The King Arthur Trilogy

by Rosemary Sutcliff

  ‘So the squire went, disguised as a merchant, and gained speech with the Queen in private, and gave her the ring and Tristan’s message, and she gathered up her salves and healing herbs and went with him without a backward glance.

  ‘But the voyage was a slow one, for the ship was becalmed in the Narrow Seas; and all the while Tristan grew weaker, as the fever of the wound burned him up; and all that held him to life was his longing for Iseult and his waiting for the ship that would surely bring her to him.

  ‘And Iseult of the White Hands had always known that his heart was left in Cornwall, and she saw when the ring was gone from his hand. And she heard his fevered mutterings while she tended him in the long nights, and so she knew of the ship, and the signal of the black or white sails. And jealousy tore at her, though she never let him see it, even when he begged her a score of times a day to look from the window and tell him if she saw a ship putting in from the sea.

  ‘And then one morning as she looked from the chamber window, she did see a ship heading in for the harbour, and the sails of it as white as a swan’s wings. She told Tristan what she saw, but when he asked her with seemingly the last breath that was in him as to the colour of the sails, for one fatal moment the bitter jealousy flared up in her, and she told him that they were black.

  ‘So for Tristan there was nothing left to hold on to his life for, and he turned his face to the wall and let it go out of him on a great sigh.

  ‘Then she cried out that they were white, white as swans’ feathers, but she was too late.

  ‘So the first thing that Iseult of Cornwall heard when she came to shore was the sound of bells tolling. And Tristan lay in the great church with candles burning at his head and feet; and the other Iseult standing beside his bier.

  ‘When she came into the church and saw this, Iseult of Cornwall said, “Lady, stand further off from him, I pray you, for I loved him more than you.” And she laid herself down on the bier beside him, and took him in her arms and kissed him. And they say that with the kiss her heart broke.

  ‘When word of all this was brought to King Marc, he took ship for Less Britain, and brought their bodies back to Cornwall. They say he spoke no word of grief or forgiveness, but he had them laid together in one grave.

  ‘And when I stood beside it, a hazel sapling had begun to grow from Tristan’s side of the grave, and from Iseult’s honeysuckle, and they were already reaching out to intertwine with each other.’

  ‘And that truly is the end of the story,’ said Queen Guenever, very softly.

  11

  Geraint and Enid

  AND THE YEARS went by and the years went by, and every Pentecost the High King’s knights, new-made or old, gathered still to Camelot, where the Round Table stood in the Great Hall. But at other times of year, Arthur would hold his court in other parts of his realm, at Carlisle or London or Caerleon, that he might keep close touch with all parts of the kingdom.

  One Easter he held his court at Caerleon, and on Easter Day as he and the knights who were with him were sitting down to dinner, there strode into the Hall a tall young man who carried his red-gold head as high as though it were a torch; and he was clad in silk, with fine dyed leather boots upon his feet, and a gold-hilted sword hanging at his side. He strode up the length of the Hall to kneel at the King’s feet, but still without lowering his head, and said, ‘Greetings, my Lord King.’

  ‘Greetings to you also, and God’s welcome,’ said the King. ‘I seem to know your face, and yet I do not know your name.’

  ‘I am Geraint, son of Erbin whose borders march with King Marc of Cornwall. You saw me once when I was a child and my father fought in your wars.’

  ‘And what brings you to me now, Geraint, son of Erbin?’

  ‘I have been biding this while past in the Forest of Dean,’ said the young man, ‘and this morning in the forest ways I saw a stag such as I never saw before, pure white, and proud-going above any other stag in the forest. Therefore I marked where the beast harboured, and came swiftly to bring you tidings of it.’

  ‘That was well done,’ said the King. ‘Tomorrow at the young of the day, we will go and hunt this wondrous stag.’ And he sent orders to the huntsmen and grooms.

  And the Queen said, ‘My lord, give me leave tomorrow to ride out to watch this hunting.’

  ‘Gladly I give you leave,’ said Arthur, ‘and any of your maidens who care to ride with you.’

  So the matter was agreed, and the feasting went forward with harp-song and merriment, until it was time to sleep.

