The World of Camelot Page 7

  ‘Tis not Pelleas,’ Gawain called up to her. ‘It is another. Rejoice, I have slain Sir Pelleas.’

  ‘Pull off your helm,’ said the lady doubtfully, ‘that I may see your face.’

  When this was done and the lady saw a knight so young and fresh, she was glad and made Gawain welcome.

  ‘I hated that knight Pelleas,’ said Ettard, ‘for I could never be quit of him. As you have slain him and saved me from him, I shall be your woman.’

  They went within the castle and had good cheer. After supper they were alone and talked long with one another, and each looked on the other’s face with much happiness.

  ‘Madam,’ Gawain sighed at last, ‘I love a lady, but by no means does she love me.’

  ‘She is to blame,’ Ettard replied. ‘You are so well-born a man, there is no lady in the world too good for you.’

  ‘Ah, will you do all that you may, by the faith of your body, to get me the love of my lady?’

  ‘Yes, truly, by the faith of my body.’

  Then Sir Gawain said, ‘It is yourself I love so well. Now, hold you to your promise.’

  The lady Ettard looked at him a long moment, and said slowly, ‘I may not choose, unless I be forsworn.’ And so she granted Gawain all his desire.

  In the month of May she and Gawain went out to the pavilion, where the new flowers grew, and embraced each other to their hearts’ joy. Then they made a bed and lay there together for two days and two nights. On the third day Sir Pelleas armed himself right early and set out for the castle. He had not slept, for he awaited Gawain, who had promised to return before the night was done. Therefore, in the first light of the third day, Pelleas came to the pavilion in the field. He found Sir Gawain lying asleep in bed with Lady Ettard, with their arms twined fast about each other. Then the heart of Sir Pelleas well-nigh burst for grief, and he fled from that place because he could not abide the sight.

  In half a mile, he turned and came back. He thought he would slay them both. He saw them again, still asleep, and near fell from his horse in sorrow. But his sword dropped from his hand. ‘Though this knight be never so false,’ he said to himself, ‘yet I cannot slay him sleeping, for I will never destroy the high order of knighthood by such a base deed.’ And he went away.

  But in a little while he turned again, minded once more to kill them. In blind rage he tied his horse to a tree and went into the pavilion with his sword naked in his hand. There they still lay, innocent in sleep. And again he could not do it. So he laid his naked sword across their throats and rode away.

  Sir Pelleas went home forlorn and told his squires and knights, ‘For your faithful service, take all my goods. I will go to my bed and never arise again. When I am dead, take the heart out of my body and bear it to my Lady Ettard on two silver dishes. Tell her how I saw her play false with Sir Gawain.’ Then he unarmed himself and went moaning to his bed.

  In the sun’s heat, Gawain and Ettard awoke within the pavilion with the touch of the naked steel against their throats. Ettard looked and knew well that it was Pelleas’ sword.

  ‘Alas,’ she cried to Gawain, ‘false knight, you have betrayed me and Pelleas both.’

  Without reply, Sir Gawain rose hastily and dressed himself, and fled into the forest.

  Now it happened that Nimue, the Maiden of the Lake, was riding through that country, and she learnt from a knight of Pelleas what had come to pass.

  ‘This is great shame and nonsense,’ said Nimue. ‘I warrant this Pelleas shall not die of love. And this proud lady, she shall soon be in as evil a plight as Pelleas is now. Those who have no mercy on a valiant knight shall find no further joy.’

  Within two hours she brought Lady Ettard to Pelleas’ bed, where he lay insensible, as if dead. Then Nimue threw an enchantment on Ettard, saying to her, ‘For shame, to murder such a knight.’ And at once Ettard loved Pelleas sorely.

  ‘O Lord Jesu,’ she cried. ‘How is it befallen that I love him whom I most hated before?’

  ‘It is God’s righteous judgement,’ replied the Maiden of the Lake.

  Soon Sir Pelleas awoke. He saw Ettard, and then he hated her more than any woman alive. He turned his face from her, saying, ‘Away, traitress. Come never again in my sight.’ So she went mournfully away.

  ‘Sir Pelleas,’ said Nimue, ‘now arise from your bed. Take your horse and come with me out of this country. You shall love a lady that loves you.’

