But this knight then feloniously knocked Kay senseless with a blow of his steel gauntlet, for he was a man in whom wickedness knew no limit.
Now Guinevere would not send to King Arthur for aid against this contumacious rogue, for she did despise him too much for his lack of courtesy to herself and her ladies and for his cowardly assault on Kay. Therefore when next he drew his sword and presented its sharp point to her white bosom, she but stared at him in the queenly contempt that would have withered a man less vile.
But this had no effect on him, for he was quite foreign to all decency.
“Know you that I am Sir Meliagrant,” said he, “and I am renowned for my beastliness to womankind. All my life I have mistreated females, for the reason that they are smaller and weaker than men and cannot defend themselves. Never will I fight a man unless the odds are vastly in my favor, as now with Sir Kay. Such injustice is my delight. I am in all things a thoroughgoing scoundrel, and by intention, never by accident. My sole pleasure is in being felonious.”
And having concluded his detestable boast he proceeded to commit the criminal act of not only touching the queen, but grasping her around the waist and throwing her over his shoulder and striding from the hall. At this, a great many of the ladies fainted dead away, for never had they seen anything so evil in all their lives.
Now when Sir Kay came to his senses and he saw that the queen had been stolen and he reflected on his public shaming, he swore to get his own back on the evil Sir Meliagrant, and believing that this was, as Sir Gawaine had foreseen, that adventure which God had arranged for him peculiarly, he went and armored himself and he rode out of Camelot without telling a soul as to his mission.
And the ladies of the court remained in confusion for ever so long, so that neither King Arthur nor any of his knights but Kay knew that Guinevere had been carried off, and perhaps they would have continued to sit unwittingly at their meat until this day, had not King Pellinore, who was still out of sorts owing to his failure to get any cheese, gone to the kitchens in search of Sir Kay, and there he was told by the cooks, who were all blackened and greasy from the fires, where the seneschal had last been seen going, which was to the ladies’ dining hall.
Therefore Pellinore went there and hearing the ladies making a clamor of grief he was so bold as to go within, and there he was told what had happened. Then he went to King Arthur, and when the king heard of this outrage his wrath knew no limit, for Sir Meliagrant had violated at once every law of God and man, and Arthur called for Excalibur to be brought and for his horse to be saddled.
But Sir Launcelot begged him to hold, saying, “Sire, certainly a knight who so boasts of his evil in your court hath a method in his seeming madness. I fear he might lure you, distracted by anger as you are, into some ambuscade. I pray you to let me undertake this mission, for though I find this crime heinous in the extreme, I have not the personal concern which would divert me from what should be a pursuit with the single-minded intent to recover the queen.”
“Launcelot,” said King Arthur, who returned to self-command, “thou art mine exterior conscience. Anger is a sin, certes, and a king can not afford to be its captive. This crime should be considered as being foremost one against the crown, and I must think of myself as exclusively monarch and not husband.”
But Sir Gawaine did beg most ardently to be given this quest. “Uncle,” he said, “’tis I who am the special champion of women!” And now all the other knights rose as one and each protested that he himself was uniquely appropriate for to be sent after Queen Guinevere.
But King Arthur overruled them all, first reminding Gawaine that he had an appointment to meet the Green Knight a year hence, and only God knew how long a time would be required for the queen’s recovery, for no one could say to what land Sir Meliagrant had taken her. And the others he commended for their zeal, though it was to be expected from the company of the Round Table.
Finally he said, “Launcelot, I realize that coming when thou didst, thou wert sent by God to be of special service to Guinevere and therefore I designate thee to be from this moment on her protector, with the title Queen’s Own Knight.”
Therefore Sir Launcelot armored himself and rode in search of her who would be the only love of his life, although he did not know this yet, nor did King Arthur, nor did Guinevere herself. And the only person who loved Sir Launcelot in passion at this time was Elaine the maid of Astolat, who sat in her tower all the day and waited for his return from the tournament, holding the empty bowl in which she had fed him broths.
