The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights

by John Steinbeck

  Kay said, "I know my friend well enough to be sure he would not insult me. What is the question?"

  "You are foster brother of the king."

  Kay smiled. "I am. We suckled at one breast, swaddled together, played cock-a-hoop, hunted and learned arms together. I thought he was my brother until the revelation came that he was Uther's son."

  "Yes, I know. And in the first troubled years you were a very lion at his side. Your name lighted terror in the king's enemies. When the five kings of the north made war against Arthur, you with your own hands killed two of them, and the king himself said your name would live forever."

  Kay's eyes were shining. "It is true," he said softly.

  "What happened, Kay? What happened to you? Why are you mocked? What crippled your heart and made you timid? Can you tell me--do you know?"

  Kay's eyes still shone, but with tears, not pride. "I think I know," he said, "but I wonder whether you could understand it."

  "Tell me, my friend."

  "Granite so hard that it will smash a hammer can be worn away by little grains of moving sand. And a heart that will not break under the great blows of fate can be eroded by the nibbling of numbers, the creeping of days, the numbing treachery of littleness, of important littleness. I could fight men but I was defeated by marching numbers on a page. Think of fourteen xiii's--a little dragon with a stinging tail--or one hundred and eight cviii's--a tiny battering ram. If only I had never been seneschal! To you a feast is festive--to me it is a book of biting ants. So many sheep, so much bread, so many skins of wine, and has the salt been forgotten? Where is the unicorn's horn to test the king's wine? Two swans are missing. Who stole them? To you war is fighting. To me it is so many ashen poles for spears, so many strips of steel--counting of tents, of knives, of leather straps--counting--counting of pieces of bread. They say the pagan has invented a number which is nothing--nought--written like an O, a hole, an oblivion. I could clutch that nothing to my breast. Look, sir, did you ever know a man of numbers who did not become small and mean and frightened--all greatness eaten away by little numbers as marching ants nibble a dragon and leave picked bones? Men can be great and fallible--but numbers never fail. I suppose it is their terribly puny rightness, their infallible smug, nasty rightness that destroys--mocking, nibbling, gnawing with tiny teeth until there's no man left in a man but only a pie of minced terrors, chopped very fine and spiced with nausea. The mortal wound of a numbers man is a bellyache without honor."

  "Then burn your books, man! Rip your accounts and let them take the wind from the highest tower. Nothing can justify the destruction of a man."

  "Eh! Then there would be no feast; in war no spears or food to make the battle possible."

  "Why do men mock you, then?"

  "Because I am afraid. We call it caution, intelligence, farsightedness, having a level head, good conservative business sense--but it is only fear organized and undefeatable. Starting with little things, I have become afraid of everything. To a good man of business, venture is a sin against the holy logic of numbers. There is no hope for me--ever. I am Sir Kay the Seneschal and my old glory is gobbled up."

  "My poor friend. I don't understand it," Lancelot said.

  "I knew you wouldn't. How could you? The death-watch beetle is not gnawing at your guts. Now let me sleep. That is my nought, my zero, my nothing."

  Sir Lancelot sat by the window smiling at his sleeping friend, and when the snoring rattled the gate he arose from his seat and quietly removed his armor and put on Kay's, and took Kay's shield, and descending to the courtyard, he found and saddled Sir Kay's horse. Then quietly he opened the gate and passed through and rode away in the darkness.

  And in the morning when the seneschal awakened and missed his armor he was perturbed for a moment--but then he laughed. "There will be some sad knights this day," he thought. "They tumble out like mice to fight Sir Kay. But with the armor of Sir Lancelot I will ride in peace, and men informed by fear will give me courtesy."

  Sir Lancelot rode into a fair meadowed land splashed with yellow flowers and woven throughout with pleasant streams where brown trout jumped for flies and others cruised silently stalking trout.

  Beside a clear pool maidens were washing linens and spreading them on the meadow to whiten between sun and grass. They watched the knight go by and waved to him with the clean wet garments in their hands, and one bold maid of twelve brought him a cup of wine made from corinth berries and stroked his horse's shoulder, waiting for the cup.

  "They say you are Sir Kay," she chattered.

  "That is so, little maid."

