The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights

  "Who was he? He was a liar."

  "No, my lady. He was not a liar and he was very wise."

  "Do you mention this to insult me?"

  "No--I don't think so. I mention it because I wonder which is you--the lovely woman or the wolf, or something in between."

  "I don't want him now," said she of the Outer Isles. "He is a fool. He thinks too much."

  Lancelot smiled ruefully. "Men have always been puzzled by wizards and enchantresses," he said. "Yes, and afraid--terribly afraid.

  "This morning in the cold and dark, waiting on the pleasure of your ladyships, a memory came to me of a time when as a child with an injured back I became for a little while a magician, and suddenly I thought I understood--but understanding does not remove the fear. It increases it."

  "Are we to listen to this discussion, ladies? Children! He is insulting. I will turn his legs to snakes." North Galys giggled. "What a good idea. And the snakes would crawl in different directions and--"

  "Listen!" said Morgan. "Go on, son of a pig. Tell us why your great discovery makes you afraid. I am always glad to hear such things. It stimulates the imagination."

  Lancelot stood up and then sat down again. "I am hungry," he said. "There was not much meat on the bones you sent."

  "Why should there have been? The dogs had them first. Nevertheless, remember them. They may be your last food. Go on about fear."

  "Maybe it's too simple, madame. But you know how children, when they are forbidden something they want, sometimes scream and storm and sometimes even hurt themselves in rage. Then they grow quiet and vengeful. But they are not strong enough to revenge themselves on the one they consider their oppressor. Such a one sometimes stamps on an ant, saying, 'That's for you, Nursie,' or kicks a dog and calls him brother, or pulls the wings from a fly and destroys his father. And then, because his world has disappointed him, he builds his own world where he is king, where he rules not only men and women and animals but clouds and stars and sky. He is invisible, he flies. No authority can keep him in or out. In his dream he builds not only a world but remakes himself as he would wish to be. I guess that's all. Usually he makes peace with the world and works out compromises so that the two will not hurt each other badly. There it is, you see."

  "What you say is true, but what then?"

  "Well, some few do not make peace. And some of these are locked away as hopelessly insane and full of fantasy. But there are others more clever who, through black arts, learn to make the dream substantial. This is enchantment and necromancy. Not being wise enough or kind enough, the magic manufactured world does not function and many are injured and many killed by its ill design. And then rage comes as to the child, destructive rage, vindictive hate. There lies the fear, for wizards and witches are children, living in a world they made without the leavening of pity or the mathematics of organization. And what could be more frightening than a child with total power? A spear and sword are terrible, God knows. That is why the knight who carries them is first taught pity, justice, mercy, and only last--force.

  "I am afraid, my ladies, for you are crippled, vengeful children with power. And I am your prisoner."

  "Let him burn with the fires of hell," Eastland cried, and her face was white and bloated.

  The red-haired witch of North Galys threw herself on the floor, her hooked fingers clawing the stones. She arched her back and beat her forehead on the floor and screamed until Morgan raised both arms, palms forward. Sir Lancelot crossed his fingers tightly under his robe. He heard the magic words--and the darkness closed like a fist, and the air chilled, and he lay naked on the stones.

  For a castle which was a figment of magic the dungeon where Sir Lancelot lay was remarkably strong and well built, with all of the discomforts and damp unpleasantness of age and permanence. The knight did not long remain stretched on the stone floor, for his knighthood too was well built and permanent, its foundations fixed in the best and bravest materials of the human spirit. He stood and felt his way through the fetid darkness to the wall and along the wall to the iron-bound oaken door. It was locked, of course, but through the grille he could smell the chill wind in the corridor.

