The World of Camelot Page 5

  ‘A man of your bounty and noblesse,’ Merlin replied, ‘should not be without a wife. Is there any that you love more than another?’

  ‘Indeed, I love Guenevere, daughter of King Leodegrance, who holds in his house the Round Table that belonged to my father Uther.’

  ‘As to her beauty,’ replied Merlin, ‘she is one of the fairest alive. But I fear your choice. Were your heart not so set, I could find you a maiden equal to her. But when the heart points forwards, a man is loath to go back.’

  Merlin warned the king that Guenevere would do him no good, for she would love another. But Arthur would not give way. So Merlin went with a doubtful heart to King Leodegrance of Camelerd, and told him that King Arthur desired to have Guenevere for his wife. This news was good tiding to Leodegrance, for Arthur was a noble king. Gladly he gave his daughter, and with her he sent King Uther’s Round Table, and a hundred knights besides, to be her marriage portion.

  After King Arthur, in all haste, had ordained for the marriage and coronation, he said to Merlin, ‘Find me in all the land the fifty knights with the most prowess and the most honour.’

  Merlin searched far and wide, but only eight-and-forty knights could he find. These, after prayer and solemn music, took their seats, and the Bishop of Canterbury blessed them in their places. Then they arose and went to do homage to King Arthur, so that he would maintain them in his court. When this was done and the knights had departed, Merlin found the name of each written in gilt letters on his seat. But two of the seats were still unfilled.

  Not long after, young Gawain came to the court and begged a gift of the king.

  ‘Ask,’ said Arthur.

  ‘Sir, make me a knight that same day you shall wed Guenevere.’

  ‘Willingly I grant it, for you are my sister’s son.’

  Then another came to the court, a poor man, and with him was a fair youth of eighteen riding a lean mare. When he saw the men of the court, the eyes of the poor man were dazzled.

  ‘Who is King Arthur?’ he asked.

  ‘Yonder he is,’ replied the knights with contempt. ‘Can you not see?’

  ‘O king,’ the man cried, ‘flower of all knights, Jesu save you. I have heard tell that, in the time of your marriage, you will grant a gift to any that asks.’

  ‘True,’ said the king, ‘so long as it harms not my realm or estate.’

  ‘Sir, I am Aries the cowherd, and here is my son. I beseech you, make him a knight.’

  ‘This is a great thing you ask,’ said the king, smiling. ‘Tell me, does it come from you or your son?’

  ‘O sir, from my son. I have twelve other sons, and they will labour as I tell them, and right glad to do it. But this child will not work for me. He is always shooting arrows, or casting darts. He is ever looking for knights and battles, gaping on courteous folk with his mouth open. Night and day he desires of me to be made a knight.’

  The king beheld the youth, whose name was Tor, and he saw that he was well made and had a bold face. ‘Fetch me your other sons,’ said Arthur to the cowherd. And when this was done, the king saw that they were all of a lump, rustic folk very like Aries himself. But Tor was much more than any of them.

  ‘Take your sword from the sheath,’ said the king to Tor, ‘and require me to make you a knight.’

  Tor alighted from his horse and knelt, giving King Arthur a sorry, rusted sword. The king smote him on the neck with the sword, saying, ‘I pray God you may be a good knight, and if you are worthy and show prowess you shall be a knight of the Round Table. Now Merlin,’ Arthur went on, ‘say whether this Tor shall be a good knight or not.’

  ‘Yea indeed,’ replied Merlin, ‘he should be good, for he is of a king’s blood.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘This poor man, Aries the cowherd, is not his father. King Pellinore is his father.’

  This was grievous news to the cowherd. But his wife was fetched, and she answered full openly that a stern knight had her maidenhead half by force, while she was out milking.

  ‘He begat my son Tor,’ said the wife, ‘and took my greyhound, to keep as a token of my love.’

  The cowherd looked on her sadly. ‘I knew not this,’ he said, ‘but I well believe it, for he has no qualities of mine.’

  But Tor turned to Merlin with some heat: ‘Sir, dishonour not my mother.’

  ‘Good youth, it is more for your honour than hurt,’ Merlin replied. ‘Your father is a good man and a king. He may advance both you and your mother, for you were begotten before she was wedded.’

