"Wherever there is need. The kingdom is infested with little wrongs to be righted. We could call them--let's see--Protectors of the King's Peace. They could wear the royal authority as a device. What do you think of it?"
"I must consider it, sire. But one thing does occur to me. It should be started slowly. If you sent out a hundred pairs of authority, the King's Peace would be hopelessly at war with the King's Peace before sundown."
"That might not be a bad solution," Arthur said. "Well--let us think about it. I will not forget it was your suggestion, my friend." And the king went away satisfied, for he had seen an ill-concealed flame spring to life behind Sir Lancelot's eyes.
The flower of the young knights met regularly at the well beside the keep. There, seated on the broad coping, they could watch the girls drawing water, evaluate their bosoms when they stooped to draw the bucket, and sometimes a windy gust careened their skirts and drew squeals of appreciative laughter from the budding knights, who spoke mysteriously of their conquests of receptive noble damsels and meanwhile tried to arouse receptiveness in water-bearing kitchen wenches. When the bucket swung idly the young lords compared the colors of their hose and measured the length of their pointed toes one against another. When an old knight passed by, they whispered behind their hands and looked at the sky with elaborate innocence, until his distance made it safe for tongue-sticking and eye-crossing, which forms of silent satire they had invented.
The evening gathering counted heads and asked, "Where's Lyonel? He's usually here before now. Gets here before the men in Amen at evensong."
"You remember--he had an assignation with a lovely dream. Did he tell anyone her name?"
"No--but he made it easy enough to guess."
"If it's who I think you mean, I don't believe it. Why she's twenty-three if she's a day."
"Well--I think he had an assignation with his uncle. I saw them together--Sir Lance what's-his-name."
They rolled and rocked with laughter and repeated the riposte: "Lance what's-his-name. You know, we might make that stick."
"You'd better not let him hear it. Your cheeks would burn and not on your face."
Sir Lyonel sauntered near and sat silently on the coping while they inspected his pouting mouth.
"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?"
That set them off. They howled with laughter, slapped backs, or doubled over, rolling their chests against their stomachs.
"Cat got your tongue? Ohee. He's better than a trouvere. Why, that's funnier than a dwarf."
"I'll buy him a bladder and bells myself."
And then their laughter collapsed, as it so often did without prodding.
"What is wrong with you?" they asked Sir Lyonel.
"I can't tell you."
"Is it about your uncle, Sir Lance what's-his-name?" The flavor was not there any more. "We saw you with him."
"If it's an oath--solve it to absolve."
"It's not an oath."
"Then tell."
"He wants me to go on a quest with him."
"What kind of a quest?"
"What other kind is there--damsels and dragons and damn all."
"And?"
"And I don't want to go."
"I can see that. You might get slapped by a giant."
"No--wait--listen to me. Listen to me, Lyonel. If you don't go, you're crazy. Why, you'd dine on it for years. I can just hear you. 'Uncle--is that a dragon?' or 'Then I jewtered my ashen spear and crashed into Sir Junkpile and brast his breastbone.' You've got to go, Lyonel. We can't stand it if you don't."
"Well, it might be amusing. Only he means it. No bed if he can help it, even alone. He'll sleep on the ground by preference."
"Well, that's reputation anyway."
"No--look, Lyonel. You could pretend to go along with it. Sir Lyonel, knight errant. You could ask him old-fashioned questions and get his opinion about everything. It would be better than a juggler."
"Well--I--"
"Lyonel, think of it this way. Of course we want to hear you tell it afterward, but just think who would roll his little fat bottom all over a bed laughing."
"We'll make up lots of innocent questions to ask him."
"If you don't go I won't ever speak to you--none of us will."
"I have thought long as you suggested, sir. I want to go out into the world of marvels and adventures."
"I am glad," said Lancelot. "You will not regret it. It is not well to stay too long in courts and halls."
"When shall we go, Uncle?"
"We must walk carefully. If we proclaim our purpose there will be sadness in the court. It is even possible that the king and queen might forbid our going. Let us prepare quietly and depart in secrecy. If there is sorrow or anger at our going, it will disappear when word of our adventures drifts back."
Lyonel controlled his laughter, and later at the well he said, "And then I said, 'That is well considered, sir. I will be secret as a sobbet.' "
"What's a sobbet?"