  Perhaps he must die, but if he must the code required that he approach his death as though it were a part of life, and if any chink appeared in the inevitable, he must seize it instantly and with all of his strength, for if there were flaws in the knightly law, humble acceptance of injustice and force were not among them. A man could accept death with a good heart and gaily if he had exhausted every honorable means to avoid it, but no man worth his spurs crawled to his fate or bowed his neck to the stroke. He knew it was no good feeling for a weapon in his cell. There was no loose stone, no balk of wood, no nail, to arm his nakedness. His only cutting tools were teeth and fingernails, his club a fist, his ropes the muscles of his arms and legs. He might be left as Merlin was left, alone and helpless, to die of dark and hunger and cold. But if he were right and his captors were violent and vengeful children, they would not be able to forbear watching the suffering of their victim and gloating over his struggle to live. He thought again of Merlin, whom he remembered prophesying about him as a little boy standing braced against his lady mother's knee. What of that prophecy he might have forgotten Queen Elaine had kept alive for him. He would become the best knight in the world, Merlin had said. Well, now the world agreed that it was so--the prophecy had come true--more reason to trust the latter part. After a long and lusty life, he would die of love, or grief of love--but love. There was as little love as there was light in this grim place, and save for his formal knightly love for Guinevere, there was no love in Lancelot to break his heart. Therefore, this was not his death time. It was his duty under chivalry to accept whatever God might send, but also even God expected him to use what endowments he had.

  His pondering made the dark less black and the cold less freezing. If this was not his death time, then he must take advantage of any opportunity that might offer, even anticipate it. When the dark and evil queens came to luxuriate in his pain, their weapons and armor lay in magic arts. And Lancelot knew, as did everyone, that necromantic tactics required certain invariable ingredients. The hands must engage in formulary gestures and the voice must utter ritual syllables. Robbed of either of these, an enchanter was helpless as a sheep. If these enemies thought they could bring about his death, they differed with Merlin, and Merlin was the greater, and this meant that for all their powers they could not see the future, or penetrate his thinking. If he stood silently behind the door then, they would not know he was there. And if he pinned the arms of the first in to prevent gestures and with his free hand covered the mouth to stifle spells, and meanwhile protected his rear from counterattack with shouted paternosters, he might succeed. At least it was worth a try, and a try--a headlong try--was all the rules of chivalry required.

  His fingers searched the edges of the door and confirmed that it opened inward, as it must. If it were otherwise a prison door might be torn from its hinges by the might of frantic prisoners, but seated against heavy lintel and stone frames, it was secure. Thus he would have the shelter of the opening door. But if they came, when would they come? Sometimes a man was left until darkness and hunger and despair ground down his spirit to a craven babbling pulp. But these were women with the petulance of children, and patience was not in their nervous natures. Also, they were arrogant and angry. They would not let their fury cool. But long soldiering had instructed Lancelot. For flurry and clash of arms there were a hundred hours of waiting, and a good soldier learned waiting.

  Sir Lancelot leaned against the wall and called up another campaigner's trick, that of sleeping lightly while standing up. At intervals he awakened and rubbed his hands together to supple them against the cold.

  He did not know what time had passed when a sound aroused his sentry ear--soft footsteps distant in the corridor. His heart leaped, for only one person was approaching, and lightly, almost secretly it seemed. No guard with iron-shod feet and clas
hing sword. Then a little light was visible through the grille and Lancelot stepped back to take advantage of the opening door.

  The huge lock turned very slowly and as quietly as its rusty mechanism permitted. The hinges puled, and a ribbon and then a streak of light came through, and as a figure entered Lancelot leaped. His right arm imprisoned the arms and sent the candle flying and brought back the dark. His left hand jammed against a soft mouth and he cried loudly, "Our Father Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name. Thy kingdom come--" He paused, for there was no resistance from the soft small body of his prisoner. "Who are you?" he whispered hoarsely, and a gurgle came from behind his restraining palm. He released it a little, ready to clamp it back.

  "Let me go. I am the damsel who brought your dinner."

  His arms fell to his sides and he shook with the great chill of tension long held and suddenly released.

  "Now we have no light," the small voice said.

  "Never mind that. Where are the queens?"

  "In the great kitchen. I saw them through the door. They've a pot on the fire big enough to scald a pig. And they are putting things in it I wouldn't care to mention, and some of them alive. They look like ancient white-haired hags and they are cooking up a brew potent enough to rip the gates from Camelot."

  "Did they send you here?"

  "Oh no, my lord. They would put me in the pot if they knew."

  "Do you know where my armor is--my sword?"

  "In the gatehouse. I put them there myself."

  "My horse?"

  "I stabled him and fed him too."

  "Good. We will go now."

  "Wait, sir. Is it true you are Sir Lancelot?"

  "I am."

  "There are twelve doors and twelve locks before you are free."

  "Well?"

  "I can unlock them, sir."

  "Then do it."

  "Or not, Sir Lancelot."