Now the abominable Sir Meliagrant took Guinevere to a kingdom that was not very distant from Britain but was cunningly concealed, tucked into a valley amongst mountains, entrance to which could be gained only by one pass not easily found, and before this pass was a rushing river over which was but one bridge, the narrowest in the world, for it was made of one long sword, the weapon of a giant, the which was mounted horizontally, keen edge upwards. Nobody had ever entered the country for that reason, and only Sir Meliagrant had ever left, for he had the only horse which could walk across this blade. (For like all wicked people he could do things which defied the means of honest men, for evil is always more easily managed than virtue.)
Now coming to this bridge, holding Guinevere on the horse before him, he crossed to the middle of it and then stopped, and whilst the sword and its burden swayed in the harsh wind that came down from the mountains, Sir Meliagrant said, “Think you that if you were dropped into this rushing stream your royalty and your beauty would save you from being drowned?”
But in the same disdain she had ever shown for Meliagrant, even while she was slung across his shoulder, Guinevere said, “What I think is only that I despise thee.”
Now her contempt had begun to affect Sir Meliagrant, who did yearn to be hated and feared and could not abide being held in contempt.
“Well,” said he urging his horse onwards, “I shall not drop you, my lady. I shall preserve you carefully for the hideous torture I shall inflict upon you when we reach my castle. I shall starve you, and I shall beat you, and I shall put a collar upon you and cause you to draw a cart. And these are but prefatory to the ingenious cruelties to come afterwards, the which it is my pleasure to plan as we ride.”
But Guinevere said nought, nor did she have any dread in her heart, for to a great queen adversity is but an inconvenience.
Now when they reached the castle Sir Meliagrant secretly cast Guinevere into a foul dungeon, and then he went to see his father, who as it happened was the king of the country, and his name was Bademagu, and he did not know that his son was wicked, for the truth was that he was a bit dotty. Therefore when he saw Meliagrant he greeted him affectionately, and he believed that his son’s recent enterprises had been of a beneficent nature.
“What a fine lad thou art, my son,” said he. “Most chaps of thine age would be out wenching, gaming, and wassailing, whereas thou spendest thy days comforting the poor. But I worry that thou dost not get sufficient pleasure. Thou art a prince and one day thou shalt be a king and beyond the gathering of rosebuds. Soon enough one’s youth is gone, the fingers are too rheumatic to squeeze a pair of bubbies, and one finds it difficult to remember being in the pretty imprisonment of a pair of white thighs.”
“Father,” said this false Meliagrant, “but for my duty to assume the throne one day—a day I pray be far into the future—I should take holy orders, being quite immune to the attractions of the world.”
“Thy piety is praiseworthy,” said old King Bademagu, wiping his eyes that were watery with age, “but ’tis not easy to be the father of a saint. I worry that thou wilt erect a pillar in the desert and go sit atop it for twenty years. Never have I known thee to practice the most simple amusements, not even hawking or pigsticking.”
And Sir Meliagrant did simulate a feeling of horror. “I blench at the thought of such cruelties, Father. For everything that hath life is precious to God, and as you know I live only on milk, cheese, and sterile egg
s, so that nothing must die to keep me quick.” And with such detestable lies he continued to gull his father, whereas he spent all his waking hours in wreaking cruelties on whatever was living, and whilst he slept he dreamed of worse ravages.
“I must now return to my prayers in the chapel,” said Sir Meliagrant, but when he left his father he went rather to his private store of torture-instruments and taking up a file, did sharpen the steel tips of his cat-o’-nine-tails, the better to lacerate Guinevere’s white back, and then he oiled the threads of the thumbscrews he would tighten to crack the delicate bones of her fingers, and whilst he was doing this he became so aroused in anticipation (for his greatest ambition had been realized: to have the most beautiful woman in the world” as his helpless captive), that he fainted dead away in bliss. And there we may leave him awhile.
Now, down in the foul dungeon, Guinevere sat serenely, though it was cold and damp and slime oozed from the walls and there were rats who lived there who were large as cats, but when they saw her beauty they became gentle and went away.