"He didn't ask. Why should you? And then I said, 'I agree. We will leave like smoke. But it would be amusing to see their faces when they find us vanished.' "
They prepared for their journey with such mystery, with guarded words and fingers raised to lips, with whispered conferences in corners, that the hounds in the halls and the pigeons in the towers knew something unusual was in progress. Sir Lancelot and his nephew drew up their plans in secret places so that some of the less intelligent knights reported treason to the king, for they said, "Why would they whisper together in the rain-swept shadow of the barbican if they are loyal?" To which the queen replied, "I would be more aftaid if they spoke quietly in the great hall."
In great cloaks, disguised by the folds of the hoods, wind whipping about their ankles, they conferred. "You must instruct me, sir," said Lyonel. "I have never fought or even seen a dragon."
"Be at ease, my child," said Lancelot. "In France I have met dragons and giants. You will see when the time comes. Have you arranged to have the horses taken outside the walls?"
"I have, sir."
"And are the squires instructed about secrecy?"
"They are, sir."
"We must confess our sins and be shriven," Lancelot said. "A knight must be as ready and prepared for his death as for an enemy."
"I would have forgotten that," said Lyonel.
The squires imposed secrecy on their damsels, who in turn had the promise of their sisters, who told their lovers only after oaths had sealed their lips, until at last the king said, "I wish they would be on their way, my dear. They are disturbing the whole city."
"It will be soon," said Guinevere. "Sir Lancelot begged my little blue veil today. He said he wanted to match the color on his device."
And when the two errant knights finally crept out of the city in the night, a hundred eyes watched them go and the battlements concealed an audience. Outside the walls, the squires disengaged themselves from their damsels' arms.
They were far away from discovery before the dawn broke, disclosing the world of errantry--a forest deep and green picked out in tapestry against the morning. It was a day which arranged itself for the color and form of chivalry. A great stag raised his antlered head and watched them pass, fearless in the knowledge that they were not hunting. A peacock in a sun-shafted glade spread his great fan and glittered like a jewel, while the arching blue iridescence of his neck and throat screamed like a giant cat. The unfrightened rabbits rose on their haunches, ears erect and front paws tight against their breasts. And the forest rang with carillons of birds. The squires chattered of affairs until Lancelot turned and stilled them with his eyes.
Sir Lyonel choked. "It seems a proper day for questing, sir."
"It is a perfect day," said Lancelot.
"Should I speak or must I keep silence, Uncle?"
"That depends. If your words reflect the quest as the day reflects it, if your speech is proud as the stag, noble as the peacock, humble and unafraid as the coneys the
re, then speak."
"Are questions fit, sir?"
"If they are fit questions."
"I am new at questing, sir. But I have heard in the great hall a hundred recountings by returning knights sworn by holy things to tell the truth."
"If they honor their knighthood, they honor their oaths."
"How does it happen then that a knight, attended by his squire, sometimes by a retinue, finds himself suddenly alone?"
"I can only tell you that it happens. What more do you wish to know?"
"I love a lady, sir."
"That is good. Your knighthood requires that you honor all ladies and love one."
"She did not want me to go away, sir. She asked what was the good of loving if the lovers were parted."
Sir Lancelot turned quickly and his gray eyes were cold. "I submit to you that she is not a lady. I hope you have sworn no embarrassing oaths. You must not think of her again."
"But she is a king's daughter, sir."
"Silence! Were she the daughter of the Emperor of Africa, were she the golden princess of Tartary, it would make no difference if she did not acknowledge a knight's love, and understand that knightly love is not a coupling of dog and bitch."
"Yes, sir, yes, my uncle. Don't be angry. It is the question of a young man. You love a lady, sir, a lady who--"
"It is well known, and no secret," said Lancelot. "I love the queen. And I will serve her all my days, and I have permanently challenged any qualified knight who may say she is not the fairest and most virtuous lady in all the world. And may she have only honor and joy from my love, as I have sworn."
"Sir, I meant no disrespect."
"See you do not then, or you will find your death in it, nephew or not."
"Yes, my lord. I ask only to be instructed. You, sir, are the greatest knight now living and it is said the most perfect knight in any time past or in years to come. Give me the benefit of your knighthood, sir, for I am young and ignorant."