  "Damsel, we must hurry. What are you talking about?"

  "Next Tuesday, sir, my father fights in tournament against those who defeated him."

  "What of that?"

  "If you will give me your word to help him win, I will unlock the doors."

  "By my Savior's Blessed Heart," he cried, exasperated. "The gates of hell are yawning and you bargain."

  "He is impossible to live with when he loses, sir. Will you give me your word?"

  "Yes, yes, of course. Now let us go."

  "We can't until you know what you are to do."

  "Then tell me--quickly. The hellish four may come."

  "Oh! I don't think so soon, sir. They are deep in cooking and they are sipping that dark magic simple that comes from Hind or Cipango or some outlandish place. A holy hermit told my father it is the evil blood of white poppies--"

  "Damsel--" he said. "What do I care whose blood it be?"

  "Well, only that after a little time it causes sleep. I think the queens will sleep."

  He sighed--defeated. "It is as practical to hurry an acorn toward treeness as to urge a damsel when her mind is set. Very well, my dear--in your own good snail-paced time. What is your father's name?"

  "Sir Knight, he is Sir Bagdemagus, and he was foul rebuked at the last tournament."

  "I know your father well," said Lancelot, "a good and noble knight, and by the faith of my body he shall have my services and you also."

  "Thank you, sir. Now you must know that ten miles to the west there is an abbey of white sisters. Go there and wait, and I will bring my father to you."

  "I promise as I am a true knight," said Lancelot. "Now let us go. Tell me, is it day or night?"

  "It is night, sir. Now we must feel our way along the corridor and up the stairs. Take my hand, for if we lose ourselves in this hive, we are lost."

  Twelve locks she turned and opened, twelve protesting doors, and in the gatehouse she helped to arm him as a knight's daughter should. She brought his horse and gentled him while he saddled. Then he mounted and said, "Damsel, I shall not fail by the Grace of God."

  He rode out of the castle gate and across the echoing drawbridge and turned to wave farewell, but no castle was there--only the star-girt sky and the east wind bowing the grasses on the embattled hill, and the shuddering cry of a long-eared owl hunting moles in the meadowland. Then Lancelot sought the entrance of the walled plateau and his eyes, grown accustomed to the lightless cell, found the night brilliant under the stars. He crossed the ditches and descended to the plain, but finding no road or path, he took a direction he thought was westward.

  He rode for many hours until his head reeled with the weariness of safety after tense and deadly danger, and at length he saw a pavilion pitched under a tree and turned his horse toward it. He called out courteously to warn its owner, and when no answer came, he dismounted and looked inside and saw a sweet soft bed and no one there.

  "I will sleep here," he decided. "No one could refuse me a little rest." He tethered his horse nearby to feed. Then he removed his armor and placed his sword handy and laid himself down in the bed and almost instantly he fell asleep. And for a time the way took him into the dark and trackless caverns of rest, but then he emerged and ranged in the forests and pastures of his memories and his desires. And then it seemed a lovely woman lay with him, embracing and kissing him, voluptuous and eager, and in his sleep the knight happily repaid kiss with kiss and embrace with searching caress until his anticipation floated him to the surface of sleep and he felt a bearded cheek against his ear and a hard-muscled arm about his waist. Then with a war cry he leaped from the bed, reaching for his sword, and his companion bounded after him, and they two embraced again in combat, gouging and biting, rolling, kicking, dancing like cats. They rolled fighting and scratching out of the tent as the dawn was spilling from the east. Then Lancelot took a bulldog's grip on his opponent's throat and pressed with all his might to squeeze his life away, until bulging eyes and thick protruding tongue and hands raised helplessly in the air proclaimed surrender.

  Sir Lancelot rolled away and sat up panting. "What kind of monster are you," he demanded, "to give foul caresses to a sleeping knight? Speak up--what are you doing here?"

  "I can't," the other said, painfully massaging his throat with his hands. And then he croaked, "I am here because it is my pavilion. I thought to find my love awaiting me. What were you doing in my bed?"

  "I found it empty and took my rest."

  "Why then, since you were not expecting a lady, did you return my embraces?"

  "I had a dream," said Lancelot.

  "That I can understand," said his late opponent, "but why then, on awakening from your dream, did you attack me?"

