Now Gawain looked at her and saw that she was fair, and he remembered his faithless little damsel with loathing, and his vanity cried out for conquest. He smiled with confidence. "I will hold you to your promise, my lady," he said and he was pleased to see her cheeks turn rosy with excitement. She led him to her castle and set a bath for him with scented water, and when he was clad in a loose robe of purple cloth, she gave him food and wine and sat beside him so that her shoulder touched him. "Now tell me what you wish of me?" she said softly. "You will find I pay my debts."
Gawain took her hand. "Very well," he said. "I love a lady, but she does not love me."
"Oh!" Ettarde exclaimed in confusion and jealousy. "Then she is a fool. You are a king's son and a king's nephew, young, handsome, brave. What ails your love? No lady in the world is too good for you. She must be a fool." She looked into Gawain's smiling eyes.
"As my reward," he said, "I want your promise that you will do anything in your power to get me the love of my lady."
Ettarde controlled her face to conceal her disappointment. "I don't know what I could do," she said.
"Do I have your promise, on your faith?"
"Well--yes--yes. I promise, since I promised. Who is the lady and what can I do?"
Gawain looked long at her before he replied, "You are the lady, you are my love. You know what you can do. I hold you to your promise."
"Oh!" she cried. "You are a trickster. No lady is safe with you. You have laid a trap for me."
"Your promise!"
"I suppose I cannot help myself," said the lady Ettarde. "If I should not give you what you ask I would be false to my oath, and I hold my honor above my life, my love."
It was the month of May and the fields were green and gold, sweet with flowers and soft and warm in the afternoon sun. Gawain and Ettarde strolled out of the dark castle and walked in the meadow hand in hand to the bright pavilions set up on the grass. They had their supper sitting on the grass, and when the evening came a trouvere from across the sea sang songs of love and chivalry, and Ettarde's knights and damsels strolled in the evening listening and slipped away to other pavilions set at a little distance.
And when the night chill shivered them, Gawain and Ettarde entered their house of silk and dropped the door cloth. In a soft bed with coverlets of down they lay together in love and languor and then in love again, and time passed over them unnoticed. In the golden morning they broke their fast and loved and dined and loved and supped and loved and slept to awaken loving--and three days passed as though an hour had moved.
In his priory Sir Pelleas waited nervously through the promised day and night, and Gawain did not return. "Something has delayed him," Pelleas told himself, and he waited sleepless another day and night. Then, hollow-cheeked and frantic, he paced his cell saying, "Perhaps he is injured, perhaps ill. And yet if I go now I might spoil his subtle plan. But suppose she has taken him prisoner." Before daylight of the third night he could stand it no longer. He armed himself and rode toward the silent castle standing dark and unguarded, and he saw the pavilions in the meadow, their striped sides moving gently in the morning breeze. Silently he tethered his horse and moved to the first pavilion, and looking in saw three knights sleeping. And in the second he found four damsels sleeping tousled and content. Then he opened the door cloth of the third pavilion and saw his lady and Gawain clasped in each other's arms, sleeping in the deep, contented weariness of love.
Pelleas's heart broke. "So--he was false," he thought. "Did he plan this treachery or was he enchanted into it?" In agony he crept away and mounted his horse. When he had gone half a mile with the picture of the lovers behind in his eyes, anger arose in him. "He is not my friend. He is my enemy. I will go back and kill him as a traitor to his promise. I should kill them both." He turned about and started back the way he had come. And many years of honor and innocence assailed him. "I cannot kill an unarmed sleeping knight," he thought. "That would be treason worse than his, treason against my knighthood and the whole order of knighthood." And he turned back again toward the priory. And as he went rage clamored shouting in his breast, and he cried, "Damn knighthood, damn honor! Have they been honorable? I will kill them both for the foul things they are and rid the world of infamy." And he whirled his horse and galloped toward the castle. He tied his horse and crept toward the pavilion in growing dawn and he eased his sword silently from his sheath and his nostrils flared and his breath whistled from the pressure in his chest. In the tent he stood over the sleeping lovers. Ettarde turned in her sleep and her lips whispered some quiet dream and Gawain, sleeping, drew her close again. Sir Pelleas had never done a cruel or unjust thing in his life, and though he tried to raise his sword, he could not. Silently he leaned over them and laid his naked sword blade across their throats and he went silently away and he rode back to the priory weeping helplessly. He found his squires looking anxiously about for him, and when they gathered about him, Pelleas said, "You have been faithful and true to me in a faithless world. I give you all my goods, my armor and everything I have. My life is over. I will go now to my bed and I will never rise again. I shall die soon now, for my heart is broken. When I am dead you must promise to take my heart out of my body and lay it in my covered silver dish and deliver it with your own hands to the lady Ettarde, and tell her that I saw her sleeping with my false friend Sir Gawain."