"Nephew, perhaps I was overquick, but learn from that. You cannot be too sensitive where your lady is concerned."
"I thank you for your courtesy, my lord. You are famed throughout the world as perfect knight and perfect lover. Many young knights, such as I am, wish to pattern themselves on you. Must perfect knight, by which is understood perfect lover, never sigh, yearn, suffer, burn, desire, to touch his love?"
Sir Lancelot turned slowly in his saddle and saw that the squires had sidled close to listen. Under his glance they drifted back out of hearing and then out of sight, and they were not seen again until they were wanted.
When the two knights were alone, Sir Lancelot said, "When I was a child, great Merlin prophesied my greatness. But greatness must be earned. And I have spent my life in helping his prophecy to be true. Now I will answer your question. To sigh for my lady's favor, yes. To yearn for her grace, again yes; to suffer when she is displeased, triply yes; but to burn, to desire, that is not knighthood. Animals drool, serfs sniff and grin after females. No. You have it wrong. You have it very wrong. Could I love my queen, who is wife to my liege king, and desire her without dishonoring all three of us? I hope you find your question answered."
"Then it is better, sir, to love whom one cannot have?"
"Probably better," Lancelot said. "Certainly safer."
"So many things I want to ask," said Lyonel. "Who is so fortunate as I? To ride a-questing with great Lancelot. Do you know, sir, the young knights of my acquaintance, when they are aware I rode with you, will gather like wine flies at a bunghole. They will demand of me, 'What did he say?' 'How did he look?' 'Did you ask him thus and so?' 'What did he answer?' "
Sir Lancelot smiled kindly at his nephew. "Is it so?" he asked.
"More than so, sir. You are the perfect knight of now and then and of a thousand unhatched years. Men will know your deeds written with your sword, but they will ask, 'What was he like?' 'What did he say?' 'Was he gay or sad?' 'What did he think about this and that?' "
Sir Lancelot looked to the forest's edge, which bore ahead, and he said uneasily, "Why should they ask these things? Aren't deeds enough? Can you tell me? Aren't deeds enough?"
"It's not that, sir. The young men will be looking for greatness in themselves, and they will find parcels and packages not so great, and spoils and tangles of darkness. They will wonder whether you ever had doubts."
"I had no reason to doubt. Merlin foretold it all. Why should men look for weakness in me? What is their advantage?"
"I can only speak for myself, Sir Uncle. I have many sad faults leaping around my knees like hungry hounds. If I could claim kinship with you, then this greatness would not be out of reach. Perhaps it is so with everyone, that he looks for weakness in the strong to find promise of strength in his weakness."
Lancelot said angrily, "I will not throw that bone. If weariness and cold, and hunger, yes, and fear, have found a roosting place in me, do you imagine I will open the gates to doubt and so lose the whole castle? No, the gates are closed and the drawbridge up. Let your young knights stumble in their own darkness. If I were weak they would not find strength but only excuses for their weakness."
"But, sir, if you close the gates you recognize the enemy."
"My weapons are sword and lance, not words."
"That must be how it is," said Lyonel. "I shall tell them you have neither fear nor doubt."
"You do not know that much, young sir. In truthfulness you can only say you saw no evidence, if you do not."
For a time they rode in silence, and then Sir Lyonel said, "I must ask it even risking your displeasure, sir."
"Questions have bored me more often than angered me. Very well, what is your question? Let it be the last."
"Sir, there is no place in the world where your name is not known."
"I am told that this is true."
"And you are known as the world's perfect knight."
"I have tried to make it so."
"You are alone in your perfection."
"Until a better comes along. Anyone may challenge it. But these are statements or opinions. What is the question?"
"Is it enough?"
"What?"
"Are you content with it?"
A black rage shook sir Lancelot, drew his lips snarling from his teeth. His right hand struck like a snake at his sword hilt and half the silver blade slipped from the scabbard. Lyonel felt the wind of his death blow on his cheek.
Then, in one man he saw a combat more savage than ever he had seen between two, saw wounds given and received and a heart riven to bursting. And he saw victory, too, the death of rage and the sick triumph of Sir Lancelot, the sweat-ringed, fevered eyes hooded like a hawk's, the right arm leashed and muzzled while the blade crept back to its kennel.
