For an outlawe this is the lawe, that men hym take and binde
Wythout pytee, hanged to bee, and waver with the wynde.
But before he came to his last wavering in the wind, he would have lived a free life. His mate would be marching sturdily beside him, also with a price on her head – her hair shaven off before she took to the woods, and known as a weyve. She would glance back occasionally, alert for the hue and cry with which they might be hunted.
Here might come a baron with a hot pie carried carefully before him, because he had to bring such a pie to the King once a year, so as to let King Arthur sniff it in payment of his feudal dues. There might go another baron at full tilt after some dragon or other, and bump! down he might come, while the horse cantered away. But if he did so, one of his attendants would immediately mount him again on his own horse – just as we would do to a master—of—hounds today – because that was the feudal law. In the distance of the north, under the fading sunset, there might spring up the cottage light of some busy witch who was not only making a wax image of somebody she disapproved of, but also getting the image baptized – this was the operative factor – before she stuck some pins into it. One of her priestly friends, by the way, who had gone to the Little Master, might be willing to say a Requiem Mass against anybody you wanted to dispose of – and, when he came to the ‘Requiem aeternum dona ei, Domine,’ he would mean it, although the man was alive. Equally distant in the west, under the same sunset, you might have seen Enguerrand de Marigny, who built the enormous gallows at Mountfalcon, himself rotting and clanking on the same gallows, because he had been found guilty of Black Magic. The Dukes of Berry and Brittany, two decent men, might have been trotting along the road, in satin cuirasses which imitated steel. These two did not like to accept the advantage of armour, and, finding the satin cooler to wear, they were determined to be ordinary and brave. Lancelot might have done the same sort of thing. Above them on the hillside, but unobserved by them, might have sat Joly Joly Wat, with his tar—box beside him. He was the most typical figure of Gramarye, his tar being the antiseptic of his sheep. If you had said to him, ‘Don’t spoil the ship for a ha’porth of tar,’ he would have agreed with you at once – for it was he who invented the adage, which we have translated from sheep into ships.
Towards the remoter distance perhaps a bankrupt might have been getting a vigorous whacking in some muscovite market—place – not out of ill—feeling towards himself, but in the fervent hope that if only he squealed loud enough some of his friends or relations in the crowd would pay his debts out of commiseration. Further south, towards the Mediterranean basin, you might have seen a seaman being punished for gambling, under a law of Richard Coeur de Lion. The punishment consisted in being thrown into the water three times from the mainmast tree, and his comrades used to acclaim each belly—flopper with a cheer. A third ingenious punishment might possibly have been inflicted in the market—place below you. A wine merchant whose wares were of bad quality would have been stuck in the pillory and there he would have been made to drink an excessive quantity of his own liquor – after which the rest would be poured over his head. What a headache next morning! In this direction, if you happened to be broad—minded, you might have been amused to see the saucy Alisoun who cried, ‘Tee—Hee!’ after she had been given the unusual kiss which Chaucer tells about. In that one, you might notice an exasperated Miller and his family, trying to straighten out the hurrah’s nest which happened last night through the displacement of a cradle as the Reeve tells in his tale. A schoolboy who had had the good luck and the initiative to shoot an Earl of Salisbury dead, with one of the new—fangled cannons, might be being idolized by his fellow scholars in the playground of yonder monastery school. Plum trees, only lately introduced like Merlyn’s mulberry, might be shedding blossom under the light of eve beside the playground. Another little boy, this time a king of four years old in Scotland, might be sadly issuing a royal mandate to his Nannie, which empowered her to spank him without being guilty of High Treason. A disreputable army, who used to live by the sword as a trained band, might be begging its bread from door to door – a good fate for all armies – and a man who had taken sanctuary in that church away to the east there, might have had his leg cut off because he had taken half a step outside the door. In the same sanctuary there would be quite a congeries of forgers, thieves, murderers and debtors, all busy forging away or sharpening their knives for the evening’s outing, in the restful seclusion of the church where they could not be arrested. The worst that could happen to them, once they had got their sanctuary, was banishment. Then they would have had to walk to Dover, always keeping to the middle of the road and clutching a crucifix – if they let go of it for a moment, you were allowed to attack them – and, once there, if they could not get a boat immediately, they would have had to walk into the sea daily up to their necks to prove that they were really trying.
Did you know that in these dark ages which were visible from Guenever’s window, there was so much decency in the world that the Catholic Church could impose a peace to all their fighting – which it called The Truce of God – and which lasted from Wednesday to Monday, as well as during the whole of Advent and Lent? Do you think that they, with their Battles, Famine, Black Death and Serfdom, were less enlightened than we are, with our Wars, Blockade, Influenza and Conscription? Even if they were foolish enough to believe that the earth was the centre of the universe, do we not ourselves believe that man is the fine flower of creation? If it takes a million years for a fish to become a reptile, has man, in our few hundred, altered out of recognition?