The squires protested, but he quieted them and went to his bed and fell down in a faint and lay for many hours under the dulling shock of his sorrow.
When Ettarde awakened and felt the sword blade on her throat she started up and by its handle knew it for the sword of Pelleas, and she was frightened and angry. She shook Gawain awake and she said, "So you have lied. You did not kill Pelleas. Here is his sword. He is alive and he has been here and he has not slain us. You have betrayed both of us. If he had done to you what you have done to him you would be dead now, for you would not forgive another what you have done yourself. Now I know you and I shall warn all ladies against your love and all good knights against your friendship."
When Gawain tried to answer, she stopped him. "Do not excuse yourself. You will only make it worse."
And Sir Gawain smiled darkly at her and turned from her and walked to the castle for his armor. And when he had armed himself he rode away, saying to himself, "She was far from the prettiest. And as for Pelleas--this is my reward for revenging him on that woman who had made him miserable. Well--there it is. There is no gratefulness in the world any more. A man must look after himself. And I will from now on. It is a lesson to me."
In the Forest of Adventure Nyneve of the Lake journeyed restlessly. She had much changed since as an impatient girl she had robbed Merlin of his secrets and then his life. Then she had wanted power and eminence without control. But in the years since her power had made its own control. She could do things ordinary people could not do, and rather than making her free, she was a slave to the helpless. With the gift of healing she was the servant of the sick, her power over fortune tied her to the unfortunate, while her knowledge, which made evil apparent to her no matter what its mask, enlisted her in constant war against the ambitious plots of greed and treason. And, more than this, she sadly realized that while her strength bound her to the weak and troubled, it did not bind them to her, for they could not offer friendship as payment of a debt. Thus she found herself alone and lonely, praised but desolate, and often she longed for the old time when love and kindliness were cast equally in a coffer by all, for there is no loneliness like that of one who can only give and no anger like that of those who only receive and hate the weight of debt. She stayed little in one place, for always gladness for her services changed to uneasiness toward her power.
As she traveled through the forest she passed a young squire and he was weeping, and when she asked his sorrow he told her how his beloved master had been betrayed by his lady and a knight, and how his heart was broken and he lay with arms open for death.
"Take me to your lord," Nyneve
said. "He shall not die for love of an unworthy woman. If she is merciless in love the proper punishment is to love and be unloved."
Then the squire was glad and he conducted her to the bed where Sir Pelleas lay with lean cheeks and fevered, staring eyes, and Nyneve thought she had never seen so goodly and handsome a knight. "Why does good throw itself under the feet of evil?" she said. And she put her cool hand on his brow and felt the hot blood throbbing in his temples. Then she crooned softly to him, and soothed him until her repeated magic brought peace to him and the enchantment of dreamless sleep. Then she charged his squires to watch over him and not to awaken him until she returned. Then she went quickly to the lady Ettarde and overcame her will and brought her to the bedside of the sleeping Pelleas.
"How do you dare bring death to such a man?" she said. "What are you that you could not be kind? I offer you the pain you have inflicted on another. Already you feel my spell and you love this man. You love him more than anything in the world. You love him. You would die for him, you love him."
And Ettarde repeated after her, "I love him. Oh, God! I love him. How can I love what I so hated?"