"Here is the end of the forest," said Sir Lancelot. "I've heard it said the forest stops where the chalk begins. How golden the sun is on the golden grass. Not far from here there is a figure of a giant with a club on a hillside. And in another place I know of a monster white horse. And no one knows who made them or when."
"Sir--" Lyonel began.
And the greatest knight in the whole world turned to him, smiling. "Tell them that I was sleepy," he said. "Tell them that I was sleepier than I have been in seven years. And tell your young friends that I looked for a little piece of shade to comfort me against the sun."
"On my left hand, sir, I see an apple tree."
"So you do. Let us go there, for my eyes are heavy."
And Lyonel knew how hard the fight had been and how tired the victory, but the prize--the prize was sleep.
Sir Lancelot lay in the grass under the apple tree, his helmet for a pillow, and he fell into the darkest of all the caverns of forgetfulness. Sir Lyonel sat beside his uncle and knew that he had seen greatness beyond reason and courage that made words seem craven and peace that must be earned with agony. And Lyonel felt small and mean and treacherous as a dungfly while Sir Lancelot slept like carven alabaster.
Watching over th
e sleeping knight, Sir Lyonel thought of the endless talking of young knights gathered to celebrate death without having lived, critics of combat by those whose hands had never held a sword, losers who had laid no wager. He remembered how they said this sleeping knight was too stupid to know he was ridiculous, too innocent to see the life around him, convinced of perfectibility in a heap of evil, romantic and sentimental in a world where reality is overlord, an anachronism before the earth was born. And in his ears he could hear the words of smug failure, weakness, and poverty sneering that strength and richness are illusions, cowardice in the armor of wisdom.
Sir Lyonel knew that this sleeping knight would charge to his known defeat with neither hesitation nor despair and finally would accept his death with courtesy and grace as though it were a prize. And suddenly Sir Lyonel knew why Lancelot would gallop down the centuries, spear in rest, gathering men's hearts on his lance head like tilting rings. He chose his side and it was Lancelot's. He brushed a dungfly from the sleeping face.
The sky was clear and the noonday sun drove a pocket of shade under the lone apple tree. The heat cut a small apple free and Lyonel caught it in the air over Lancelot's face. He bit it and it was green and sour, and malformed with worm, so that he cast it away and spat the bitter pulp on the ground. The rolling plain stretched away to the southward, where it was bounded by a hill ramparted with turf and defended by eight monstrous ditches, an ancient moldering fortress of the dead gods or a forgotten giant people near enough to gods. The heat shook the distance and put a dream on the fortress and the plain. The growling wings of a bumblebee brought Lyonel's eyes back to the sleeping knight, and he waved the honey-heavy brute away. And Lancelot slept so deeply that his breathing could not be seen. His face was sweet with dignity and innocence and his mouth was hooked upward in a little smile. Sir Lyonel thought he seemed one under marble enchantment cast by a kindly witch, or a perfect husk from which the soul had sped after a fulfilled life and a peaceful death. The young knight loved this uncle and wanted to protect him from the mold of the little evil which is disappointed meanness of small men who dress their poverty and nakedness in cynicism. He felt lapped by outmoving rings of serene greatness, and he wished to be related to this man by more than blood--perhaps by a deed of high courage, performed by Lyonel and dedicated to Sir Lancelot.
The grass and the summer flowers of gold and blue sang under a chair of bees--and in the distance three heat-warped figures appeared, and after them a fourth, and all of them insubstantial and changing, but now Lyonel felt the beat of flying hooves on the earth and knew that these were not figures of enchantment that sometimes haunt the earth. As they emerged from the quaking mirage, he saw that they were three mail-clad knights who drove their horses with the desperation of fear, and behind them came a towering armored man on a foam-flecked stallion, gaining on the fleeing knights. As Sir Lyonel watched, the tall knight closed in like a cloud and swept the last knight from his saddle, and without pause he struck like a falcon and poised and struck again, and the other two went rolling. Then the pursuer swooped back and dismounted and tied the fallen men with their own reins, and he lifted them like bound sheep and flung them face down over their saddles.