  "They say Sir Lancelot is hereabouts."

  "Perhaps."

  "Oh! Do you know him, sir?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "Is it true, sir, that he is tall as a pine tree and fire flashes from his eyes?"

  "No, that is not true. He is only a man. In some ways a very ordinary man."

  "Is he your friend?"

  "Yes, you might say so."

  "Then I think you have no right to say what you said."

  "What did I say?"

  "You said he is not as tall as a pine tree and his eyes do not flash fire. You said he was an ordinary man."

  "In some ways."

  "If you were his friend you would not insult him when he is not here to defend himself. But you are only Kay. Perhaps you know no better. Give me the cup!"

  "Thank you, little maid."

  "If I see him I'll shout up to him what you said. And he will ram his spear down your throat. Everyone knows he is tall as a pine tree."

  "Are those pavilions I see there yonder, little maid?"

  "They are. And if you are wise you will not go near them. Some knights are there and they will give you a tumble. You had better creep away before they see you."

  "You think that would be wise? Are they such good knights?"

  "Well, they aren't Lancelots, but they might spread Sir Kay like linen on the grass."

  "What are their names?"

  "Sir Gawter, Sir Gilmere, and Sir Raynold. They are well known here."

  "Perhaps if I do not anger them they will let me pass."

  "Oh, it isn't anger, sir. They wait there looking for a do with some passing knight."

  "What if Sir Lancelot passed?"

  "Why, then I think they might have business elsewhere."

  "Well, I suppose I must take my chance. If they should overthrow me, will you succor me, little maid?"

  "I owe service to all true knights as they owe service to me, sir. And you have spoken courteous and fair to me. I had been told Sir Kay is vain and full of pomp and boasting. But you are a gentle humble knight and these are false tales. When you have fallen I will help to unarm you and ease your pain as a true damsel should."

  "Gramercy," he said. "You are a courteous young lady."

  "No matter how badly you may fare with arms, if I hear ill spoken of you, sir, I will correct it, for you seem a well-spoke gentleman." The little lady watched him go.

  Lancelot looked back to wave to her and he saw a curiosity. The little fingers of each hand were hooked in the corners of her mouth, pulling it to a wide white band; her middle fingers pushed up her nose against her face, while her forefingers pulled down the corners of her eyes, which were crossed against the bridge of her nose. And from her drawn mouth her tongue projected and wagged up and down at him. His hand paused, half raised to wave.

  The maiden dropped her arms and unconcernedly went back to her washing by the pool.

  Sir Lancelot moved on, thinking. "There must be something I don't understand about little maidens."

  And there was. At the pool she turned her back, because she liked this knight and did not want to see him hurt.

  Meanwhile, Sir Lancelot rode near three silken pavilions set up beside a wooden bridge over a small deep stream. Three white shields hung on three spears at their entrances and three knights lolled drowsily on the meadow grass until the sound of an approaching horse aroused them.

>   "Oh, God is bountiful," Sir Gawter said. "Look who comes--the great Sir Kay. The noble, brave Sir Kay. Brothers, I tremble and my heart grows weak, but I must meet him though I quake with fear."

  "No--wait," the others said. "You can't swallow all the sweets."

  Sir Raynold cried, "I cannot let you face this dragon. Poor thing that I am, I will fight him though I die."

  "Wait a moment," said Sir Gilmere. "I can't let you venture such valuable lives. I will fight him."

  "He will be gone before we can decide which one must sacrifice himself," said Sir Gawter. "Here--I have three straws. The shortest wins him."

  And as Lancelot passed without speaking, their heads were together as they drew straws for him. He crossed the bridge and continued on his way, but in a moment, with a clatter, Sir Gawter--the winner--galloped after him, shouting, "Hold, false knight!"

  Sir Lancelot drew up and waited for him. Sir Gawter forced his horse to dance sideways with a spur in his near side. He said, "If I did not know the shield of proud Sir Kay, I would know him by the smell of kitchen grease. How did you dare to creep over our bridge?"

  "Is it your bridge, young sir?"

  "Do you imply that I am a liar, sir? You'll pay for that."

  "I only asked. I did not take your bridge--I only crossed it."

  "Ho, now you turn threatening. I have heard of your pompousness, sir. I shall remove it."