  But when morning came and the hounds were brought round from their kennels, there was no sign of Geraint, and Guenever lay sleeping late in her bed. ‘Let them sleep,’ said the King. ‘They may follow when they wake, if they are so minded.’

  And with Kay and Gawain and others of his knights for hunting companions, he mounted and rode away into the forest in search of the white stag.

  Soon after, Queen Guenever awoke. She called to her maidens, and while some of them helped her to dress, she sent a page to the stables to see what horses were left that were suitable for ladies to ride. But the hunting party had taken all the palfreys save for the Queen’s own mare and one other. So the Queen, half laughing and half out of humour, chose one of her maidens, and said, ‘What selfish creatures are men! You and I will ride after them together.’

  So the horses were brought, and the Queen and her maiden rode away, out through the castle gate, and following the broad trail of men and hounds and horses, towards the forest. And presently as they rode, they heard the sound of horses’ hooves coming hard behind them, and as they looked round, Geraint ranged up beside them riding a tall willow-grey horse. He was clad as he had been last night, in a damasked silken tunic, and a cloak of blue-purple worked with gold apples at the corners, that blew out behind him on the wind of his going.

  ‘God’s greeting to you, lady,’ he said, ‘I slept late, and so missed the hunting party.’

  ‘I also,’ said the Queen, ‘but it will not be long before we find them – for if we take our stand up yonder on the ridge, we shall hear the horns when they sound, and the music of the hounds.’

  So together they crested the ridge, and found open country beyond. They checked on the woodshore to listen for sounds of the hunt. And while they waited, they heard hoofbeats again, and three riders came by along the track below them.

  And first there came a dwarf riding a tall prancing horse and carrying a long wicked-looking whip in his hand. And then there came a lady clad all in blue and golden silk, and mounted on a fine cream-coloured palfrey of proud and even pace; and behind her came a tall knight, fully armed and riding a big roan warhorse.

  ‘Geraint,’ said the Queen, ‘do you know who that knight may be?’

  ‘Not I,’ said Geraint, ‘for he rides with his vizor closed, and the badge on his shield is strange to me.’

  ‘Angharad,’ said the Queen to her maiden. ‘Do you go down and ask of the dwarf who his master may be.’

  So the maiden rode down to meet the dwarf, and asked him in all courtesy the name of the stranger knight.

  ‘I will not tell you,’ said the dwarf.

  ‘Then I will ask him myself; maybe his manners are better than yours.’

  ‘That you will not, by my faith!’ said the dwarf.

  ‘And why?’ said the maiden.

  ‘Because you are not worthy to speak with such as my master.’

  But none the less, she turned her horse’s head towards the knight; and at that, the dwarf struck her savagely across the face with his whip, so that the bright blood sprang out.

  Sobbing, the maiden returned to Queen Guenever and told her what had passed.

  ‘That dwarf shall tell me who his master is,’ said Geraint, firing up on the maiden’s behalf, and he touched spur to his horse’s flank, and went full tilt down the grass slope to the dwarf, and demanded the name of the knight who rode behind him.

  ‘I will not tell you,’ said the dwarf, an
d made to ride by.

  ‘Then I will ask it of your lord himself.’

  ‘That you shall not,’ said the dwarf.

  ‘And wherefore shall I not?’ demanded Geraint.

  ‘Because you are not worthy to speak with such as my lord!’

  ‘I have spoken with greater men than your lord,’ said Geraint, wrenching his horse round and heading towards the knight.

  But the dwarf also flung round and came after him with a shrill cry; and the long whiplash cracked across his face, drawing blood as it had done from the maiden’s.

  Geraint’s temper was as swift to flare even as Gawain’s, and his hand flew to his golden sword-hilt. But there remained a cool grain of common sense in him; and he thought, It will be but a poor vengeance if I slay this atomy, and then, being without armour, am slain myself by his knight.

  And he rode back to Queen Guenever.

  ‘Lady, with your leave, I will ride after that knight until we come to some place where I can borrow armour and a spear. He shall tell me who he is, and make amends for the insult done to you and your maiden.’

  ‘Go,’ said the Queen, ‘but I shall be sorely anxious until I have tidings of you.’

