“This sulphurous odor,” said Merlin, “is the alchemist’s and not the Devil’s, though to be sure my father was an imp.”
“Thy father,” said the Lady of the Lake, “was a mendicant friar, and he did get thy mother, a milkmaid, with child, which became thee. As a boy thou wert assailed by cries of ‘Bastard!’ And couldst not fight the whole world, poor fellow. Therefore, thy wits being keen, thou didst decide to live by them, and not by the sword—or the begging bowl.”
Old Merlin sank to a seat upon a bench on which alongside him an alembic boiled. “Then King Pellinore spake right,” said he sadly. “You are needlessly cruel.”
“It is but the truth,” said the lady, “which is oft harsh. But what I know will never go farther than this chamber, Merlin, for I do not despise thee (except insofar as thou wouldst pretend to supernatural powers). Thou hast made much more of thyself than could be expected. And thou hast provided great aid to King Arthur in his gallant experiment to make noble that which hath ever been mean. But now thy time hath come to leave him, for in the irony that so characterizes human affairs, it is thee who art the realist, while he will go ever further into the legendary.”
Now Merlin had recovered from his hurt pride and he doted on the Lady of the Lake more than ever. Therefore he sought again to fascinate her with his inventions: a box from which light played through a hole and cast images upon a white sheet affixed against a wall; a large horn, erected upon an engine which moved in a circular fashion, which did emit music; and two cups of tin, joined by a waxed cord, the which when pulled taut would conduct words spoken into one cup to the ear against which the other was held close.
And the lady examined these things politely, without showing disdain, but yet they seemed to her like unto battledores and shuttlecocks, for the entertainment of small boys.
“Thou art comfortable here,” said she finally, “in thy cave of alchemy. Therefore here thou shalt remain and never come out again.”
“That I should do happily,” said the old magician, “were you to stay with me, for to speak truly, now that Arthur hath all the furniture required to reign well, he would seem to need me no longer. And knowing you, I have learned to appreciate women at long last. With my practical cunning and your supernatural powers, lady, there is nothing that we could not manage.”
“Nay, old man,” said the Lady of the Lake, “thou canst not so confine the feminine principle, though ’tis quite masculine so to try.” Yet she was not so unfeeling as the libelous scribes would oft depict her in time to come, and she did promise to visit Merlin sometimes. And this she hath done throughout the centuries, for she is immortal, and as to Merlin, though he has no fiendish blood, he is long-lived through his lack of traffic with other humanity, for all men would live forever if they were not, as the Stagirite hath said, social animals.
BOOK VI
How Sir Tristram fought with the Morholt; and how he met La Belle Isold.
NOW THE TIME CAME when King Arthur decided to send Sir Tristram as emissary to King Mark of Cornwall, to determine why it was that Mark had not sent him evidences of fealty, for the Cornish lands were traditionally part of Britain, and Mark’s predecessor Gorlois had styled himself but a duke, and he was, as we have seen, a vassal of Uther Pendragon’s (and former husband of Arthur’s mother the fair Ygraine, as well as father to Arthur’s half-sisters Margawse, Morgan la Fey, and Elaine).
So Tristram did undertake this mission and he left Camelot. But he had not gone many leagues when he heard an halloo come from behind him, and he therefore stopped and turned, and he saw a knight putting his lance in the rest, for to begin a charge upon him. Now being a great master in the art of arms, Tristram held his own horse stock-still, for this was not a tournament but a matter in which lives might well be in the balance, and when his adversary reached him, Sir Tristram deflected the other’s lance with his own, and in the momentum of the charge, the other lost his grasp upon the weapon and it fell between the two horses. Therefore the other knight wheeled and drew his sword.
Now retaining his own lance Tristram had the advantage, but while he considered whether the principles of courtesy would call for his discarding it, so that the fight could continue with like weapons betweens equals in chivalry, the other knight chopped his lance in twain. Therefore Sir Tristram hurled the broken shaft away and he drew his own sword, and for a long time both knights occupied themselves each with hacking at the shield of the other. And Sir Tristram found his adversary was indeed a mighty man and as formidable as himself with the sword if not even more so, but at last his own horse did trip in a hole in the ground, and he fell to the earth.