  ‘Tis true,’ said the wife. And the cowherd took from that what comfort he could.

  So King Pellinore was called to the court, and when he beheld Tor he was much pleased. Then there was music and feasting, and Tor was the first to be made knight at the feast, and Gawain after him. King Arthur was content and looked over the company with much joy till he saw the two empty seats and demanded of Merlin why this was so.

  ‘None but the best,’ replied Merlin, ‘shall sit in those places. And in one of them, the Seat Perilous, he who is hardy enough to sit there, though he shall have no equal, shall be destroyed.’

  At once Merlin took King Pellinore by the hand and placed him in one of those seats, which caused young Sir Gawain great envy. With black brow he turned to Gaheris, his brother, saying, ‘It grieves me sore that yonder knight is honoured, for he slew our father King Lot. Now I shall kill him.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Gaheris cautioned him, ‘for I am only a squire, and when I am made knight I will help our revenge. So, brother, bide your time. It would be a sorry thing to trouble this high feast.’

  Then the time of merriment continued, and the king was wedded to the Lady Guenevere at Camelot, in the church of St Stephen. Afterwards, at the high feast, as every man sat according to his degree at the Round Table, a white hart leapt into the hall and close on its quarters was a white brachet, which is to say a female hound, with a pack of black running dogs bawling and baying behind. As the deer clattered hooves by the Round Table, the brachet tore a piece from its buttock, so that the wounded animal jumped into the face of a knight and knocked him over. In anger, the knight took fast hold of the brachet, ran from the hall and rode away with the hound.

  ‘What tumult is this?’ cried Arthur. ‘It shames our feast.’

  Soon there followed a lady on a white palfrey, lamenting, ‘That brachet was mine. The knight has stolen it.’ But hardly had she cried out when a grim knight on a black horse snatched her up and bore her away, still wailing and crying for the loss of her hound. King Arthur was right glad to be rid of her noise. But what was the cause of the mystery of these events?

  ‘Sir knights,’ he called out to the Round Table, ‘now comes your test. Let us shape these things to our understanding. Sir Gawain, fetch me again that white hart. And Sir Tor, you must bring back the brachet and the knight, or slay him for his discourtesy. And King Pellinore also, fetch back the wailing lady and the grim knight, or again slay him.’

  The king need say no more. Each knight, eager for adventure, made ready for his quest: the art of knighthood was to put wrongs aright and keep God’s law. First Sir Gawain rode out, with his brother Gaheris as his squire; full gladly they went, for they were young.

  They followed the hart by the cry of the hounds and came to a great river. As the white hart plunged and swam, Gawain was stopped on the bank by a loud voice saying, ‘Sir knight, do not pursue that deer unless you would joust with me.’

  ‘I cannot do other than follow my quest,’ replied Gawain. So he spurred his horse into the water and met the knight on the other side, exchanging hard blows till Gawain’s weapon burst the brains from the helm of the knight.

  ‘That was a mighty stroke,’ said Gaheris to his brother, ‘for a young knight.’

  Then the two of them let slip their greyhounds, which chased the hart towards a castle and into it, and even to the innermost chamber, where the hounds killed it. As Gawain and Gaheris followed, a knight came in anger with
drawn sword, and striking dead two of the greyhounds he drove the others yapping from the castle. He looked about fiercely and saw Sir Gawain.

  ‘Why have you slain my hounds?’ said Gawain. ‘They did but follow their nature. Avenge your anger on me, not on my dumb beasts.’

  ‘That, too, I will do,’ said the knight. ‘My sovereign lady gave me that white hart. As I live, its death shall be avenged.’

  After they had fought for a while, foot to foot, the knight was stunned and fell hard to the earth. He yielded to Gawain and cried mercy for his life. But Sir Gawain had no mercy. ‘Die,’ he replied, ‘for slaying my hounds.’ He unlaced the man’s helm and would have struck off his head had not a lady, with arms outspread, rushed from the castle. She came so suddenly upon them that she stepped between the raised sword and the fallen knight. So, by misadventure, Gawain struck the head from the lady and not the knight.

  ‘O shameful deed,’ cried Gaheris in alarm. ‘Should not you give mercy to them that ask? A knight without mercy is without honour.’