Chapter IV
Lancelot and Guenever looked over the sundown of chivalry, from the tower window. Their black profiles stood out in silhouette against the setting light. Lancelot’s, the old ugly man’s, was the outline of a gargoyle. It might have looked in hideous meditation from Notre Dame, his contemporary church. But, in its maturity, it was nobler than before. The lines of ugliness had sunk to rest as lines of strength. Like the bull—dog, which is one of the most betrayed of dogs, Lancelot had grown a face which people could trust.
The touching thing was that the two were singing. Their voices, no longer full in tone like those of people in the strength of youth, were still tenacious of the note. If they were thin, they were pure. They supported one another.
When that the month of May (sang Lancelot)
Comes and the day
In beames gives light,
I fear no more the fight.
When, sang Guenever,
When that the sonne,
His daily course y’ronne,
Is no more bright,
I fear namore the night.
But oh, they sang together,
But oh, both day and night,
My heart’s delight,
Must one day leave foredone
All might, all gone.
They stopped, with an unexpected grace—note on the portative, and Lancelot said: ‘Your voice is good. I’m afraid mine is getting rusty.’
‘You shouldn’t drink spirits.’
‘What an unfair thing to say! I have been nearly a teetotaller since the Grail.’
‘Well, I had rather you didn’t drink at all.’
‘Then I won’t drink, not even water. I will die of thirst at your feet, and Arthur will give me a splendid funeral, and never forgive you for making me.’
‘Yes, and I shall go into a Nunnery for my sins, and live happily ever after. What shall we sing now?’
Lancelot said: ‘Nothing. I don’t want to sing. Come and sit close to me, Jenny.’
‘Are you unhappy about something?’
‘No. I was never so happy in my life. And I dare say I shall never be so happy again.’
‘Why so happy?’
‘I don’t know. It is because the spring has come after all, and there is the bright summer in front of us. Your arms will go brown again, just a flush along the top here, and a rosy round elbow. I am not sure I don
’t like the places where you bend best, like the insides of your elbows.’
Guenever retreated from these charming compliments.
‘I wonder what Arthur is doing?’
‘Arthur is visiting the Gawaines, and I am talking about your elbows.’
‘I see.’
‘Jenny, I was happy because you were ordering me about. That’s the explanation. You were nagging about not drinking too much. I like you to look after me, and to tell me what I ought to do.’
‘You seem to need it.’
‘I do need it,’ he said. And then, with a suddenness which surprised them both: ‘May I come tonight?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Lance, please don’t ask. You know that Arthur is at home, and it is much too dangerous.’
‘Arthur won’t mind.’
‘If Arthur were to catch us,’ she said wisely, ‘he would have to kill us.’
He denied it.
‘Arthur knows all about us. Merlyn warned him in so many words, and Morgan le Fay sent him two broad hints, and then there was the trouble with Sir Meliagrance. But he doesn’t want to have things upset. He would never catch us unless he was made to.’
‘Lancelot,’ she said angrily, ‘I am not going to have you talking about Arthur as if he were a go—between.’
‘I am not talking about him like that. He was my first friend, and I love him.’
‘Then you are talking about me as if I were worse.’
‘And now you are behaving as if you were.’
‘Very well, if that is all you have to say, you had better go.’
‘So that you can make love to him, I suppose.’
‘Lancelot!’
‘Oh, Jenny!’ He jumped up, nimble as ever, and caught her. ‘Don’t be angry. I am sorry if I was unkind.’
‘Go away! Leave me alone.’
But he continued to hold her tightly, like someone restraining a wild animal from running away.
‘Don’t be angry. I am sorry. You know I didn’t mean it.’
‘You are a beast.’
‘No, I am not a beast, and nor are you. Jenny, I shall go on holding you until you stop being cross. I said it because I was miserable.’
Her muffled and restrained voice remarked plaintively: ‘You said you were happy just now.’
‘Well, I am not happy. I am very unhappy and miserable about the whole world.’
‘Do you suppose you are the only one?’
‘No, I don’t. And I am sorry for what I said. It will make me unhappy for having said it. There, please be a dear and don’t make me unhappy for longer?’
She relented. The years had smoothed their earlier tempers.
‘Then I won’t.’
But her smile and yielding only moved him afresh.
‘Come away with me, Jenny?’
‘Please don’t start it all over again.’
‘I can’t help starting,’ he said desperately. ‘I don’t know what to do. God, we have been going over this all our lives, but it seems to be worse in the spring. Why won’t you come with me to Joyous Gard and have the whole thing above board?’