  ‘If I live,’ said Geraint, ‘tidings you shall have within two days.’

  So Geraint followed the dwarf and the knight and the lady; all day, through steep valleys and over high moors, and along woodshores where the wild cherry trees were in Easter bloom, until towards evening they came to a walled town by a river, and in the heart of the town stood a strong and proud fortress. And as they rode through the narrow streets towards the fortress, the people came thronging to greet them; and it seemed that in every house and courtyard were men and horses, shields being polished and armour furbished and horses shod. And everywhere it seemed to Geraint that amid all the uproar he heard men exclaiming to each other over and over again, ‘The sparrowhawk! The sparrowhawk!’ And when they came to the castle, the gates were open wide; and the dwarf and the knight and the lady rode in.

  But there was no friendly face turned towards Geraint, no one that he knew in all the town, and despite all the armour that he saw, he found no likely place to borrow any. And so, with the day already thickening to dusk, he came to the far side of the town. And there across the open meadow land, almost where the forest closed in again, he saw an ancient manor house, half in ruins, with the long-stranded ivy clothing roofless towers; and only one part of the building that seemed to be weatherproof and still lived in, for a gleam of light shone from it. And as he drew near, thinking that here at least was none of the bustle of the town, and maybe he would find someone to advise him where he could borrow armour and a spear, he saw an old man, grey haired and clad in garments that were faded and tattered but must once have been as rich as his own, sitting at the foot of a broken marble staircase that led to the upper chamber.

  Geraint reined in his horse, and sat for a few moments looking down at him; and then the old man looked up and smiled. ‘You seem heavily thoughtful, young sir?’

  ‘I am thoughtful.’ Geraint returned the smile. ‘Because I am a stranger here, and do not know where to go this night; and yours is the first kind look that has come my way since I entered the town.’

  ‘Come in with me, and you shall have the best that I can offer – both you and your horse.’

  ‘God be good to you for your kindness,’ Geraint said, and slid wearily from the saddle and, leading his horse, followed where the old man led, first into the half-ruined Hall, and then, leaving his horse there, up the stairway to the chamber from which the light shone.

  The chamber must once have been fair, but now, in the light of the fire on the hearth and a few tallow dips, it showed shabby and smoke-darkened, with damp patches on the once gaily painted walls. And beside the fire, in a tall upright chair, sat an old gentlewoman in the threadbare remains of a silk gown that had once, like the old man’s, been fine. And looking at her, Geraint thought that when she was young and before sorrow touched her, she must have been as fair as a wayside rose. And beside her on a cushion on the floor sat a maiden in an old tattered smock and mantle; and it seemed to Geraint, looking at her face in the firelight between the soft curtains of her hair, that she was fairer even than the old gentlewoman must have been.

  ‘Daughter,’ said the grey-haired man, ‘there is no squire but you to tend upon this stranger whom I have brought home, and no other groom to see to his horse.’

  ‘The best tending that I can,’ said the maiden, rising, ‘I will give to him and to his horse.’

  And when Geraint sat down where she bade him on a bench beside the table, she pulled off his boots of fine leather. And then she went down to the Hall to water the horse and give him straw and a measure of corn. Then she returned and set the table for a meal, and put before them boiled meat and plain dark bread, with a little white manchet loaf that Geraint guessed was in his honour, and a flask of thin wine.

  And as they ate, the maiden waiting upon them, Geraint asked the old man with all courtesy how he and his ladies came to be living in that half-ruined place with no one to tend upon them. ‘Surely,’ said he, ‘it has not always been so?’

  ‘Indeed no,’ replied his host, ‘once I owned the town and the castle yonder, and a great dukedom beside.’

  ‘And how in God’s name did you come to lose it?’

  ‘Through pride of heart,’ said the old man. ‘I have a nephew, my brother’s son, whose dukedom I held with my own while he was a child. But when he came to strength and manhood and laid claim to his own dukedom, I would not believe him yet ready for so great a charge, and refused him. Then he made war on me, and indeed he proved himself the stronger of us two, and seized not only his own dukedom but mine as well, leaving me nothing but this half-ruined house in which to shelter my wife and my daughter who was then but a child.’