Now the other knight did dismount as well, and Tristram saw that he was a man of great honor. And so they fought afoot, and the fight that had begun in midmorning continued till the sun had begun to fall in the western sky, and both men were weary and sore from much buffeting, and here and there each had hacked pieces of armor from the other, and their shields were cracked and splintered.
But finally Sir Tristram put all his remaining force into a mighty blow, the which would surely have cut through the crown of his opponent’s helmet and the skull as well, had not the other smote him in the side at the same moment, though happily with the flat of the blade, so causing his own sword to turn and also strike with the flat. Even so, its power was such as to knock the other knight to the earth, where he lay senseless.
Now Tristram unlaced and removed the helm of the fallen man, and he saw that he had fought all the day with Sir Gawaine.
Now when Gawaine awakened, Sir Tristram said to him, “My lord, I never knew it was you. And for your part, I can not but think that you mistook me for another. How terrible that we companions of the Round Table should smite each other!”
But Gawaine replied full of shame, “Sir Tristram, alas! It was no mistake that I attacked you, for I was well aware of your identity. I confess I did so in a mean exercise of envy, for which I humbly beg your forgiveness. Now, not only have you proved that your prowess at arms exceeds mine own, but your gracious assumption that I fought you through error is further evidence of your nobility, whereas I am ignobled in every regard.”
And he did rise and take up his sword, with the intent to break it upon a rock and so degrade himself, but Sir Tristram stayed his arm.
“My friend,” said he with the greatest feeling, “firstly, thou art the most worthiest knight I have ever striven with. Look how mine armor is hacked and dented, and I fear thy final blow hath come near to splintering my ribs though it was given with only the flat of the blade. And as to nobility, when I was thrown from mine horse, thou might have stayed on thine and had the advantage, but thou didst not, else the issue would surely have been reversed. The difference between us was a thing of chance. Now let us join our hands and swear in fellowship that never will we fight each other again, but be sweet friends always.”
And Sir Gawaine did grasp his hand and swear this, for he now understood that in a knight of the Round Table valor was ever to be conjoined with generosity, and so he conquered his envy.
Then they did wish each other to go with God, and Sir Gawaine went back towards Camelot whilst Sir Tristram resumed his journey to Cornwall, and when after many days he reached Tintagel, in his battered armor and carrying no lance, he was seized by King Mark’s discourteous guards and cast into a dungeon.
Now he might have stayed forever in that evil cell, where the walls were wet and his only company were the rats who came to share the stale bread sometimes thrust in to him, had not the warder come within that dungeon once, bringing him a basin of water and a towel and commanding him to wash. And Sir Tristram did this gladly, for he had not been able to bathe since leaving Camelot.
Now so soon as he had dried himself, the warder, who was a detestable sodomite (and Tristram was a handsome knight), did purpose to perform with him a vicious crime against Nature, but Tristram seizing his neck did break it quickly and made egress from the cell wearing only his shirt, for
the warder had torn away his hose. And though he was now clean, his hair was uncombed and his beard unkempt, and therefore as he went through the castle looking for King Mark he was thought to be a madman by those who saw him, amongst them more than a few ladies, and he was avoided by all as if a wild creature.
Now in an antechamber to the throne room he came upon a musician a-carrying a lyre, the which Sir Tristram seized from him and covered his privy parts with it, for they were naked below his shirt, and so he entered the court.
And King Mark was sitting on his throne, and he said, “Ho, comest to sing in thy shirt, insolent rogue!” And he commanded his retainers to administer a severe birching to the impudent fellow and then to hurl him from the battlements.
But Sir Tristram begged the king to hear his tale, and Mark relented.
“But,” said the king, “thou must do it in song, for ’tis my time of day to be amused musically.”
