This was the first part of the pageant. The second part began with nearer premonitions on the trumpets. Then came several Cistercians, secretaries, deacons and other religious people, all burdened with ink made by boiling the bark of blackthorn, parchment, sand, bulls, pens, and the sort of pen—knife which scribes used to carry in their left hands when they were writing. They also had tally sticks and the minutes of the last meeting.
The third instalment was the Bishop of Rochester, who had been appointed nuncio. He came in all the state of a nuncio, though he had left his canopy downstairs. He was a silk—haired senior, with his cope and crosier, alb and ring – urbane, ecclesiastical, knowing the spiritual power.
Finally the trumpets were at the door, and England came. In weighty ermine, which covered his shoulders and the left arm, with a narrower strip down the right – in the blue velvet cloak and overwhelming crown – heavy with majesty and supported, almost literally supported, by the proper officers, the King was led to the throne on the dais, its canopy golden with embroideries of the dragons ramping in red – and there, the crowd now parting, Gawaine and Mordred were revealed to meet him. He sank down where he was put. The standing nuncio seated himself also, on a throne opposite, hung with white and gold. The buzz subsided.
‘We are ready to begin?’
Rochester’s priestly voice relieved the tension: ‘The Church is ready.’
‘So is the State.’
It was Gawaine’s rumble, faintly offensive.
‘Is there anything which we ought to settle before they come?’
‘It is a’ fair settled.’
Rochester turned his eyes to the Laird of Orkney.
‘We are obliged to Sir Gawaine.’
‘Ye are welcome.’
‘In that case,’ said the King, ‘I suppose we must tell Sir Lancelot that the Court is waiting to receive him.’
‘Bedivere man, send forth to bring the prisoners.’
It was noticed that Gawaine had put himself in the habit of speaking on the throne, and that Arthur let him do it. The nuncio, however, was less subdued.
‘One moment, Sir Gawaine. I have to point out that the Church does not regard these people as prisoners. The mission of His Holiness which I represent is one of pacification, not of revenge.’
‘The Church can aye regard the prisoners as she pleases. We are for doing what the Church has said, but we shall do it in our ain poor fashion. Bring forth the prisoners.’
‘Sir Gawaine…’
‘Blow for Her Majesty. The Court sits.’
In the middle of music like a bad pageant, and of music answered from outside, the heads turned round to the doors.
There was a rustle among the silks and furs. A lane was made with shuffling. In the archway, now open, Lancelot and Guenever waited for their cue.
There was something pathetic about their grandeur, as if they were dressed up for a charade but not quite fitted. They were in white cloth, of gold tissue, and the Queen, no longer young or lovely, carried her olive branch ungracefully. They came shyly down the lane, like well—meaning actors who were trying to do their best, but who were not good at acting. They kneeled in front of the throne.
‘My most redoubted King.’
The movement of sympathy was caught by Mordred.
‘Charming!’
Lancelot looked to the elder brother.
‘Sir Gawaine.’
Orkney showed him his back.
He turned towards the Church.
‘My lord of Rochester.’
‘Welcome, my son.’
‘I have brought Queen Guenever, by the King’s command, and by the Pope’s.’
There was an awkward silence, in which nobody dared to help their speech along.
‘It is my duty, then, if nobody will answer, to affirm the Queen of England’s innocence.’
‘Liar!’
‘I am come to maintain with my body that the Queen is fair, true, good and clean to King Arthur, and this I will make good upon any challenge, excepting only if it were the King or Sir Gawaine. It is my duty to the Queen to make this proffer.’
‘The Holy Father bids us to accept your proffer, Lancelot.’
The pathos which was growing in the room was broken by the Orkney faction for the second time.
‘Fie on his proud words,’ cried Gawaine. ‘As for the Queen, let her bide and be forgiven. But thou, false recreant knight, what cause had’st thou to slay my brother, that loved thee more than all my kin?’
Both the great men had slipped into the high language, suitable to the place and passion.
‘God knows it helps me not to excuse myself, Sir Gawaine. I would rather to have killed my nephew, Sir Bors. But I did not see them, Gawaine, and I have paid it!’
‘It was done in despite of me and of Orkney!’
‘It repents me to the heart,’ he said, ‘that you should think so, my lord Sir Gawaine, for I know that while you are against me I shall never more be accorded with the King.’
‘True words, man Lancelot. Ye came under safe—conduct and sanctuary, to bring the Queen, but ye shall go hence as the murderer ye are.’
‘If I am a murderer, God forgive me, my lord. But I never slew by treason.’
He had intended his protest in innocence – but it was received at more than its face value. Gawaine, clapping one hand to his dagger, cried: ‘I take your meaning in that. Ye mean Sir Lamorak…’
The Bishop of Rochester lifted his glove.
‘Gawaine, cannot we leave this wrangling to another time? The immediate business is to restore the Queen. No doubt Sir Lancelot would like to make an explanation of the trouble, so that the Church may be justified in his reconciliation.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’
Gawaine glared about him, till the King’s tired voice prompted the proceedings. They were going forward clumsily, by a series of jerks.