"It is a little parcel of the hell you were wont to offer others," Nyneve said. "And now you will see the other side."
She whispered a long time in the ear of the sleeping knight and then she awakened him and stepped aside to watch and to listen.
Sir Pelleas glanced wildly about him and his eyes fell on Ettarde, and as he looked at her he was filled with loathing for her, and when her loving hand moved toward him he shrank away in disgust. He said, "Go away. I cannot stand the sight of you. You are ugly and horrible, leave me and never let me see you again."
And Ettarde sank to the ground weeping. Then Nyneve raised her up and conducted her from the cell, saying, "Now you know the pain. This is what he felt for you."
"I love him," Ettarde screamed.
"You will always while you live," Nyneve said. "And you will die with your love unwanted and that's a dry, shriveling death. Go now. Your work is finished here. Go to your dusty death."
Then Nyneve went back to Pelleas and said, "Rise up and begin to live again. You will find your true love and she will find you."
"I have worn out my capacity to love," he said. "That is over."
"Not so," said Nyneve of the Lake. "Take my hand. I will help you find your love."
"Will you stay with me until I do?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, "I promise to stay beside you until you find your love."
And they lived happily together all of their lives.
Now we must return to the three-forked crossroads and start southward with Sir Marhalt and his damsel of thirty years of age. She sat sideways behind him on his horse with one plump arm about his waist. And Marhalt said, "How glad I am that you fell to me. You appear to be a competent and comfortable woman. When one reaches a certain age it is hard enough to concentrate on questing without the heat and cold of young tempestuous love further to complicate an already confused way of life."
"Questing is a curious business," she said. "One can make it what one will."
"You have gone adventuring before, my lady?"
"Many times, sir." She laughed nobly. "The wonders of the quest are all a day's work to me. It is not a bad life when one rides with a good companion."
"I hope I may prove to be," said Marhalt. "I can remember but vaguely how once I would have contended for the pretty little sullen face, the golden hair, the mind as unformed as the breasts--yes, I remember."
"But now you find me more attractive?"
"I find you comfortable. But I wonder why a comfortable woman goes on quest. The cold nights, the hard damp ground to sleep on, the bad food or no food."
"There are ways to make it comfortable, sir. You saw that each of us had a bag. Mine is here tied to your saddle string. Does it interfere with you?"
"Not at all," he said. "It has of course the thousand little things a woman needs."
"It has," she said. "But different women, different needs. The little damsel has a bag also and in it scents, kerchiefs, gloves, a mirror, red earth for lips and cheeks, and most important a white physic powder to clear the body of cold greasy food and keep the complexion clear."
"And what has your bag, ma'am?"
"I am like you. A little comfort does no harm. I have a little kettle to boil water, herbs and smoked meat for emergency, lye to mix with ashes and fat for soap, for one does get very dirty, a good unguent for wounds and insect bites, and a light, tight-woven cloth to cover us against the rain. And of course that same white powdered physic."
"And for your woman's vanity, my dear?"
"A change of clothes for my skin's health, a comb, and a small sharp knife in case--in case--"
"In case of me?"
"I do not think I will need the knife, except perhaps to chop wild onions for the little pot."
"How glad I am to have you for my guide," he said. "You are not only wise but also good company."
"I, like others, am only as good as my companion."
"You have a graceful tongue, my dear."
"And you. Tell me," she said, "are you a great champion, a good fighting man?"
"I have been fortunate," said Sir Marhalt. "I have in recent years won more often than I have lost. But then I have the advantage of a thousand days of practice. It is possible that I fight well because I have fought often."
"You are not boastful, sir."
"I have seen too many good men go down, and I never permit myself to forget that one day, through accident or under the charge of a younger, stronger knight, I too will go down."
"Why then do you go adventuring? You must have lands, you could settle down with a good comfortable wife."
"Oh, no!" he said. "I have tried that. I was born noble, trained nobly, aimed like a well-directed spear at the life I lead. One might as easily reverse a charging horse as change a knight born to his knighthood. Do hind dogs hunt deer or hounds sniff after hinds? We kill them if they do."