  Astonished at the death of the lady, Gawain told the knight to rise. But he cared not for mercy, nor for living, now that his true love was dead.

  ‘Sorely I repent it,’ said Gawain, ‘for I thought to strike at you. Oftentimes, a bad act makes a worse befall. Go you now to King Arthur, and tell him of your adventure, in this quest for the white hart.’

  Then, for dread of something worse, the knight rode towards Camelot, with one slain greyhound behind the saddle and the other across the neck of his horse.

  Gawain went into the castle and wearily unarmed. He was ready to sleep. But Gaheris put out his hand, saying, ‘Are you mad? Will you unarm here, among your enemies?’ He had no sooner said these words when four well-armed knights thrust open the door and challenged Gawain.

  ‘You new-made knight,’ they taunted him, ‘you have shamed your knighthood. A knight without mercy is dishonoured. Also, the death of that fair lady cries “Foul” to the world’s end. You shall beg mercy from us before you depart.’

  Now Gawain and Gaheris were in jeopardy for their lives. One of the knights, an archer, shot an arrow through Gawain’s arm. He and his brother would have been slain had not certain ladies, hearing the din of battle, come and begged grace for these young knights, who were so fresh and comely. At the fair words of the ladies, the other knights gave way. But they bound Gawain and Gaheris and took them prisoner.

  Next morning, as Gawain was wailing piteously of his wound, one of the ladies heard him.

  ‘Sir knight,’ she said, ‘what cheer?’

  ‘Not good.’

  ‘It is your own fault, for the slaying of that lady was a foul deed. But are you not King Arthur’s kin?’

  ‘Yes, truly. I am Gawain, son of King Lot of Orkney, and my mother is King Arthur’s sister.’

  Then, for Arthur’s sake, the four knights forgave Gawain his deed and sent him back to Camelot with the white hart’s head, so that his quest might be accomplished. But for penance and the error of his conduct, he was made to ride out with the dead lady’s head hung about his neck and with her body stretched before him on the horse’s mane. Thus he rode into Camelot, and the king and the queen were greatly displeased by the slaying of that poor lady.

  So Queen Guenevere set a court of high ladies to judge Gawain. When they had deliberated, they ordained that ever after Sir Gawain should be the champion of all ladies and gentlewomen, to be always courteous, to fight their quarrels and never to refuse mercy. And Gawain swore on the four Evangelists to this end.

  Next it was the turn of Sir Tor to go out on his quest and seek the knight with the white brachet. He mounted and rode out with the gladness of a young heart, but soon he came to a narrow place where a dwarf barred his way. The dwarf, who had been hiding in the woods, stopped him, saying, ‘A gift, I pray you’.

  ‘Well?’ said Tor.

  ‘Suffer me to do you service, I know you ride after the knight with the white brachet, and I can bring you to him.’

  ‘Take a horse,’ said Sir Tor, ‘and ride on with me.’

  They rode for a long while through the forest till they came to two pavilions. On one was hung a red shield, and on the other a white. Sir Tor dismounted and drew his sword. With quiet steps he went to the pavilions and saw, in the first one, three maidens asleep in the same bed, and in the other a lady also asleep, with the white brachet lying at her feet. Then the hound bayed. At once the ladies awoke and ran from the pavilions. But Tor caught the brachet and held it fast, so that the lady saw it and called out, ‘Knight, you shall not go far with that hound.’

  ‘I shall take whatever adventure God should send me,’ Tor replied, and he turned his horse towards Camelot.

  But the road was longer than he thought and the eye of the moon was winking in the heavens, so he and the dwarf stopped for lodgings at a hermitage. There was some grass and oats for the horses, but scant food for the men. They supped on hard fare and rested themselves on the bare ground. In the morn, Sir Tor devoutly heard a Mass and took his leave as the sun rose, begging the hermit to pray for him. Then, with sore body and empty belly, he went on till he heard a roaring behind and a knight all out of breath galloped to them, saying, ‘You there, halt. Give me my brachet that you took from my lady.’

  The knights addressed each other, rearing back on their coursers. Both were well armed and well horsed, and they traded mighty blows. After a time, when he saw the other knight grow faint, Tor doubled his strokes, drove the knight to the ground and ordered him to yield.

