"You are an evil woman," Ewain said.
"I only kept my promise to the lady. I engaged to plead her cause and you can swear that I have done it."
"Ask her to come in, and do you stay also."
And when the Lady of the Rock stood beside his bed, he said solemnly, "My lady, I am conscious of your high gifts and proud that you have found me worthy. But since you have used me with all gentle courtesy, I would be recreant if I did not tell you the truth of it. To accept your gift would make me unworthy to receive it. For I have taken an oath on the four Evangelists and on my knightly honor to complete a quest. I think you will agree that a knight who flouts one oath is not to be trusted to keep another. Therefore, my lady, I ask you to withdraw your noble gift and in its stead to give me the little ring from your finger, so that in dreadful and dubious combat I may look at it and relight my courage at the steady fire of your memory."
And afterward Lyne said to him, "I taught you only use of sword and spear. You must have had that other from your mother. With that weapon you will go far."
Anon they rode back toward the trysting place, and as they neared the triple fork, Sir Ewain said, "Madame, you have given me gifts beyond price. Will you then ask of me whatever is in my power to give?"
"That I will," she said slowly. "As a boon I will ask you to keep my memory green."
"That is no boon, my lady. I could not do otherwise even if I wished."
"Peace," she said. "I know promises and I know memory. But there is a way. As Holy Church makes every year a new Birth and Death and Resurrection through reenactment, so might you do regarding me."
"What do you mean, my lady?"
"Without disrespect, I mean an act is better than a thought. When you fetter your black spear, remember to ride low and forward. When you fight, fight to win, and, having won, be generous. And at night, before you rest, rub your armor well with fat--with this boon I will be content."
"Will you go back to find another knight?" he asked with jealousy.
"Yes, I suppose I will. But I will be critical. It will not be easy. Oh, God! how dreadful it must be to have a son!"
He greeted Gawain and Marhalt at the cross and conducted the lady to her seat beside the fountain where the damsel of thirty winters sat wearing her chaplet. Lady Lyne seated herself and placed her chaplet on her hair. And Ewain asked, "Where is the youngest damsel?"
"She will come," they said. "She is always late."
"Then farewell, my lady," Sir Ewain said. And as he rode away he thought he heard her say, "Farewell my son."
At the cross the three companions came together and each one knew that there was much to tell and more they would not tell. And as they sorted the year, a king's messenger rode up. "You are Sir Gawain and Sir Ewain!" he said. "I have searched for you. King Arthur asks you to return to court."
"Is he angry still?"
"No," said the messenger. "The king repents his hastiness. You will be welcomed."
Now the cousins were joyful, and they said to Marhalt, "You must come with us to court."
"I should be returning to my manor."
"But that would be a defect in a perfect quest, the only one."
Marhalt laughed. "As I honor my knighthood I cannot be guilty of such a thing," he said.
And the three rode happily toward Camelot. And each prepared his tale as he would have it told and repeated down the ages.
THE NOBLE TALE OF SIR LANCELOT OF THE LAKE
(And noble it is.--J.S.)
AFTER A LONG AND TURBULENT TIME, King Arthur, through fortune and force of arms, destroyed or made peace with his enemies inside his realm and out, and established in men's minds his right to rule. To accomplish this, the king had drawn to his person and his court the best knights and the hardiest fighting men in the world.
Having made peace through war, King Arthur found the dilemma of all soldiers in tranquillity. He could not disband his knights in a world where violence slept uneasily. And, on the other hand, it is difficult, if not impossible, to keep the strength and temper of fighting men without fighting, for nothing rusts so quickly as an unused sword or an idle soldier.
Arthur, knowing this, took the way of all generals in all time. He set up games which imitated war to keep his knights hard and hardy--jousts, tournaments, hunting, and endless warlike images. By these deadly games the fellowship of the Round Table sought to keep skill and courage high by venturing their lives in return for fame. In these games of simulated battle some knights increased in honor, while others were thrust down through misfortunate encounters with spear and sword on the tourney ground.
And while the older war-bred knights kept their arms bright, perhaps in memory of real battle, the young men, whose knighthood knew only the games of combat, did not love them.
Then Arthur learned, as all leaders are astonished to learn, that peace, not war, is the destroyer of men; tranquillity rather than danger is the mother of cowardice, and not need but plenty brings apprehension and unease. Finally he found that the longed-for peace, so bitterly achieved, created more bitterness than ever did the anguish of achieving it. King Arthur watched in apprehension while the young knights, who should have filled the fighting ranks, dissipated their strength in the mires of complaint, confusion, and self-pity, condemning the old time without having created a new one.
Among the battlewise fellowship of the Round Table, Sir Lancelot stood above all others. He proved himself and increased in honor and worship until he was known as the best knight in the world. No one defeated him in battle, joust, or tournament except by enchantment or treachery. This was that same Lancelot, who, when he was a child, heard Merlin prophesy for him preeminence above the knighthood of the world. During his boyhood and young manhood he had set himself to fulfill the prophecy, forsaking all else save his knighthood until he towered over the knights of the Round Table as they towered over all others. He was the victor in all contests and won the prize in every tournament until the older knights were reluctant to engage with him and the younger found contemptuous reasons not to fight at all.