  ‘That I will,’ replied Pelleas, ‘for this Ettard has done me despite and shame. But now I am free of her, thanks be to Jesus.’

  ‘Nay,’ said the maiden, ‘thank me.’

  So they went away together, wherever the maiden might lead. Lady Ettard died of sorrow, but Nimue rejoiced Sir Pelleas and they loved each other all the days of their lives.

  The Knight of the Kitchen

  It was the custom with King Arthur, when the fellowship of the Round Table met for the feast of Pentecost by the wild sands of Wales, that he would not go to eat until he had heard or seen some great marvel.

  One year, a little before noon on the day of Pentecost, Sir Gawain looked from the window and saw three men come riding, with a dwarf behind on foot. When the horsemen alighted and handed their horses to the dwarf, Gawain saw that one of the men was taller than the other two by a foot and a half. Then Gawain said to the king, ‘Sir, go now to your meat, for here comes some strange adventure.’

  Soon there came into the hall two stalwart fellows with the third, as large and fair a man as ever was seen, leaning on their shoulders. As they approached the high table, the tall young man stretched up easily.

  ‘God bless you,’ he said to the long. ‘I come to ask three gifts, which you may grant without dishonour, hurt or loss. One I ask now, the other two I shall ask in twelve months’ time.’

  ‘Ask,’ said Arthur.

  ‘Give me meat and drink sufficient for this twelvemonth, and then I shall ask again.’

  ‘My fair son,’ the king replied, ‘ask better. This is but a simple asking, hardly worthy for a man of honour.’

  ‘Nay,’ said the youth. ‘I ask that and no more.’

  ‘So be it. You shall have meat and drink enough. But what is your name?’

  ‘That I cannot tell,’ said he.

  Then the king marvelled that such a goodly young man should not know his own name. But he ordered Sir Kay, the steward, to provide the best of food and drink, and to keep and lodge him in a manner fit for a lord’s son.

  But Sir Kay muttered to himself, ‘No need for that, for I dare say he is a villain born. A man of good blood would have asked for horse and armour. Since he is nameless, I shall call him Beaumains, that is to say Fair-hands, for his hands are indeed large and fine. Into the kitchen he shall go, and there he shall have greasy broth every day. In a twelve-month he shall be as fat as a pork hog.’

  At this, Sir Gawain and Sir Lancelot were angry. But Kay sat the young man down with the boys of the scullery and there he ate. After he had supped, both Gawain and Lancelot came to him privily and offered him good cheer. But Beaumains would do only what the steward commanded. Thus he was put in the kitchen and lay nightly on a pallet amid the lads in the back rooms, under thin covering. So he endured all that year and never displeased man or child, but was always meek and mild. Only, when there was jousting or sport, none could tear him away. And when the great stone was cast, none came within two yards of his throw. Then the steward would say, ‘Now, how do you like my kitchen boy?’

  Thus the year went round again, and once more the Round Table met most royally at Caerleon. This time, as King Arthur prepared to eat, a maiden came suddenly to the high feast, saluted the king and asked for his help.

  ‘For whom?’ said Arthur. ‘What is the adventure?’

  But the maiden would say no more than that she came for a lady of great renown who was besieged by a tyrant called the Red Knight of the Red Glade. This was a most dangerous knight, with the strength of seven men, and he was destroying the lady’s lands.
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  ‘Fair maid,’ said Arthur, ‘here be many good knights well able to rescue your lady. But no knight of mine shall venture for a lady who is nameless.’

  At once Beaumains spoke up, saying, ‘Sir king, God thank you for my twelvemonth in your kitchen. Now I ask my other two gifts.’

  ‘Speak, upon my peril,’ said the king.

  ‘Sir, first grant me this adventure of the unknown lady, for it belongs to me. Then bid Lancelot du Lake to ride after me and make me knight when I shall require him, for I will have none make me knight but him.’

  All this was granted, as Arthur had promised. But the maiden was angry, saying boldly, ‘Fie on you, sir king, shall I have none but your kitchen page?’ In a rage, she took her horse and departed.

  Though he had neither shield nor spear, Beaumains mounted a horse with trappings of cloth of gold, and looked fierce enough for men to marvel at. Then he rode after the maiden and Sir Kay followed him, to test his boy from the kitchen.