Sir Kay meanwhile was endeavoring to trace the route taken by Sir Meliagrant when he carried Guinevere off, and when King Arthur at last discovered his absence, he made great moan and he said to Gawaine, “Nephew, I fear that Kay has again bitten off more than he can chew. His zeal is commendable, but I am afraid that he will be killed if allowed to continue this quest unaided. Now Launcelot hath gone in search of the queen, but I ask thee to follow Sir Kay and preserve him against misadventure.”
“Willingly,” said Gawaine, and he did mount and leave Camelot, but he rode for many leagues without finding any trace of Kay, though he asked every churl he encountered whether he had seen the seneschal, and though some had seen a knight ride by, which in some cases had been Kay, in some Launcelot, and in others Meliagrant with Guinevere, and most of them had seen all three men (and one queen), being churls they would not admit this, should furnishing such information prove to their detriment and they be whipped for their pains, for the peasantry did not yet appreciate the difference between Arthur’s reign and that which preceded it.
Therefore Sir Gawaine continued to ride fruitlessly until he reached Sir Bernard’s castle at Astolat, where he was welcomed with great cheer by that old knight and invited to stay the night, for it was eventide already. And while they were supping together Gawaine discovered that it was at this place that Launcelot had stayed before he came to Camelot.
“Indeed,” said Sir Bernard, “’twas mine own daughter who tended him in his illness, and at a great cost, I fear, for she herself fell ill thereafter, and is at the point of death.”
Now Gawaine as the defender of women rose from his meat and asked to be taken to her, for though he was no physician the sickness of maidens was oft, he knew, rather of the heart than of the body, and he was well equipped to minister to such maladies. So he was conducted to the chamber of the fair Elaine, where she lay and was whiter than the sheets of samite on the bed, and she could hardly open her eyes for feebleness.
And Sir Bernard made much grief. “She has been bled repeatedly,” said he, “and brimstone has been burned to purify the air, and smoking feathers applied to her nostrils, and nigromancers have made their incantations over her to summon up the therapeutic sprites, and then the friars did come to exorcise these demons and when she continued to sicken counseled that she was so possessed of imps that she must be burned alive to be rid of them. Upon which I drove away the entire lot with a cudgel, damned jackals.”
But Gawaine did not attend to the words of the bluff old knight, for he believed that Elaine, though ill, was the most beautiful maiden he had ever seen on earth, and he fell in love with her utterly.
“My lord,” said Gawaine, “shall you permit me to minister to your daughter? For I believe I can cure her of this sickness.”
“Sir Gawaine,” said old Bernard, with a squint of his eye, “your reputation is not unknown to me. I beg you to do what you can to save my daughter’s life, if you make this offer solemnly, but I promise that with this sword I shall make you a capon if your means be not honest.”
“My oath on it, Sir Bernard,” Gawaine said. “My day of impious lechery is done, and I am sworn to defend and protect all women, except that the queen hath her first champion in Sir Launcelot of the Lake.”
At this name the fair Elaine opened her eyes and groaned most piteously.
“Lady,” said Gawaine softly, “God will save you, else all beauty would be gone from the earth and ugliness regnant.”
And Elaine did breathe the name “Launcelot” and took Sir Gawaine’s fingers into her own white hand, then she closed her eyes again and slept.
“Pretty fool,” said Sir Bernard. “My heart doth ache to see her so. Cure her, Gawaine, and you shall have whatsoever I can give you.”
“Her hand in marriage,” said Sir Gawaine, “is all that I want in the world.”
“It is yours,” said Sir Bernard, “for I can see that you are now a knight of the greatest worship. And now I shall leave you, for you have my total trust.”
And Sir Gawaine spake the truth, though who knows whether if Elaine had been well he might yet have been able to overcome the carnal appetites with which he had been born, for God gives each of us a natural attraction towards a particular sin, to try our piety, and Gawaine’s was ever the gaining of a woman’s intimacy by means other than force.
Now he did stand by Elaine’s bed all the day and all the night, and never dared even to sit down for fear it might disturb her, and by morning he was all but paralyzed in his limbs, especially the wrist of the hand held by Elaine. But at dawn the light came through the window and illuminated her face, and she awakened with a smile that was even more radiant than the sun.