King Arthur loved Sir Lancelot, and Queen Guinevere took kindly notice of him. And in return Sir Lancelot loved both the king and queen and swore to devote his knighthood to the queen's service all the days of his life.
It came about that the best knight in the world was without opponent in the court, and he felt his fighting skill rusting, and he grew despondent, for he could find no opposing sword to keep his sword sharp, no competing arm to muscle and advise his arm. And since the exclusive pathway of his life had led to what he had become, the world's best knight, Lancelot could find no crossroads to lead him to love or ambition, no obstructions to drive him to envy or to treachery or to greed, neither sorrow nor frustration to suggest religion beyond habit. His long-conditioned body found no interest in or understanding of comfort and appetites. He was a hound without a deer, a land-bound fish, a stringless bow, and, like all unused men, Lancelot grew restless and then irritable, and then angry. He found pains in his body and flaws in his disposition which were not there before.
Then Guinevere, who loved Lancelot and understood men, sorrowed to see the disintegration of a perfect instrument. She held long council with the king and heard from him his worry about the young knights.
"I wish I could understand it," Arthur said. "They eat well, sleep in comfort, make love when and to whom they wish. They feed appetites only half awakened and reject all the pain and hunger, weariness and discipline, which give pleasure their stature--and still they are not content. They complain that the times are against them."
"And so the times are," said Guinevere.
"What do you mean?"
"They are idle, my lord. The times make no demand on them. The fiercest hound, the fastest horse, the best of women, the bravest knight, none can resist the smothering of idleness. Even Sir Lancelot grumbles like a Sunday child in sedentary discontent."
"What can I do?" King Arthur cried. "I see the noblest fell
owship in the world crumbling--eroding like a windblown dune. In the hard dark days I prayed and worked and fought for peace. Now I have it and peace is too difficult. Do you know, I find myself wishing for war to solve my difficulties?"
"You are not the first or the last," said Guinevere. "Consider, my lord. We have general peace, it is true, but as a healthy man has little pains, so is peace a composite of small wars."
"Explain this, madame."
"It isn't new. A recreant knight mounts guard on a ford and exacts tribute or a life. A thief in armor desolates a district. A giant batters down the walls of a sheep cote and dragons burn fields of ripening corn with their fiery snorting--tiny wars everywhere and always too small for an army, too big for the neighbors to set aright."
"The quest?"
"I was thinking . . ."
"But the young knights laugh at old-fashioned questing and the old knights have seen real war."
"It is one thing to make oneself great but quite another to try to be not small. I think that every man wants to be larger than himself and that he can be only if he is part of something immeasurably larger than himself. The best knight in the world, if he is unchallenged, finds himself shrinking. We must seek a way to declare a great war on little things. We must find a word, a thought, a standard, under which small evils may enlist in a great wrong. Against this we could raise a fighting army."
"Justice?" Arthur asked.
"Too vague--too meaningless--too cold. But the 'King's Justice'--that's better. Yes, that's it. Every knight the personal agent and keeper of the King's Justice, responsible for it. That might do--for a time. Then every knight would be an instrument of something larger than himself. And when that runs out we may think of something else. Merlin made prophecies about everything, on both sides of everything. We should call Merlin. Men do like to be the children of light, even if they work in darkness. A young knight who spends his waking hours trying to deflower a demoiselle will rush to the defense of damsels."
"I wonder how I could declare this war," King Arthur said.
"Start with the best knight in the world."
"Lancelot?"
"Yes, and let him take the worst."
"That is harder to choose, my dear, but now I think of it, his nephew Lyonel is a likely candidate as the least, the laziest, the most worthless."
"My lord," said Guinevere, "if I can make Lancelot the first guardian of the King's Justice, would you try to make him guardian and teacher of Sir Lyonel?"
"It is a good thought. I will try. You are a good counselor, my dear."
"Then let me counsel you a little more, my lord. Sir Lancelot is only different from other men in degree. If you can find a way to allow him to think of it himself, it will be easier. Let me prepare him for questing and then turn him over to you."
"The worst and the best," King Arthur said, and he smiled. "It is a powerful combination. Such an alliance would be unbeatable."
"It is only through such alliances that wars can be fought at all, my lord."
At this time Queen Guinevere loved Lancelot for his bravery, for his courtesy, for his fame, and for his lack of cleverness. She did not as yet want to change him, push back his untamed lock of hair, whip him with doubt and confusion and jealousy to keep her image glowing in his brain. She did not yet love him enough to be cruel to him. Her affection was warmly self-contained, the quality of love with which a woman can be kind, and friendly, and very wise--too wise to instruct him openly.
She confided her restlessness to the restless knight, her feeling of uselessness to the unused knight. "How fortunate men are," she said. "Without notice or warning or permission, you can creep away from boredom into the great green world of wonders, of adventures in desert places. You can search out and correct injustices, punish evils, overcome traitors to the King's Peace. For all I know, you may be preparing now to leave this sapless stronghold of the useless and unused to go where men are needed, where courage and knightly honor are prayed for and rewarded."