  ‘Beaumains,’ the steward called out. ‘What, sir, do you not know me?’

  ‘Yea indeed,’ said Beaumains, turning his horse, ‘I know you for an ungentle knight, and therefore beware of me.’

  So they rushed at one another and Beaumains with his sword beat the steward from his horse, leaving him almost dead. Then he took the shield and spear from the steward and rode away. All this was seen by the maiden and Sir Lancelot. The defeat of Sir Kay was a surprise to Lancelot. He thought that he would also try the prowess of this kitchen boy. So they hallooed at each other and came together like boars in rut, slashing and thrusting for nigh on an hour. Lancelot marvelled at the strength and skill of this man, whose fighting was so full of peril and more like that of a giant than a knight. Sir Lancelot had much ado to keep himself from being shamed. At last he called out, ‘Beaumains, fight not so sore. Our quarrel is not so great but we may leave off.’

  ‘True,’ said Beaumains, letting out breath, ‘but it does me good to feel your might. Yet, my lord, I was not at my limit.’

  ‘In God’s name,’ Lancelot admitted, ‘I could do no more.’

  ‘Am I thus approved for knighthood? In this, how do I stand?’

  Then Beaumains begged that he might be made a knight. And Sir Lancelot agreed, on condition that he should know the new knight’s true name.

  ‘Sir, I shall tell you, so long as you do not reveal me. I am Gareth, brother to Sir Gawain, by the same father and mother.’

  ‘Ah, I am more glad of you than ever. For I always thought you would be of good blood, and that you came to court for more things than food and drink.’

  Then Sir Lancelot dubbed him and gave him the order of knighthood. After this, Lancelot went back to Arthur’s court, recovering on the way the bruised body and sore feeling of poor Sir Kay. But Sir Gareth was once again Beaumains, the page of the scullery, as he returned to his quest in the cause of the maiden and her lady.

  He rode hard and overtook the maiden, but she turned her face away, saying, ‘What, are you here again? You stink of the kitchen. Your clothes are foul with grease and tallow. Go back, you bawdy kitchen page. I know you well. Your name is Beaumains, an idle lout, a table-wiper and dish-washer.’

  ‘Good maiden,’ said Beaumains mildly, ‘say what you will. I shall see this adventure to the end, or else I shall die.’

  ‘Fie on you, knave. Soon you will trade all the kitchen broth you ever supped to be elsewhere.’

  And thus they rode on in stiff silence into the gloom of the woods. As they entered, there came a man fleeing as fast as he could, crying out, ‘Help me! Six thieves have taken and bound my lord, and I fear they will slay him.’

  At once Beaumains galloped to those thieves, pursued them and harried them until they were all slain. He untied the knight, who thanked him gravely and offered him reward. But Beaumains would have none except what God gave him, for he must follow the maiden, though she still berated him with the stink of the kitchen. But as it was growing dark, the maiden gladly went to the safety of the knight’s castle, and Beaumains rode after. The knight gave them comfort and set them both at table. But the maiden cried again, ‘Fie, fie, sir knight, you are discourteous, to set a kitchen page before me. You might as well stick a swine before a maiden of my high lineage.’

  These words made the knight ashamed of her, and he took himself to eat with Beaumains at a sideboard. They had good cheer, and after went softly to rest.

  On the morn, when they departed, Beaumains and the maiden came to a ford over a river which was defended by two knights.

  ‘What do you say,’ the maiden taunted him, ‘will you match yonder knights or turn aside?’

  ‘I would not turn,’ he replied, ‘were there six or more.’

  Thereupon he splashed into the shallows and forced a passage. He stunned one knight so that he fell and drowned, and he cleaved the head of the other right through the helm. Then he beckoned the maiden and bade her courteously to ride through.

  ‘Alas,’ she lamented, ‘that a kitchen knave should destroy two such doughty knights. Do you think you did nobly? Nay, I saw the first knight stumble, fall and drown. The other, you crept behind him and slew him by mishap. Do not make yourself proud.’

  ‘Fair maiden, give me good words,’ he replied, ‘and then my care is past. For I fear no knight, whomsoever he might be.’

