The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights

  "These are tried knights, my lady Lyne. Why did you choose me?"

  "For that very reason. You are not tried and therefore are not fixed. Your knighthood came to you through being the nephew to the king, not as a prize for battle. Tell me, my son, are you a good fighter?"

  "No, my lady, I am young and not experienced and my strength is not great. I have won a few rounds in the tiltyard against young men, and lost more. Today against a seasoned knight I went down like a rabbit under a blunt arrow. But Gawain couldn't beat him either."

  "Good," she said. "Very good."

  "Why good, my lady?"

  "Because you have not perfected your faults, young sir. You are well made but not hardened. I watched you move--and you use your whole body well as a natural endowment. I have long waited for such material as you. Look--at the branching path take the right hand. Do you find it unseemly for a lady of my age to go adventuring?"

  "I find it unusual, ma'am." He glanced over his shoulder and saw her face, her mouth tight with pleasure and fierce intention in her yellow eyes.

  "I will tell you," she said, "and then you must not wonder more or ever ask me again. A little girl, hating embroidery, I watched the young boys practicing and I hated the hobbles of a gown. I was a better rider than they, a better hunter, as I proved, and alone with quintain I proved myself with spear. Only the accident of girlness prevented me from being more than equal to the boys. Hating my limiting sex, I sometimes dressed in boys' clothes, masked myself against shame, and waited in a forest glade like a child errant for boys and young men. I beat them wrestling and with quarter stave, stood against them with sword and shield, until one time I killed a young knight in a fair fight. Then I was afraid. I buried his body, hid his armor, and crept back to the protection of my needlework. You know that burning is the punishment for a lady's treason against a knight."

  "What are you telling me?" Sir Ewain cried. "This is a tale of terror and unnatural."

  "Perhaps it is," she said. "I wonder how unnatural? Then I knew I must forgo knighthood. And bitterly I watched jousting and tournaments. I saw where men made mistakes and were too stupid to correct them. My mind was tuned to fighting, but good fighting; not the clumsy ceremony of carving up bodies like lumps of meat. I saw great knights compete and noted that their greatness was no accident. Perhaps they did not think of it, but they knew their weapons and their opponents; I recognized superiority and studied it and saw errors and remembered them until I knew possibly more than any knight living about the art of war. And there I sat, loaded with lore and no way to use it until--when the juices of my vanity dried up and the poison of my anger sweetened--in a word, when middle age came to me, I found an outlet for my knowledge. Have you known a young and untried knight to ride away and in a year return as tempered as a sword, as sure and deadly as an ashen spear?"

  "Why yes, I have. Last year Sir Eglan, whom even I could best, returned to win the prize at a tournament."

  She laughed with pleasure. "Did he now? A good boy. One of the best I have handled."

  "He never mentioned you."

  "Well, how could he? What man in this man's world would admit he got his manners from a woman? I did not need an oath from any of my knights."

  "You mean you lesson them?"

  "Lesson them, train them, teach them, harden them, sharpen them, and test them, and only then release a perfect fighting instrument on the world. It is my revenge and my triumph."

  "Where do we go now, ma'am? Will we have adventures?"

  "We go to my manor, hidden in the Welsh hills. Adventure you will have when you are ready, not before."

  "But I am supposed to be on quest."

  "Is it a bad quest to search for perfect knighthood? Say the word and I will slip down and go back to wait for another young candidate, and you can topple like a rabbit all your life."

  "Oh no!" said Ewain. "No, madame."

  "Then will you resign yourself to my law and my regimen?"

  "Yes, madame."

  "Good boy," she said. "It won't be easy, but you will be glad."

  "But what will I say when I return without adventures?"

  "For ten months you will train and learn," she said. "And then, I promise you, you will have more adventures and more profitable ones than the others in twelve months. Ride on, the school begins, the school of arms." And then her voice took on the compelling timbre of command. "You ride your stirrups short. We will lengthen them. Your feet must be as low as possible so that when you stand upright in your stirrups you clear the saddle just a hair. Short stirrups make an armored man top-heavy. Sit loosely, shoulders back. Take up the motion in your thighs and back. Now, let your feet hang free."

