ said the man, ‘nor fall into despair, for I tell you sad tidings that he is truly dead.’

  The man took him to a new-slain body lying in a bush, and it seemed well that it was the body of Lionel. So Sir Bors wept his sorrow over the body. ‘Fair brother,’ he cried, ‘now that you have left me I shall never have joy in my heart.’ Then he took the body lightly in his arms and put it upon his sadlebow. And when he came to a chapel by a tower, he placed the body into a fair tomb of marble.

  As he mourned, Bors said to the one in religious clothes who was still with him, ‘Good man, I have dreamt some dreams. Sir, tell me the meaning of my visions.’ When he heard these dreams the man warned Lors that they betokened danger to Sir Lancelot, he that was the cousin of Sir Bors.