"My lady--"
"Don't tell me. If you are making secret plans, I would rather not know them. That would make me darkly miserable. Sometimes I wish above everything to be a man, sir. But I must wait. My only adventures are in the pictures in colored thread of the great gallant world. My little needle is my sword. That's not a very satisfying conflict."
"But you must be happy in the knowledge that men wear your image in their hearts, my queen; yes, and in their prayers commend themselves to you and silently beseech your blessing as though you were a goddess."
"I'm afraid I do not hear silent prayers, Sir Knight. I don't deny that they are so, but I do not hear them, not being a goddess. Only one kind of devotion is self-evident."
"What is that, my lady?"
"I can only give you an example. A brave knight on lonely quest came upon a viper's nest of tyranny. Two evil brothers far in the north made existence unbearable, life unlivable, and spread their arrogance on the countryside until my questing knight met them and overthrew them. Then, instead of killing them, he sent them to me to sue for pardon and forgiveness. Through them he prayed my blessing. There was a prayer I could hear--and more--for in their telling I could participate in a world I cannot visit."
"Who was that knight?" Lancelot demanded.
"No--No! He prayed that I keep his name secret, and his prayer binds me as surely as my oath."
"I will inquire, my lady. It should not be hard to--"
She stopped him in mid-ramble. "Sir Lancelot--are you my knight?"
"I am, my lady--sworn."
"And has my wish currency with you?"
"It is my law."
"Then you will not inquire."
"I will not inquire, my queen. But did this act of his give you such pleasure?"
"More than I can say. It seemed to me that through that knight I became valuable in the world. I feel myself to be a little precious because of him."
She smiled to see him walk away in thought, his coarse, rebellious hair rioting on his forehead.
The king saw Lancelot pacing darkly on the wall and laid a trap for him. For Arthur, studying to be a king, had learned that a sovereign's request for advice and help chains a subject helplessly to the throne.
Thus Lancelot found his lord with elbows on a battlement staring moodily down at a squadron of cygnets maneuvering on the moat. "Pardon, sire, I did not know you were here."
"Oh, yes. It is you. I was deep in thought."
"Should you be here, sire, alone, without some bodyguard?"
"I am not alone," said Arthur. "I am surrounded by perplexities. Strange that you should pass. I was about to search for you. Do you believe that a man in need can call soundlessly to another?"
"Perhaps, my lord. It has happened to me that thinking of a friend and meeting him are connected. But does thinking draw him or his coming draw the thought?"
"That's very interesting," said Arthur. "We will discuss it sometime. What was drawing me to you was need for your help."
"My help, sire?"
"May I not turn to you for help?"
"Always, my lord. Only I can't think how I can carry water to the fountain."
"What a pretty speech."
"It's in a song, my lord. I heard a jongleur singing."
"Sir," said the king, "I come to you as a man of arms, a soldier and an old comrade. I know you have observed and surely worried over what we see around us. It is not long since we had a force second to none in the world, as we did prove to the world. And now--so soon--it is evaporating. The older knights are losing their edge. The young ones refuse the temper. Soon, without a stroke, we will have lost an army."
"Perhaps we need the stroke, sire."
"I know, I know. But where do we strike? There is no enemy. By the time one appears we will be helpless. I do not worry so about the older men. They deserve their rest and their decay. But the young men--if they earn their spurs in dancing, find their only opponent in a reluctant petticoat, we are lost. He
lp me, my friend. I need your help."
"They must be forced to learn the profession of arms, sire."
"But how? They will not enter the tournament, and in jousting they demand the claw instead of the spear point, to save themselves from injury."
"That isn't the way we earned the accolade, is it, sire? If I remember, you fought to the death unknown beside a certain fountain."
"Let us not refight old duels, much as I like to. If the young, mincing gallants were a few medium, wellborn sluggards, it would be different, but the best are the worst. Your own nephew has more ribbons than wounds and his only scars he got from picking roses."
"Sir Lyonel, my lord?"
"Sir Lyonel. I don't single him out to insult you. He is only one of the many giggling in the dark, engaging with battalions of words. The most dangerous weapon in this court is the lute. They challenge each other with deadly banquets."
Lancelot said harshly, "I'll take the young pup out and drown him in the moat."
"You'd have to take a pack of pups. They would fill up the moat. Wait--you have said it! I knew I could depend on you. Maybe that is the way."
Lancelot was not capable of pretending. "What have I said?" he asked. "I don't remember offering--"
"You said, 'I'll take the young pup out--' "
"--and drown him," Lancelot finished.
"Go back to the first part--take him out. You suggested it yourself. Suppose we sent them out--a battlewise old knight and a young pup--sent them with something to perform, some mission difficult and dangerous. Why--that might be the best way to train and season them. Thank you, my friend. And the older knights might love to get their harness dented in memory of old times."
"What kind of missions, sire?"