But seeing Gawaine at her bedside she gasped and did drop his hand, relieving his ache of muscle but bringing soreness to his soul, for though he had correctly divined that a maiden whose illness could not be cured by bleeding did suffer from a malady pertaining to Love, he was wrong in his belief that for Elaine his own love would be the cure.
“Sir knight,” said she then, “you are not Launcelot, and you were wicked to pretend to be he.”
“Nay, lady,” Sir Gawaine said, “Sir Launcelot is my friend and dear to me as mine own brothers, but never have I posed as that great knight.” And he told her who he was.
“Forgive me, noble Gawaine,” said Elaine. “I had me a dream, then, in which Sir Launcelot came and held mine hand all the night and said he loved me only.” But she did then weep most piteously, saying, “But ’twas an illusion, and I have awoke only to go back to dying.”
And now Gawaine identified her illness, and he was hard put to overcome his disappointment, for he loved this maid with all his heart. But he was a great knight, and though he was yet capable of feeling envy in lesser matters, in those of the greatest substance Sir Gawaine was near to being the finest of all at the Round Table.
Therefore he said to Elaine, difficult as it was, for he loved her more than ever, “Dear lady, you must grieve no longer. Launcelot hath gone upon a quest, but he will return before you are much older. And I can tell you that he doth have no ladylove, having but lately left a remote monkery. When he comes back I shall bring him to see you, and how can he fail to fall in love with you? For you are the most beautiful maiden in the world.”
Now Elaine found some cheer in Gawaine’s words, but not much, for she said, “But he was here at Astolat for many weeks, and clearly he was not smitten or he should have come back ere now.”
So poor Gawaine found himself in the situation of having to plead the cause of his friend, for the purpose of curing this maiden whom he himself loved but to whom Launcelot was apparently insensible. And little did he know that this would serve only to prolong and intensify Elaine’s torment, for he who interferes in hopeless matters of love is more cruel than kind, if unwittingly.
Now it may be asked, Well, did not hearing of Launcelot’s coldness encourage Gawaine’s own hope
s that Elaine might eventually transfer her love to him who was warm? But the answer to this is No, for Gawaine was not so vain as to suppose he could replace in her affections the greatest knight in the world. And Sir Launcelot did always inspire modesty in the best members of the company of the Round Table, for what all good men admire most is he who is best at what they do, putting him beyond envy.
Therefore Gawaine, because of love, became at this time as sad as Tristram had been from birth onwards except for brief interludes, and as melancholy as was Launcelot himself as a result of pondering on his invincibility. And this was unprecedented for Sir Gawaine, who amongst the foremost knights had ever been the most merry.
Now what Gawaine did was to assure the fair Elaine that Sir Launcelot though masterful with men was shy with women, and all the more so when he did care most for them. And poor Elaine’s need was such that she heard this with great joy and soon she came to think that what she had formerly believed as Launcelot’s indifference to her was rather the evidence of a love so ardent that he could not display it openly without shame, which was to say, without being seemingly effeminate.
“To be sure,” said she, “he did ask me for a favor to wear at the tournament.”
And remembering the red sleeve affixed to Launcelot’s helm, Gawaine now understood whence it had come. “Well, there you are,” said he. “If you are not his lady, then nobody is. ’Twas your sleeve that cleared the field.”
Now Elaine soon felt well enough to rise from her bed and to take nourishment, and she continued throughout the succeeding days to improve in health, and Gawaine lingered at Astolat for her sake, believing that his general obligation to aid women took precedence over the particular command to look after Sir Kay.
Meanwhile Sir Kay as usual came to grief. Having arrived at the sword-bridge he saw he could never cross it, and therefore he dismounted, removed his armor, and put down his weapons, and leaping into the rushing stream he with great difficulty swam to the other side, but when he reached the far bank he was half-drowned and chilled to the bone by the icy waters, and in such a condition, and unarmed altogether, he was easily captured by the wicked knights posted by Sir Meliagrant to protect him against any pursuers sent by King Arthur.