‘You were taken with the Queen.’
‘Sir, I was sent for to my lady your Queen, I know not for what cause; but I was not so soon within the chamber door when immediately Sir Agravaine and Sir Mordred beat upon it, calling me traitor and recreant knight.’
‘They called thee right.’
‘My lord Sir Gawaine, in their quarrel they proved themselves not in the right. I speak for the Queen, not for my own worship.’
‘Well, well, Sir Lancelot.’
The Ill—Made knight turned to his oldest friend, to the first person he had loved with his poises. He dropped the language of chivalry, falling into the simple tongue.
‘Can’t we be forgiven? Can’t we be friends again? We have come back in penitence, Arthur, when we needn’t have come at all. Won’t you remember the old days, when we fought together and were friends? All this wickedness could be smoothed out by the goodwill of Sir Gawaine, if you would give us mercy.’
‘The King gives justice,’ said the red man.’ Did ye give mercy to my brothers?’
‘I have given mercy to all of you, Sir Gawaine. I dare say I may speak without boasting, when I say that many in this room are indebted to me for liberty, if not for life. I have fought for the Queen in others’ quarrels, so why not in my own? I have fought for you also, Sir Gawaine, and saved you from an ignoble death.’
‘Yet now,’ said Mordred, ‘there are but two of Orkney left.’
Gawaine flung back his head.
‘The King may do as he will. My mind was made six months ago, when I found Sir Gareth in his blood – unarmed.’
‘I would to God he had been armed, for then he might have withstood me. He might have killed me, and saved our misery.’
‘A noble speech.’
The old fellow cried out passionately and suddenly, to anybody who would listen: ‘Why will you believe that I wanted to kill them? I knighted Gareth. I loved him. The moment I heard he was dead, I knew you would never forgive me. I knew it meant the end of hope. It was against my interest to kill Sir Gareth.’
Mordred whispered: ‘It wa
s against our heart.’
Lancelot tried one last effort of persuasion.
‘Gawaine, forgive me. My own heart bleeds for what I have done. I know how you are hurt, because it has hurt me too. Won’t you give peace to our country, if I make a penance? Don’t force me to fight for my life, but let me make a pilgrimage for Gareth’s sake. I will start at Sandwich in my shirt, and walk barefoot to Carlisle, and I will endow a chantry for him every ten miles in between.’
‘Gareth’s blood,’ said Mordred, ‘is not to be paid for by chantries, we think – however much it might pleasure the Bishop of Rochester.’
The old knight’s patience broke.
‘Hold your tongue!’
Gawaine was flaming on the instant.
‘Keep civil, my murdering mannie, or we will stab you at the King’s own feet!’
‘It would need more…’
Again the nuncio intervened.
‘Sir Lancelot, please. Let some of us keep due temper and decency, at any rate. Gawaine, sit down. A penance has been offered for Gareth’s blood by means of which the war may be brought to an end. Give us your answer.’
With the moment of expectant silence, the sandy—headed giant swam into the higher tone.
‘I ha’ heard Sir Lancelot’s speech and his great proffers, but he hath slain my brothers. That I may never forgive, in chief his treachery to Sir Gareth. If it please mine uncle, King Arthur, to accord with him, then the King will lose my service and that of all the Gael. However we may talk of it, we ken the truth. The man is a revealed traitor, to the King and to masel’.’
‘There is nobody alive, Gawaine, who has called me a traitor. I have explained about the Queen.’
‘We have done with that. I make no insinuations about the woman, if it be proper not to do so. I speak of what airt your own judgment is to be.’
‘If it is the King’s judgment, I shall accept it.’
‘The King is agreed with me already, before ye came.’
‘Arthur…’
‘Speak to the King by his title.’
‘Sir, is this true?’
But the old man only bowed his head.
‘At least let me hear it from the King’s mouth!’
Mordred said: ‘Speak, father.’
He shook his head like a baited bear. He moved it with the heavy movement of a bear, but would not look from the floor.
‘Speak.’
‘Lancelot,’ he was heard to say, ‘you know how the truth stands between us. My Table is broken, my knights parted or dead. I never sought a quarrel with you, Lance, nor you with me.’
‘But can’t it be ended?’
‘Gawaine says…’ he began faintly.
‘Gawaine!’
‘Justice…’
Gawaine rose to his feet, foxy, burly and towering.
‘My King, my lord and my uncle. Is it the court’s will that I pronounce sentence upon this recreant traitor?’
The silence became absolute.
‘Know then, all ye, that this is the King’s Word. The Queen shall come back to him with her liberty as it was, and she shall stand in nae peril for nothing that was surmised afore this day. This is the Pope’s will. But thou, Sir Lancelot, thou shalt go forth banished out of this kingdom within fifteen days, a revealed recreant; and, by God, we shall follow thee after that time, to pull down the strongest castle of France about thine ears.’
‘Gawaine,’ he asked painfully, ‘don’t follow me. I will accept the banishment. I will live in my French castles. But don’t follow me, Gawaine. Don’t keep the war for ever.’