  Lancelot said, "It is not usual for the victor in a fight to offer explanations to the loser. Nevertheless, I am sorry I have hurt you. But you must know that I have lately been the victim of enchantments strange and terrible. And such things warp the mind toward usual events. When I awakened to find a bearded reptile kissing me, I thought it a new vile enchantment, and fought to free myself. How does your throat feel now?"

  "Like a goose's neck wrung for Christmas feast."

  "Do you believe me?"

  "About the enchantments? I have no choice. I may not say nay until I am well enough to fight again."

  "Come," said Lancelot, "let me dip a scarf in cold water and wrap your throat. My mother did that for me when my neck was stiff and it removed the pain."

  And in the tent, while Lancelot wound the cool poultice about the throat of his erstwhile enemy, the door curtain parted and a dear and lovely lady entered, who, seeing them, cried out, "What is this? What have you done to my lord, Sir Bellias?"

  Lancelot looked helpless but Sir Bellias said, "I suppose you must tell her. I can't."

  Then Lancelot, with many stammerings and pauses, reported what happened.

  "It is a shameful thing," the lady said, "if it were not so funny."

  Bellias croaked, "Do not blame him, my love. See, he has tried to make amends with a cold poultice."

  The lady had
been staring at the knight, and now she said, "Are you not Sir Lancelot?"

  "I am, my lady."

  "I thought I recognized you, sir, for I have seen you many times at King Arthur's court. We are honored, sir."

  "I wish the circumstances could have been different, madame."

  She tapped her teeth thoughtfully. "I have only one worry, noble sir, and that is for your honor."

  "How is that involved?"

  "It isn't really, but we must take great care that this tale does not get out, for if it did, laughter would peal through the world like bells and Lancelot's knightly deeds would fall before Lancelot's misfortune in bed. The queen particularly must be protected."

  Lancelot paled. "I can trust you two, and no one else knows."

  "Yes, that is true," she said, and then, after a while, "Let us change the subject and forget the past. Will you be in court, sir, at the next high feast?"

  "God willing, madame."

  "We also, sir. And do you know, Sir Bellias has long wished to be of the fellowship of the Round Table. You have weight at court. Do you suppose you could speak to the king in my lord's favor?"

  Sir Lancelot looked at her and surrendered gracefully. "I can promise nothing, but if he proves himself worthy in the tournament I will be glad to speak for him."

  "That is a good and knightly promise," she said.

  And Lancelot said, "Whenever I hold speech with a lady, I find I have a promise in her hands. Do you know of an abbey nearby?"

  "Surely, sir. The road to it is only a mile eastward toward the sun. Why do you ask?"

  "Another promise," said Lancelot disconsolately. And slowly he armed himself, and when he was about to depart he said to the lady, "Please do not forget your promise."

  "Mine? What promise?"

  "About--about--the--"

  "Oh! Of course," she cried. "I won't forget. I mean, I won't remember. And Sir Bellias will swear by his honor as a knight of the Round Table. No one ever violates that oath."

  Sir Lancelot found the road easily enough, a remarkable road paved with stone and higher in the middle than at the sides. And there were ditches on either side to carry rain water away. The way stretched straight as a spear across upland and lowland, turning aside for nothing, and as he went the country changed. The fields were neat and cultivated, bordered with clipped hedges. It was the time of haysel. Lines of ragged men with swinging scythes moved across the grassland, and behind them an overseer strode back and forth, keeping the line straight, encouraging stragglers with his long thin stave, which whistled like a wild dove's wings. And soon he came to rabbit warrens, pigeon cotes, sheep pens, then little houses on wheels with hens feeding about them, and grazing cows. Ahead he saw the walls of the abbey, new whitewashed and shining in the morning sun, and near it fish ponds seething with carp and all manner of coarse fish, and a swannery enclosed with woven withes. Near the abbey walls were fruit trees laid out in perfect rows, and lines of beehives of bound grass from which came the muffled small roar of the laboring legions. A small, swift river washed the walls and on a dam there stood a mill whose slow, majestic wheel turned in the race, and in the doorway were piled tow sacks of grain. And everywhere bees, rabbits, pigeons, fish, trees, river races, and men worked steadily to produce food and more food for the great abbey barns, whose huge doors were guarded by sacred symbols set over them like traps to arrest theft. It was a thriving, humming factory, and the storehouses bulged with plenty.