  ‘Follow me further and you shall be slain. I see that all you do is by misadventure, and not by the prowess of your hands.’

  ‘Well, madam, say what you will. But wherever you go, I shall follow.’

  So they rode again till the time of evensong, and always she chided him and would not let him rest. At dusk they came to a dark place where the Knight of the Black Glade hung his banner and black shield on a hawthorn tree. Nearby his great spear stuck in the ground and his black horse munched the grass. When he saw them, the Black Knight shouted a challenge, saying, ‘Maiden, have you brought this knight of King Arthur to be your champion?’

  ‘Nay, fair knight,’ she replied. ‘This is but a scullery knave that was fed in Arthur’s kitchen.’

  ‘Then what is this bold array? ’Tis a shame that he keeps you company.’

  ‘Sir, I cannot get rid of him. Would to God that you might slay him. He is an unhappy knave that by luck and misadventure has already undone several good men.’

  ‘It is a wonder,’ said the Black Knight, ‘that any worthy knight will have ado with him.’

  ‘They do not know him. Because he rides with me, they take him for a well-bred knight.’

  ‘Well, I grant you that he is a likely and strong-looking person,’ said the Black Knight. ‘I will win from him his horse and harness, for it would shame me to do him any further harm.’

  Then Beaumains replied undaunted, ‘In spite of you, I shall pass through this glade. As for my horse and harness, get them if you can.’

  ‘Do you say that, boy?’ the Black Knight laughed. ‘Now let your lady go, for it does not become a kitchen knave to ride with such a lady.’

  ‘You lie,’ cried Beaumains hotly. ‘I am a gentleman born and of better birth than you, and I will prove it on your body.’

  In great anger, they fought. And Beaumains, so large and strong, knocked the Black Knight on one side and on the other until he lay all bloody on the earth and died. Then Beaumains took his black horse and handsome black armour and rode after the maiden once more. But she reviled him again till he chided her, saying, ‘I warn you, fair maiden, that I will not leave you until I have been beaten or slain. Therefore do not spend all day rebuking me, for I shall see the end of this journey, come what may.’

  So Beaumains rode on after the maiden, who never ceased to assault his ear with insult and rebuke. In a little time they came to a new-mown meadow that lay in front of a fair city. In the field were many bright pavilions and much preparation for joust and tourney. Five hundred knights were getting ready their arms. Shields of many colours and the fine clothes of fair ladies all shone in the sun.

 
‘Look there at yonder pavilion the colour of Inde,’ said the maiden. ‘In there is Sir Persant of Inde, the most lordly knight that ever you saw.’

  ‘Be he never so brave,’ replied Beaumains, ‘here I shall stay till I see him under cover of his shield. Let him come, and do his worst.’

  Now, seeing the boldness of his arm and the courtesy and mildness of his tongue, the maiden began to repent her hard words. ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘now I wonder who and what you are. You speak well, and boldly you have fought. That I have seen. Therefore, I pray you, save yourself. You and your horse have done hard trials, and I fear we stay overlong from my lady’s siege, which is but seven miles hence. I dread lest you catch some hurt from this strong knight. Yet Sir Persant is nothing to him that lays siege to my lady.’

  ‘It is shameful for me to withdraw now,’ aid Beaumains. ‘Have no doubt but that I shall deal with this knight within two hours, and then we shall come to the place of your siege by daylight.’

  ‘O Jesu, what manner of man are you? Surely you must come of noble blood. For never did woman rule a knight so foully and shamefully as I have done you. Yet always you suffered me meekly.’

  ‘Madam,’ he replied, ‘a knight must suffer whatever a maiden pleases. The more you rebuked me, the more I was inwardly angered, and the more I wreaked my wrath on those who came against me. Your words furthered me in my battle, and caused me to prove myself. Though I had meat in Arthur’s kitchen, yet I might have had food enough in other places. But I did it to test my friends. Gentleman or not, I have done you gentle service, and perhaps I will yet do you better service before I leave you.’

  ‘Fair Beaumains,’ she cried, ‘forgive me all I have said or done against you.’

  ‘With all my heart,’ he replied, ‘and since you now speak kindly to me, it gladdens my heart. Now there is no knight living that I cannot match.’