‘Leave that to thy betters. Such castles are the King’s.’
‘If you follow me, Gawaine, don’t challenge me: don’t let Arthur come against me. I can’t fight against my friends. Gawaine, for God’s sake don’t make us fight.’
‘Leave talking, man. Deliver the Queen and remove yer body quickly from this court.’
Lancelot pulled himself together with a sort of final care. He looked from England to his tormentor. He turned slowly to the Queen, who had not spoken. He saw her ridiculous olive branch, her clumsiness and silly clothes. With a lifted head he raised their tragedy to nobleness and gravity.
‘Well, madam, it seems that we must part.’
He took her by the hand, led her to the middle of the room, translating her into his remembered lady. Something in his grip, in his step, in the fullness of his voice, made her bloom again – it was their last partnership – into the Rose of England. He lifted her to a crest of conquest which they had forgotten. As stately as a dance, the gargoyle took her to the centre. There, poising her flushing, the arch—stone of the realm, he made an end. It was the last time that Sir Lancelot, King Arthur and Queen Guenever were to be together.
‘My King and my old friends, a word before I go. My sentence is to leave this fellowship, which I have served in all my life. It is to depart your country, and to be pursued with war. I stand then, for the last time, as the Queen’s champion. I stand to tell you, lady and madam, in the presence of all this court, that if any danger may threaten you in future, then’ one poor arm will come from France to defend you – and so let all remember.’
He kissed her fingers deliberately, turned stiffly, and began to pace in silence down the long length of the room. His future closed about him as he went.
Fifteen days to Dover was the time assigned to any felon who had taken sanctuary. He would have to do it in the felon’s way ‘ungirt, unshod, bareheaded, in his bare shirt as if he were hanged on a gallows.’ He would have to walk in the middle of the road clutching the small cross in his hand, which was the symbol of his sanctuary. Probably Gawaine or his men would be skulking at his heels, in case for a moment he should lay the talisman aside. But still, whether in shirt or mail, he would be their old Commander. He would walk steadily, without haste, looking straight in front of him. As he passed the threshold, the look of endurance was already on him. People felt tawdry in the Justice Room when the old soldiers had left it, and many eyed the red whips sideways, with a secret dread.
Chapter XI
Guenever sat in the Queen’s chamber at Carlisle Castle. The huge bed had been re—made as a settee. It looked tidy and rectangular under its canopy, so that you were shy of sitting down. There was a fireplace with a little pot warming beside it, a high chair, and the reading desk. Also there was a book to read, perhaps the Galeotto one which Dante mentions. It had cost the same price as ninety oxen, but, as Guenever had already read it seven times, it was no longer exciting. A late fall of snow threw the evening light upward into the chamber, shining on the ceiling more than on the floor, so as to alter the usual shadows. They were blue, and in the wrong places. The great lady was sewing, sitting rather formally in the high chair with the book beside her, and one of her waiting—women, sitting on the steps of the bed, was sewing too.
Guenever stitched away with the half—blank mind of a needlewoman, the other half of her brain moving idly among her troubles. She wished she was not at Carlisle. It was too near the north – which was Mordred’s country – too far away from the securities of civilization. For instance, she would have liked to be at London – in the Tower, perhaps. She would have liked, instead of this dreary expanse of snow, to be looking out from the Tower windows at the fun and bustle of the metropolis: at London Bridge, with the staggering houses all over it, which were constantly tumbling off into the river. She remembered it as a bridge of great personality, what with the houses and the heads of rebels on spikes and the places where Sir David had fought a full—dress joust with the Lord Welles. The cellars of the houses were in the piers of the bridge, and it had a chapel of its own, and a tower to defend it. It was a perfect toy—town of a place, with housewives popping their heads out of windows, or letting down buckets into the river on long ropes, or throwing out slops, or hanging the washing, or screaming to their children when the drawbridge was going to be pulled up.
For that matter, it would have been nice m
erely to be in the Tower itself. Here, in Carlisle, everything was as still as death. But there, in the Conqueror’s tower, a constant ebb and flow of cockneys would be livening the frost. Even Arthur’s menagerie, which he now kept in the Tower, would be giving a comfortable background of poise and smell. The latest addition was a fullsized elephant, presented by the King of France, and specially drawn for the record by the indefatigable news—hawk, Matthew Paris.
When Guenever got to the elephant, she put down the sewing and began to rub her fingers. They were numb. They did not thaw so quickly as they used to.
‘Have you put the crumbs out for the birds, Agnes?’
‘Yes, madam. The robin was perky today. He sang quite a trill against one of the blackbirds who was greedy.’
‘Poor creatures. Still, I suppose they will all be singing in a few weeks.’
‘It seems a long time since everybody went away,’ said Agnes. ‘The court is like the birds now, it is so silent and heartless.’
‘They will come back, no doubt.’
‘Yes, madam.’
The queen took up her needle again, and pushed it carefully through.
‘They say Sir Lancelot has been brave.’
‘Sir Lancelot always was a brave gentleman, madam.’