  "I do not threaten you."

  "Why did you pass without greeting? Are you too proud to hail ordinary knights?"

  "I sought to avoid a quarrel."

  "Are you a coward then?"

  "No. But I had no quarrel with you. Please let me pass, young sir."

  "Then I will give you a quarrel. You are a liar, a cheat, a fool, a coward, and a dishonor to the order of knighthood. Now do you have a quarrel?"

  Sir Lancelot said, "An ill-mannered pup is to be whipped, not quarreled with."

  "You have just now spoken your life away, you grease-stained kitchen knight."

  Sir Lancelot sighed. "I have done my best to let you escape with honor, sir. I am a temperate man, but there is a limit to my patience."

  "Let us hope that at last you have reached it," Sir Gawter cried. "Defend yourself, if you can." He waved gaily to his brother knights watching from the bridge, positioned himself, and charged. His spear shattered on Lancelot's shield and Sir Gawter was lifted clear, carried on spear point for a time, and cast headlong into a muddy ditch. Then Lancelot passed on his way without a word.

  Sir Raynold and Sir Gilmere, watching from the bridge, were wonder-filled. "What has come to Sir Kay?" they asked. "This knight does not fight like him."

  "Perhaps a strange knight has killed Sir Kay and taken his harness," Gilmere said. "In any case, we are for it. We've made our challenge and there's no retreat."

  Then each one engaged Lancelot and both were unhorsed, and all three found themselves swearing to go to court and submit to the queen as Sir Kay's prizes.

  Now as the Frensshe books say and Malory also, as well as Caxton and Southey, Sommer and Coneybear, Tennyson, Vinaver, and many others, Sir Lancelot continued on his way, overturning knights one after another, and the way to Arthur's court was thronged with defeated men paroled in Sir Kay's name to Guinevere. Sir Lancelot went gaily, pleased with his joke, but also hoping that this new fame might help Sir Kay out of his hopelessness. And on the way he came on fair knights of the Round Table who had been prisoners of Sir Tarquin--Sir Sagramor le Desyrus, Sir Ector de Marys, Sir Ewain, and Sir Gawain. Each one he fought and each one overthrew, and as he passed on his way, Sir Gawain sat bruised and battered on the ground and spoke to the others.

  "We are fools," he said. "I must have lost my mind. Look how that knight sits his horse! Remember how he rode low and easily! Think of that unwavering spearhead, and particularly recall the way he saluted the fallen with his hand. Now--who is it? We are fools!"

  And the other three cried, "Lancelot and no one else."

  "Of course," cried Gawain. "If we had used our eyes we would have saved our bruises. Now if we find a knight with Lancelot's device we may lay on with confidence, and I for one will joy to bring Sir Kay to his knees."

  Sir Ewain said, "But meanwhile our word is given to take our battered repentance to the queen in Sir Kay's name."

  Lancelot, continuing on his way, was made aware of a change in those he met. No longer did knights come tumbling out to fight with him. Some gave him peaceful courtesy, dripping with respect, and others found urgent need to be absent from their posts. Pavilions set up beside the path he found deserted, bridges unguarded, the roads unplagued with careless errantry. And peaceful men greeted him by his name. Moreover, damsels, ladies, and gentlewomen appeared from nowhere to beseech his aid in strange, incomprehensible affairs, of wounded husbands, lands unlawfully taken. Distressed and pillaged maidens sprouted beside the road and with blushes and lowered eyes sought wordlessly to call his heart to them. And Lancelot was puzzled that with his visor down and Kay's shield at his shoulder he was recognized. He did not know, nor had he ever had need to know, how word can fly on swallows' wings deep into desert places.

  Perhaps a squire heard Gawain's words and spoke them to a passing friar, who gave them, along with forgiveness, to a confessing maid, who told her father in the hearing of a jongleur hurrying to a wedding. Wayward men, escaping bondsmen, outlawed bowmen creeping in the greenwood, lord abbots with their trains of well-mounted monks heard and spread the news in ever-growing circles. Even the birds and butterflies, the yellow wasps, sang and fluttered the news until the very voices of the sparkling brooks told how Sir Lancelot was venturing with Sir Kay's shield. Dwarfs and countrymen, charcoal burners greeted him. And tinkers leading frippery-laden mules, collectors of the staple with their great tow bags of wool, lordly traders with purple cloth from golden Tuscany spoke his name in passing. It is a marvel and a mystery how words grow wings and range the countryside, and no one understands the limitless penetration of a whisper.