"Hark!" she said. "I hear running water, a spring or a little stream. If you will find dry wood for a fire I will boil water, and I have a little box of dried camomile flowers to make a tea. And I have a small meat pie and a bit of cheese."
"You are a comfortable woman, my lady," Marhalt said.
And after they had eaten and warmed themselves with tea, she said, "It seems a pleasant time to sleep a little."
"Shouldn't we get on with our questing?"
"We have a year," she said. "I think we might take the time to sleep a little. Here, my lord, I will fold my cloak for your pillow."
He rested on his elbow and looked at her. "Why, you have lovely eyes," he said. "Hazel, I think, and warm."
"Lie back, my lord," she said. "When I was young as the little damsel yonder I fished in muddy waters for a quick compliment. But I have learned. If you had seen my young eyes once, you would never have seen them again, but now--well, it is different, isn't it?"
"Yes," he said, and yawning, "yes, very different, my lady."
When they awakened and rode on, the forest thinned and the afternoon was greenly gold and warm and windless, and the creeping ground thyme released its perfume under the horse's hooves. The lady said, "My lord, if I do not speak, it is because I will sleep a little. I will lay my head against your back if you don't mind."
"Did you not sleep?"
"No, I watched. But now you will watch for me."
"Can you sleep on a horse? Won't you fall?"
"In some of my adventuring I slept only on a horse," she said.
But Marhalt said, "I am afraid the horse might stumble. Put your scarf around your waist and pass me the ends." And he knotted the scarf in front of him so that they were bound together. "Now sleep, my dear. You cannot fall."
As the evening approached the forest thickened also and seemed to crowd closer, and it was no longer friendly, for enemies crept in on the edge of darkness. The lady shivered and awakened and sneezed.
"I slept long," she said. "You can untie me now. Will we stop soon?"
"I hope to find some house to stop in even if we travel in the dark. Are you fearful of the dark, ma'am?"
"No," she said. "I once was, and then I thought, I can see as well in the dark as they can."
"They?"
"Whatever is in the dark."
"Dragons can see in the dark, like cats," he said.
"Yes, I guess they can. I myself have not seen a dragon. My sister did many times, but she saw everything. Cats do not bother me, and until I see a dragon I will not go out of my way to trouble them. It is dark, sir. Could you see a house if we passed by one?"
"I smell wood smoke," Marhalt said. "Where there is a fire there may be shelter."
And sure enough they saw a black bulk against the inhospitable darkness and a clink of light shining around the door cracks. And the dogs rushed out barking around the weary horseman. The door flung open and a black figure holding a boar spear peered out, calling, "Who is there?"
"A venturing knight and a lady," Marhalt said. "Call your dogs, sir. We wish to shelter from the dark."
"You can't stay here."
"That is not courteous," Marhalt said.
"Courtesy and darkness are not friends."
"You do not speak like a gentleman."
"What I am not is not as pertinent as that my two feet are planted in my own doorway and my spear will keep them so."
"Save your pig spear for your children," Marhalt said angrily. "And tell us, if you know, where a knight and lady may find shelter."
"A knight venturing." The dark man laughed. "I know your kind, a childish dream world resting on the shoulders of less fortunate men. Yes, I can direct you if you will trade adventure for a night's lodging."
"What kind of adventure?"
"That you will find out when you get there. Ride on toward the red star until you see a bridge, if you don't miss it in the dark and drown yourself."
"Look, my ugly friend, I am weary and my lady is weary and my horse is weary. I will pay you to guide us."
"Pay first."
"I will, but if you do not lead us truly I will return and burn your treasured house."
"I know you would. Gentlemen always do," said the man, but he brought a little lantern with windows of horn and walked ahead of them, lighting the way. And in an hour's time he brought them to a fair castle of white stone standing against the blackness of the wood. He pulled a bell cord, and when the porter opened a little postern in the castle gate, the guide said, "Simon, I've brought a knight errant to lodge."