  "Madame," he said, "I've ridden all my life."

  "Men have been known to ride badly all their lives. Most men do. That's why a horseman so stands out among men."

  "But, madame, my instructor says--"

  "Silence. I am your instructor. The more loosely you ride, not sloppily but easy, offering no counter to the horse, the easier it is for your horse. And when you trot, rise to one shoulder for a while and then rise to the other. It rests the shoulders of your animal. Oh, I know there are many who, having many horses, wear them out, founder them, and with one day of hunting leave them heaving ruins. You will not do that. You will train two horses only, but train them as you train yourself, and you will comfort them and treasure them. I tell you, a good horse is better than good armor. A horseman is one thing, one single unit, not a man roosting on top of an animal. You will comfort and pleasure your horse before yourself, feed him before you eat, search his wounds before your own. Then when you have need, you will have both an instrument and a friend. Do you understand?"

  "I am listening, ma'am."

  "You will do more than listen. Now, your armor. We will sell it to some unsuspecting fool."

  "It's the best armor, ma'am. Made by a great artist in the mountains of Germany. It cost a fortune."

  "I can well imagine. On parade it draws all eyes. Ladies roll their eyes and coo at it as though the clothing wore the man, as it often does, but for fighting it's no damned good."

  "What's wrong with it? It comes from Innsbruck."

  "I'll tell you what's wrong. It is too thick and heavy. Metal never takes the place of skill. It protects areas that need no protection. It is full of lumps and hollows to catch spearpoint or offer cutting surface to a sword. You can't bend your right arm to deliver a stroke on the near side, and when you raise your arm, the little metal rose slips aside and exposes three inches of your pretty little armpit. Do I make myself plain? In a word, it is no damned good. You move in it like a jackass with loaded panniers. I myself in a long skirt could beat you with a sword, and you armored. It's armor to see, not to use."

  Ewain said with a touch of anger, "You are critical, madame."

  "You think so? I am cooing like a dove. Wait until you hear me truly critical. And if you resent it, let me down and go your way."

  "Madame, I did not mean--"

  "Then be silent until you mean something. You'll not only clear out this foolish fruit dish you are wearing but also a mass of collected rubbish from your mind. You are starting fresh, my boy, fresh as a baby held by the heels and newly spanked. Where was I? Oh! Yes, armor. Open your darling ears and listen, and remember. You might even repeat after me. The purpose of armor is to protect only what skill and speed and accuracy cannot. It should be as light as possible, and offer only angles to glance a blow. It should never have to be tested with direct impact. Its purpose is to deflect. The helmet should be so shaped as to slip a blade, not resist it. Your visor is so cunning that you cannot see. How can you fight if you can't see? An angled helm is better than thick plate, because even with a cast-iron pot on your head one solid blow with battle mace will stun you like a rabbit. Now, let us go to gauntlets--and then gorget--and then--we'll take up saddles later. Now--I will lay down the law and you will learn it word by word, and every word must be edged with fire. This
is the law. The purpose of fighting is to win. There is no possible victory in defense. The sword is more important than the shield, and skill is more important than either. The final weapon is the brain, all else is supplementary." And suddenly she was silent. And then she said, "I've drenched you, haven't I, my son? But if you could learn only what I have told you so far, few men in the world could meet you and fewer beat you. The night is coming. Pull into that copse on the hillside. While you wipe down your horse I'll dig out some supper for you."

  When Ewain returned from staking out his horse, she asked, "Did you wipe him dry?"

  "Yes, madame."

  "And hang your saddle cloth to dry?"

  "Yes, madame."