“Very well, then,” said Tristram, and then he began to play the lyre, which he had learned to do when a boy, and he sang what follows in a marvelous voice, for he had such a gift and was the finest singer of all the knights of the Round Table.
“Now,” he sang, “I was born in a land across La Manche, which is to say the British Channel, to a great king and a fair queen, and scarcely had I been born when a lady who did illicitly love my father the king enchanted him and locked him into a castle and then did poison my mother the queen.”
Now King Mark made a great scowl, and he stopped the song, saying, “Unless thou dost soon become more amusing, I shall have thee whipped after all.”
And Tristram continued in this wise: “The wicked lady then did marry my father and become queen of the land, and once when I was a child she did give me a cup to drink of, but by error my father the king drank from it instead, and he fell stone dead, for it contained venom.”
By this time King Mark had heard quite enough, and he said, “What this lady could not manage, I shall do here.” And he directed his attendants to fetch a flagon full of vitriol and to pour it down the throat of him who sang such a lugubrious song.
But Sir Tristram continued to sing undaunted, “And therefore I fled that kingdom of Lyonesse—”
But at the sound of this name King Mark cried to his retainers to hold, and to Tristram he said, “Lyonesse, in France?” And then, because Sir Tristram was already singing of his rearing (which was conducted by the faithful Gorvenal, his father’s loyal old vassal, in a remote forest), the king asked, “What was thy mother’s name?”
And Tristram stopped singing at last and said, “Elizabeth, God rest her soul.”
“My dear nephew!” cried King Mark. “For she was mine own dear sister.” And with great joy and every evidence of affection he did welcome Sir Tristram to his court.
That evening a great banquet was held at Tintagel, with Tristram now properly attired in the finest clothing as befitted his station, and he was seated next his uncle the king. Now, the reason wherefore King Mark had not wanted to hear a sad song was that he had grievous trouble of his own and, contrary to the opinion of old wives, misery doth not always seek like company.
“My boy,” he said to his nephew, “I am very sorry to hear of my sister’s death, but that was now long ago and in another country. I am myself tormented currently. Cornwall is a small land, too small to hold its own without swearing fealty to one or another of the great tyrants on either side of it: Anguish of Ireland or Uther Pendragon of Britain, both of whom are monarchs most brutal. Uther for example murdered my predecessor Gorlois, so as to take his wife to swyve. Therefore I threw my lot in with Anguish, but the Irish king doth demand I pay an extravagant tribute to him each year, always in the amount of three hundred: three hundred pounds of gold, of diamonds, emeralds, rubies, or whichever precious gem. But in recent years he hath tired of treasure and asked instead for three hundred creatures, dwarfs, colored men, or young Cornish boys. And for this current year, this vicious king hath demanded three hundred virgins. Now, if I fail to provide these he will send to Cornwall a giant who will ravish my land.”
“Uncle,” said Sir Tristram, “firstly, Uther Pendragon is dead and the sovereign lord of Britain is now Arthur, who is the finest king in the history of the world. Indeed he hath sent me as emissary to you, for I am a knight of the Round Table, a fellowship of men devoted to bringing about the triumph of virtue. Swear fealty to him and you need pay no tribute to any tyrant. For his part, he will furnish you aid against such enemies as the Irish king.”
“These are good news,” said King Mark. “Therefore go to Arthur and tell him I am willingly his vassal and that I ask him to send me an host with which to deal with this Hibernian giant.”
“Well,” said Sir Tristram, “I shall alone fight this giant.”
“Nephew,” said Mark, “thou singest and playest the harp very well indeed, and thou art a comely young man. But this giant, who is hight the Morholt, stands so high as an oak. The very sight of him, with his great black beard, yellow tusks, and purple mouth opened wide as a cave, roaring with obscene mirth at the prospect of wreaking mayhem, is enough to send a battalion of the bravest knights to flee like unto a pack of curs from a whirling cudgel.”
“Nonetheless,” said Sir Tristram, “I am your nephew and a knight of the Round Table. It would be unseemly to send for further aid in view of these mine affiliations. I shall fight the Morholt.”