‘Lance, let go of me and be sensible. There, sit down and we will have another song.’
‘But I don’t want to sing.’
‘And I don’t want to have all this.’
‘If you would come with me to Joyous Gard it would be finished, once for all. We could live together for our old age, anyway, and be happy, and not have to go on deceiving every day, and we should die in peace.’
‘You said that Arthur knew all about it,’ she said, ‘and that we were not deceiving him at all.’
‘Yes, but it is different. I love Arthur and I can’t stand it when I see him looking at me, and know that he knows. You see, Arthur loves us.’
‘But, Lance, if you love him so much, what is the good of running away with his wife?’
‘I want it to be in the open,’ he said stubbornly, ‘at least at the end.’
‘Well, I don’t want it to be.’
‘In fact,’ and now he was furious again, ‘what you really want is to have two husbands. Women always want everything.’
She declined the quarrel patiently.
‘I don’t want to have two husbands, and I am just as uncomfortable as you are: but what is the good of being in the open? As we are now it is horrible, but at least Arthur knows about it inside himself, and we still love each other and are safe. If I were to run away with you, the result would be that everything would be broken. Arthur would have to declare war on you and lay siege to Joyous Gard, and then one or other of you would be killed, if not both, and hundreds of other people would be killed, and nobody would be better off. Besides, I don’t want to leave Arthur. When I married him, I promised to stay with him, and he has always been kind to me, and I am fond of him. The least I can do is to go on giving him a home, and helping him, even if I do love you too. I can’t see the point of being in the open. Why should we make Arthur publicly miserable?’
Neither of them had noticed, in the deepening twilight, that the King himself had come in as she was speaking. Profiled against the window, they could see little of the room behind. But he had entered. He had stood for the fraction of a second collecting his wits, which had been far away considering the Orkneys or some other matter of state. He had stopped in the curtained doorway, his pale hand with the royal signet gleaming in the darkness as it held the tapestry aside – and then, without eavesdropping for a moment, he had let the tapestry fall and disappeared. He had gone to find a page to announce him.
‘The only decent thing,’ Lancelot was saying, twisting his hands together between his knees, ‘the only decent thing would be for me to go away, and not come back. But my brain didn’t stand it the other time, when I tried.’
‘My poor Lance, if only we had not stopped singing! Now you are going to get into a state again, and have one of your attacks. Why can’t we leave everything alone, and let your famous God look after it? It is no good trying to think, or do anything because it is right or wrong. I don’t know what is right or wrong. But can’t we trust ourselves, and do what does itself, and hope for the best?’
‘You are his wife and I am his friend.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘who made us love each other?’
‘Jenny, I don’t know what to do.’
‘Then don’t do anything. Come here and give me a kind kiss, and God will look after us both.’
‘My sweetheart!’
This time the page clattered up the stairs with the usual noise, in the way of pages, bringing light with him at the same time. Arthur had ordered the candles.
The room glowed into colour round the lovers, who had released each other quickly. It began to show the splendours of its hangings as the boy put fire to the wicks. The flowery meads and bird—fruitful spinneys of the Arras teemed and rippled over the four walls. The door curtain lifted again, and the King was in the room.
He looked old, older than either of them. But it was the noble oldness of self—respect. Sometimes even nowadays you can meet a man of sixty or more who holds himself as straight as a rush, and whose hair is black. They were in that class. Lancelot, now that you could see him clearly, was an erect refinement of humanity – a fanatic for human responsibility. Guenever, and this might have been surprising to a person who had known her in her days of tempest, looked sweet and pretty. You could almost have protected her. But Arthur was the touching one of the three. He was so plainly dressed, so gentle and patient of his simple things. Often, when the Queen was entertaining distinguished company under the flambeaux of the Great Hall, Lancelot had found him sitting by himself in a small room, mending stockings. Now, in his homely blue gown – blue, since it was an expensive tincture in those days, was reserved for kings, or for saints and angels in pictures – he paused on the threshold of the gleaming room, and smiled.
‘Well, Lance. Well, Gwen.’
Guenever, still
breathing quickly, returned his greeting. ‘Well, Arthur. You took us by surprise.’
‘I’m sorry. I have only just got back.’
‘How were the Gawaines?’ asked Lancelot, in the old tone which he had never succeeded in making natural.
‘They were having a fight when I arrived.’
‘How like them!’ they exclaimed. ‘What did you do? What were they fighting about?’ They made it sound as if it were a matter of life or death, getting the mood wrong because of their own.
The King looked steadily in front of him.
‘I didn’t ask.’
‘Some family affair,’ said the Queen, ‘no doubt.’
‘No doubt it was.’