  "Very well, here's your supper." And she tossed him a slab of oaten bread, hard and tasteless as a roof tile. And as he gnawed at it uncomplaining, the lady Lyne squatted on the ground and wrapped her great cloak around her like a tent. "The night air brings out pains in my joints. I suppose age is whittling away at me. Oh, well, the world will not remember me, but I will leave men behind me. My tiltyard is the womb of knights. Tell me, young sir, what is your mother like? Some odd stories have gone out about Morgan le Fay."

  "She has been very good to me," he said. "Of course, with her holdings and all her special duties, perhaps I have not been with her as much as she wished, but--yes, she has always been kind and even thoughtful. And when she is in good temper and all goes well, there's no one who can be more gay. She sings like an angel then and dances and makes jokes so funny that you crack your sides laughing."

  "When she is not gay, what then?" the lady Lyne asked.

  "Well, then we have learned to slip away. She is a person of very strong character."

  "I hope she hasn't given you instructions in her kind of fighting?"

  "What do you mean, ma'am?"

  "Don't avoid the question, boy. I mean magic, and you know I mean magic."

  "Oh! She never uses magic. She has warned me about that."

  "She has? Well, good." The lady lay back on the ground and tucked her cloak carefully about her feet, and hunched her shoulders under it. "You must see Arthur often. Tell me about the king. What is he like when he is off the throne?"

  "No different, ma'am. He is always on the throne except--"

  "Except what?"

  "I shouldn't say it."

  "You must judge that. Is it disparaging?"

  "No--only puzzling--because you see, ma'am, he is the king."

  "And you saw something human."

  "You could call it that, I guess. On a night when my lady mother was very gay and we were all laughing fit to kill, a messenger came to her and she went black. And of course I slipped away as I have learned and went to the battlements to look at the stars and feel the wind."

  "As you always do."

  "Yes--how did you know? And I heard a sound like a puppy's hungry whine or like pain held in by tight fingers and squeezing through. I went toward it quietly, and in the shadow of the tower I saw the king--and he was weeping with his hands over his mouth to hold it in."

  "And you slipped away without speaking?"

  "Yes, madame."

  "Good!" she said. "That was the seemly thing."

  "It puzzled me, ma'am--and--it broke my heart. The king can't weep--he is the king."

  "I understand. Don't ever tell it again. And I will not repeat it. But it's not a bad thing to think about if ever you should dream of being a king. Go to sleep now, son. We ride early."

  And by early she meant the first paling of the misty stars. Lyne stirred Sir Ewain from his soggy sleep. "Up here," she said. "Say your prayers." She dropped a tile of bread on his chest. And as they made ready to ride she made a sullen litany. "Rust on the balls and sockets of my bones," she said. "It's not night weariness that reports age. It's the little gritty pains of the morning." Young Ewain stumbled blindly in half sleep to saddle his reluctant mount. And when he armed, the buckles and straps resisted his fingers. They were well on their way when the thin gray morning light picked out the path and set the trees up about them.

  They forded a broad, shallow river when the sun rose against their backs and came into an open country that climbed gorsy hills and then more hills to hills beyond, a rocky country that seemed to hold the night's darkness to itself. Sheep raised their heads and watched them, chewing, and then dropped their heads to graze again, and on every ridgetop a dark shepherd watched jealously, with a tousled dog asking his master's wishes, whining softly in anticipation.

  "Are those men or not men?" Ewain asked.

  "Sometimes one, sometimes the other, sometimes both. Do not approach them. They have stingers." The lady was silent in the morning, but when the horse slowed his steps on the hillside she showed her impatience. "Pick up your mount, lad," she said irritably. "The hills won't come to us." And she permitted no rest at midday, only a watering at a freshet that tumbled downhill.

  It was midafternoon when they climbed a last long slope and came to a pocket under the top, a cup hidden from everyone but birds, and in it low stone buildings crouching from the wind, roofed with split stone shingles, with low doors for short broad men, and lighted by arrow slits. These cotes were ranged on three sides of a tiltyard from which the stones were raked, and there Ewain saw a quintain on which was mounted a bag of sand the size of a man, and a hanging tilting ring, a wooden man with a club set on a pivot who automatically punished a spearman's clumsiness. It was a poor establishment. Some of the buildings sheltered sheep, some pigs, and some, not very different, were for men, and there was little to choose between them.