King Mark saw that Tristram’s heart was fixed upon this purpose and that he could not deter him without causing shame for both of them. Therefore, though he privately expected to lose this nephew so soon after finding him, he gave Tristram permission to represent Cornwall in single combat against the Morholt, the dread champion of Ireland.
And so couriers were sent across the Irish Sea with this advice, and when they returned, many weeks later (during which intervening time Tristram sang and played the harp for the lords and ladies of the court, thus making many enemies, for the lords already did envy his relationship with the king), these messengers brought the reply of the Morholt to this challenge, which was as follows: “To Piss-tram, the so-called knight. If thou hast the heart for it, meet me upon the islet of St. Samson’s, where I shall kill thee and by evening the gulls shall sup on thy brains.”
Now incensed by this vile insult, King Mark would have put to death the poor couriers who had fetched it, though they were his own men, but Sir Tristram said, “Nay, Uncle, that is the practice of the primitive and brutal past, to blame the news on him who brings it. We are chivalrous now.” And he did reward these messengers with gold for returning promptly.
Now King Mark lost whatever little hope he had had that his nephew would overcome the giant, for he believed Tristram to be womanish.
And he said, “I have me a plan. On the day before the fight is to take place, I shall send a company of knights to conceal themselves in the trees on that islet. When thou goest to face the Morholt, my men will attack him from behind, driving a score of spears into his back, while others hamstring him with swords and axes. Whilst he is so being weakened, thou canst deliver to him the coup de grâce, a thrust into his great stones. The Morholt will die only if his genitals are ruined, for he is a notorious satyr, and the living creatures in each tribute of three hundred have been used by him for unnatural sexual purposes.”
“Uncle,” said Sir Tristram, “know you that a knight of the Round Table fights fairly.”
“But what can be unfair against a loathsome monstrosity?” asked King Mark. “When he hath killed thee he will ravish our three hundred maids with his great tool! That is, if I can find so many maidenheads still extant in Cornwall.”
But Sir Tristram continued to refuse utterly this unjust aid, and therefore Mark determined privately to furnish it all the same. And he sent one hundred of his best knights to the islet of St. Samson’s, which proved to be not far from the Irish shore, for the Morholt was a disdainful and arrogant giant too lazy to travel far for his victims, and because the sea of Ireland is e
ver a body of rough waters, this entire company of Cornishmen were sick on the voyage and arrived green-faced and puking.
And the islet was but half a league square and flat as a table and sans trees, so that these knights could not blend with the forest, and the Morholt came across from the shore in a sailboat which he impelled by the mighty gusts of air from his own lips, more powerful than the breezes that blew, so that the boat did race across the sea. Then he anchored it in nine feet of water and waded to land, the waves reaching only to his belt, and seeing this the Cornish knights, sick and fearful, did leap into the sea and perish.
Meanwhile Sir Tristram was sailing alone in a little boat, and when the islet came into sight he thought he saw a castle standing in the middle of it, but then as he drew closer he saw it was rather the Morholt, who stood six yards high and carried a ten-foot shield and was armed with a sword twice as long as Tristram was tall. Yet Sir Tristram was not frightened, for he knew the issue of all battles is in God’s hands, who having given each of us a life hath the right to take it away when He wills, and in any event will take it sometime, whether today or tomorrow, and a knight can but live what he hath of it with courage. And Sir Tristram’s life, having been unhappy, was not so great a treasure to its owner.
Therefore when he had disembarked from his boat he stove in its bottom with his sword and he shoved it from the sand into the water, where it sank.
Now the Morholt watched this with amazement and then he said, in his great voice the breath from which raised the dust from the ground between him and Tristram, “Little man, why dost ruin thy boat?”
And Tristram did grimace from the stink of the Morholt’s breath, which was foul with a corruption which made sweet the odors of rotten cheese and the foist of dogs, and a gull flying through it fell stone dead onto the beach.
“Because,” said Sir Tristram, “there will be but one of us who will leave this isle.”