  ‘That is a grievous story,’ said Geraint, ‘and sorry I am to hear it. But now, pray you tell me the meaning of the great uproar and ready-making of arms in the town as I rode through, and the coming of the knight and the lady and the dwarf, who rode into the castle and were made gladly welcome?’

  ‘The ready-making was for a great joust to be held tomorrow. Every year on the second day after Easter, the young duke my nephew sets up a silver rod between two hazel forks in the meadow below the town, and a fine sparrowhawk fastened to the rod by its jesses, and from all parts, knights flock in to joust for the sparrowhawk, that the victor may give to the lady he loves best. The knight you speak of has won the sparrowhawk for two years, and if he wins it this year also, then he will gain great honour, and be called the Knight of the Sparrowhawk henceforth.’

  ‘Then I would fain joust with him, if I had the armour and spears – indeed it was for that purpose that I followed him here, before ever I heard of the sparrowhawk,’ said Geraint, touching his gashed cheek. And he told his host, Duke Ynwl, of the injury done to the Queen and her maiden, and to himself.

  ‘My own armour you should have most willingly,’ said the old Duke, shaking his head. ‘It is old-fashioned now, and battered, and maybe rusty, for it is long since I had the heart to look at it; but before age and sorrow bowed me, I was about your size. But alas! That will not help us, for you have no maiden with you, and you will not be admitted to the lists unless your lady-love ride with you, and you proclaim her the fairest lady in the world, and do battle in her name.’

  Geraint was silent a moment; and then he looked up and saw the maiden Enid in her shabby gown in the firelight, and he said, ‘Sir, if it pleases her, will you give me leave that your daughter ride with me tomorrow? If I come out of the jousting alive, then my love and loyalty shall be to her as long as I live; and if I come not out alive, then she will be in no worse case than she was before.’

  ‘Enid?’ said the Duke.

  And the old Duchess looked at her daughter with a small questioning smile.

  And the Lady Enid blushed as pink as a foxglove, and said, speaking to Geraint directly
, for the first time, ‘Gladly will I come with you tomorrow.’

  So the old Duke brought his armour from the worm-eaten chest where it was kept; and before they slept, he and his daughter and Geraint burnished off the worst of the rust and replaced here and there a worn strap. And Geraint thought that indeed if she had not been a maiden, Enid would have made a good squire to some knight; and when their hands met on the battered armour, they glanced up and smiled at each other.

  Next morning they rose early, and with the help of the old Duke, Geraint put on the armour while the maiden groomed his horse and the aged palfrey that was the only mount they possessed. And while the shadows were still long, they came to the broad meadow below the castle, which was already crowded with knights and their ladies, and pages walking tall warhorses up and down; and the silk-hung stands below the castle walls were filled with onlookers; and at the far end of the meadow the sparrowhawk already sat with her leash made fast to the silver rod between the hazel forks.

  Trumpets sounded golden upon the morning air, and the tall knight on the roan horse whom Geraint had followed yesterday came forward to where his lady sat beneath a silken canopy, and cried in a great voice for all to hear, ‘Lady, will you come with me and take the sparrowhawk which awaits you, for it is yours by right of your beauty which outshines the beauty of all other ladies. If any knight shall say you nay, then let him do battle with me!’

  ‘Wait!’ Geraint shouted, taking up the challenge. ‘Do not touch the sparrowhawk, for my lady here with me is yet more fair than yours, and in her name I lay claim to it!’

  Then the knight laughed. ‘You? Some country churl who has found a suit of battered armour in a ditch? Come then and we will do battle for it, if you wish to have your head broken!’

  Then the two drew apart to the furthest ends of the meadow, and wheeled their horses and came thundering down upon each other so strongly and truly that at their meeting both spears were shattered. Then the dwarf brought another spear for his knight, and the old Duke another for Geraint; and they came together again, and again their spears broke, and a third time yet again. But for the fourth encounter, the old Duke came to Geraint with a spear that was not new as the others had been, but old and battered and stained, and said, ‘Sir, this spear was put into my hand on the day that I was made knight, and it has never yet failed me in a joust.’