  The nature of adventures changed. No longer did he fight gaily and openly. Only dark and secret matters came to Lancelot's attention--things incomprehensible.

  A lady beside a wounded knight required blood of an enemy for the saving of her lover's life. Strange trickeries opened up to him.

  He heard a little bell and, looking up, saw a hawk flying overhead, and when it settled high in a great elm tree, lures trailing from its feet became entangled in the branches. Then a lady came running from the road and cried out to him, "Please, my lord Lancelot, get my hawk for me."

  "I am not good at climbing, lady," he replied. "Find some small urchin to go up the tree."

  "I cannot," she cried in panic. "My husband is a violent and vengeful man and he loves this hawk. If he finds that I have lost it he will slay me." And she broke into wails and little screams of fear until Sir Lancelot dismounted to quiet her.

  "Very well," he said unhappily. "Help me to unarm. I cannot climb in armor." He tied his horse to the elm and laid his weapons by, and clad only in light breeches and a shirt, he struggled clumsily up the tree, and high up in the branches he caught the hawk, attached the lures to a rotten branch, and threw the struggling bird down to the lady.

  Then from a hiding place in the bushes an armed knight strode out, holding a naked sword, and he cried, "Now, Sir Lancelot, I have you as I want you, unprotected and unarmed. Your time has come and I have planned it so."

  Lancelot said reproachfully, "Lady--why have you betrayed me?"

  "She has done only what I commanded," said the knight. "Now will you come down to your death, or must I put fire to the tree and smoke you down like an animal?"

  "What a shameful thing," said Lancelot. "An armed man against a naked one."

  "I will recover from my shame before you grow a new head, my friend. Now--will you come down, or must I build the fire?"

  Now Lancelot tried to bargain with him. "I can see that you are a man of passion," he said. "I will come down. Take m
y armor to one side, but hang my sword on the tree. Then I will fight you, naked as I am. Then, when you have slain me, you can tell how it was done in a fight."

  The knight laughed. "Do you take me for a fool? Don't you think I know what you can do with a sword?" And he moved both sword and armor away from the tree.

  Lancelot looked desperately about, and he saw a short dead limb of the tree and broke it off, and came slowly down the tree, and in the lower branches he saw that his enemy had forgotten to move his horse away, and suddenly Lancelot leaped over his horse and lighted on the other side.

  The knight slashed at him, but Lancelot, using his horse for a shield, defended himself with his elmwood club. He caught the sword blade deep in the wood and yanked it away, and clubbed his enemy to the ground and battered his life away.

  "Alas," the lady cried, "why have you slain my husband?"

  Lancelot paused in putting on his armor. "I don't think I will answer that, my lady. If I were not a knight I would use my stick on you, and not on your head." And he mounted and rode away, and thanked God for his deliverance.

  As he went along his way he thought in saddened wonder about the man he had killed. Why was his hatred so great against Lancelot, who had done him no harm? He was innocent of those passions of jealousy which cause a small man to destroy what others admire, nor had he so far in his life felt the self-loathing that makes a man revenge himself on a world he blames for his own inadequacies.

  Like most great fighting men, Lancelot was generous and kindly. When it was necessary to kill men he did it quickly, without anger and without fear. And since cruelty, unless it be a disease, grows only out of fear, he was not cruel. Only one thing could make him blindly cruel. He did not understand treachery, having none in himself. Thus, when he was confronted with this mysterious impulse, Lancelot grew frightened, and only then could he be cruel. And since knightly quests and the accounts of them are only illustrations of virtues as well as knightly vices, it came about that as he proceeded on his way he heard a woman screaming with fear, and moving toward the sound, he saw a lady running and a knight following her with a drawn sword in his hand. Sir Lancelot pushed his horse in the way of the pursuing man, who cried out to him, "What is your right to come betwixt a man and his wife? I am going to kill her as is my right."