  The lady screamed an order as she slipped to the ground, and short dark men emerged truculently from the houses and came to take the horse. They touched their brows to the lady and looked at Ewain with appraising, baleful eyes, and spoke among themselves in an unknown language that seemed like a song.

  Lyne said, "Welcome, lad, to a lady's bower. If you can find any comfort here, it's something I have overlooked." She glanced at the sky--"Look at your quarters, son. Gaze at the sweet hospitality of these hills, consult the smiling faces of my men. You have three hours until dark. You may go before the sun sets and the road will be clear before you. But if you are here in the morning you may not leave, and if you do these little men will track you if you leave no more trace than last week's west wind, and the crows will feast on young tender meat."

  In the morning Ewain was still there and his training began--hour upon weary hour with a lance, while the lady stood and watched and caustically described the errors and found little good. And after a time, when the spearhead could find the mark, she set the target dancing on a rope, and crowed with triumph when the spearhead missed. And after lance work, hours with a sword weighted with lead to tear and mold the muscles, and not against an opponent but chopping work on an upright log, with every angle of cut inspected and criticized. The feeding was as rough as the work--porridge boiled with mutton and cold, bracken-flavored water--and struck the dark, Ewain stumbled bleary-eyed to his sleep skin in a corner and sometimes pushed a goose aside to make room for himself. Heavy sleep fell, until a rough boot stirred in the dark for a new day.

  In two months' time his eye and arm responded without thought or intention, and his motion and balance had become one thing. The lady watched every move and compared it with the day before, and at last she saw she had the material of a fighting man. And only then did she begin to talk to him with something beyond carping criticism.

  "You do fairly well, boy," she said. "I've seen better. I've watched your pride flare into anger again and again. 'I am a knight,' you said in your mind. 'How shall I live like a pig?' Do you know what 'knight' means? It is an old, old word. It means a servant, and that is well thought out, because who would be master must learn his trade by being mastered. It's an old saw, I know, but like others it only becomes true when you have done it. I'm going to give you an opponent soon."

  Then two months of riding at a tricky dodging Welshman who drifted
from his poised spear point like unstable smoke. And now the lady talked to him not as to a pig but more as to an intelligent dog or a backward child.

  "I suppose it is natural to close your eyes just before the moment of impact," she said. "Therefore, you must learn to keep them open, for in that moment of blindness anything may be done."

  And two more months and two more. Ewain was gaunt and lean and as muscled as a yew tree. He did not long for death in the evening any more or dread the toe in his ribs that awakened him if he did not rise first. Now he found his own errors and tried to correct them, and no longer did he slink away to sleep on the heels of his dismissal.

  "You will never be one of those rocklike men who stand against the waves. Not having the weight, you must make other men's weight fight for you. See that your spear is long. Lean forward in the saddle, as far forward as you can. You present a smaller target then, and more than that, if your point strikes first, it steals the force of a counterblow. Never, never present a flat surface. Never match force with force, but study your opponent before you fight, learn his strengths as well as his weaknesses, so that you may avoid the first and utilize the second. There are some foolish knights who think to disguise themselves with new devices or armor of a different color. If I have ever seen a man fight I will know him though he wear a beer barrel for armor and come to the lists riding on a goose."

  In the ninth month, with the year well turned, the lady Lyne conducted Ewain over the brow of the hill where he had never been, and in a sheltered vale they came upon a dozen of the broad dark truculent men of the country, who had there set up butts under the river trees, and where they practiced with bows as tall as themselves and arrows that drew back to the ear. The arrows flew with angry whispers; the butts were small and far away, but the shafts found them.

  "Here is the future," the lady said. "Here is the death of knighthood."

  "Why, what do you mean, my lady? This is a peasant sport."