  ‘That I will not,’ said the other, whose name was Abelleus, ‘while life and breath last, unless you give me the brachet.’

  ‘Nay,’ replied Tor. ‘It is my quest to fetch the brachet, or you, or both.’ And he got ready to make a prisoner of Abelleus.

  At once a maiden came riding fast, calling out, ‘I beseech you, gentle knight, for love of King Arthur, grant me the head of this false Abelleus, for he is a most outrageous murderer.’

  ‘That I am loath to do,’ Tor relied. ‘Let him make amends for the wrong he has done you.’

  ‘How can that be?’ the lady lamented. ‘He slew my brother before my very eyes. I knelt half an hour in the mud to beg for the life of my brother. He was a good knight whose only harm was to try with this villain an adventure of arms. Despite my anguish, he cut off my brother’s head. Therefore, give me his in return.’

  Now when Abelleus heard this he was afraid, and began to beg for mercy.

  ‘Tis too late,’ Sir Tor told him. ‘Before, you spurned my mercy unless you had your brachet. Now you shall suffer.’

  Abelleus tried to flee, but Tor thrust him down, put his foot on his chest and struck off his head.

  The lady was satisfied to be avenged, and in thanks to Sir Tor she took him to her lodgings, where she and her husband gave him good cheer and good ease. In the morn, as he went on his road, the people of the house waved to him, saying, ‘Fair knight, if you travel this way again, our house is always at your command.’

  On the third day, at noon, Tor came to Camelot. The king and the queen and all the court were happy at his coming, for he had departed but a new-made knight on his first quest. He had only an old battle-horse, borrowed armour with many a dent, and a borrowed sword. He had no other help but himself alone. Now right boldly he told his adventures, and the king and queen heard them with great joy.

  But Merlin said, ‘Nay, these are but japes to what he shall do. For he shall prove a noble knight, as good as any living. Mark well, for you shall see it.’

  Two quests were done, and now King Pellinore rode out from Camelot to seek his adventure. Passing into a wild part of the land, he saw a maiden with a wounded knight in her arms, and she called out to him, saying, ‘Help me, for Christ’s sake, King Pellinore.’ Had she cried out a hundred times more, Pellinore would not have paused, so hot was he after his quest. As he pressed his horse forwards, she cursed him: ‘I pray to God that, before you die, you shall have as much need of
help as I do now.’ Soon the knight in her arms gave up his last breath. Then she took her lover’s sword and slew herself in grief.

  What was it to King Pellinore? He knew not and cared not for that knight. Urgently he rode into the valley beyond, questioning all he met. After some time he heard from a poor labourer that the knight and the lady he sought were not far away. They waited in a meadow where a kinsman of the lady had overtaken them and challenged the knight. One would have her by force, and the other would rule her by right of kin. But the lady was crying with all her heart, for she knew some blood was like to flow.

  In haste, Pellinore rode between the knights and parted them, and heard their claims.

  ‘She is mine,’ said one. ‘I won her by prowess of arms at King Arthur’s court.’

  ‘Untrue,’ said Pellinore, ‘for I know you well enough. You came suddenly, bursting in upon the high feast, before any was ready to resist. You snatched this lady. It is my quest to return with both you and the lady, or die for it. Sir, come with me.’

  ‘Nay,’ replied both the knights who had been fighting. ‘This affray is ours alone.’ And they both assailed King Pellinore with all their power. Pellinore’s horse was slain under him. In a rage, he struck at that knight and chopped through his helm to the chin. Then the other, the lady’s kin, would fight no more, but knelt and said, ‘Take my cousin the lady, and as you be a true knight put her to no shame or villainy.’

  Now, since Pellinore lacked a horse, the defeated knight promised to provide one, and he took Pellinore to lodge the night with him and the lady. He was Sir Meliot of Logris and she was called Nimue, and that night they gave Pellinore good wine and good entertainment. In the morn, at the gate, stood a fine bay courser with Pellinore’s saddle upon it. The lady was also mounted and ready to go with him to Camelot, so they rode some time in silence till the path led into a steep valley full of stones, which caused the lady’s horse to stumble and throw her. She fell hard and near fainted with pain.