The King Arthur Trilogy

by Rosemary Sutcliff

  So they rode on, the land growing rough and thickety about them, and it grew more and more difficult for Enid to drive the five horses before her, but she held on, making no complaint. And Geraint saw the trouble she had, and his heart stirred within him for her sake, but he would not listen to the stirring of it, only rode on with his head on his breast.

  And presently as they went, Enid became aware of four hedge-knights skulking on the tangled fringes of a blackthorn thicket. And as they drew near, one of them shouted with laughter, and cried out to the rest, ‘Now here is a fine chance come our way! Horses and armour – aye, and a maiden, too, and seemingly the knight who rides behind so spent with capturing them all that he’ll have little more fight left in him for keeping them!’

  And a great cold and a great fear came upon Enid when she heard the words, and she thought, If I disobey him again, my lord will surely kill me. And then she thought, But if I do not warn him assuredly he must be killed. And she turned as best she could with her five driven horses, and rode back to Geraint and told him what she had heard.

  ‘Is there nothing I can say that will make you obey me?’ said Geraint. ‘I see these men, and their purpose is plain, and I do not fear them.’

  And this time he did not wait for them to attack but struck heel to his horse’s flank and spurred towards them, his spear in rest; and the foremost of them he took in mid-shield, flinging him from the saddle, and the second in the breast, piercing his armour and driving to the heart. And the third he took in the throat, breaking his neck before ever he touched the ground, and the fourth, by way of an ending flourish, he took by the hardest stroke of all, the crest stroke that tore his helmet from his head and broke his neck in the doing of it.

  Then he dismounted, and disarmed the fallen knights and bound their armour upon their horses’ backs, and again he handed the horses over to Enid and bade her drive them ahead of her as before.

  Night came upon them while they were in forest country, and at last Geraint spoke to Enid of his own accord. ‘Turn aside under the trees; it grows too dark for safe riding, and in the morning we will be on our way again.’

  ‘Whatever you will,’ said Enid, and they headed in among the trees, where as they went deeper it was already night. Then Geraint dismounted and lifted Enid from the saddle; but there was no gentleness in his hands as he set her down, and none in his voice. ‘Here is a wallet with food in it. Eat, and watch the horses, and take care that you do not sleep lest any of them stray.’

  And he stretched himself out with his head on his shield to sleep, while Enid, the food wallet untouched beside her, sat watching, and the moon rose and shone silver all about her, and the night sounds of the forest woke and an owl swooped by on furred wings, and somewhere a vixen cried to her mate, and something rustled in the undergrowth. And Geraint lay still, but slept no more than his lady whom he had left on watch. And as the horses stirred, Geraint’s helm clanked softly where it hung from his saddlebow.

  And the moon-watered darkness warmed to the summer dawn, and the ferns and foxgloves grew out of the shadows and somewhere a crack-voiced cuckoo called.

  And Geraint shifted, cramped in his armour; and speaking no word of greeting to Enid, he set her on her mare again, and said, ‘Take the horses and ride on ahead as you did yesterday.’

  That day they rode through gentler country, and from time to time passed by meadows where long lines of men with scythes were getting in the hay. And they met with no more adventures. But towards evening they came to a town of many thatched roofs and the slender spire like an iris bud of a church, and at the end of the town a strong castle that looked as though it had grown from the ground on which it stood. And at the castle gate Geraint asked for lodging for the night.

  The porter passed them through into the courtyard, looking somewhat aside at the damosel in the threadbare gown driving nine horses before her, and the knight who rode like a thundercloud behind.

  And then, while squires and pages came to help them dismount and take the horses, the Earl of the castle and the town came out from his Great Hall to bid them welcome.

  Presently they sat down to eat, and at table Geraint and Enid were set close to each other, but as soon as the meal was over and the Earl’s household broke up and began to move and mingle about their evening pastimes, the two shifted far apart. First the Earl spoke with Geraint, asking him the purpose of his journey.

  ‘No purpose save to look for adventure and follow any quest that pleases me,’ said Geraint, looking down at his hands that hung lax across his knees. And his face was the face of a man who would find little joy in any quest that came his way. And as he talked with Geraint, the Earl looked across the Hall to where Enid sat sadly by herself with her face turned to the fire, and it seemed to him that she was the fairest maiden that ever he had seen. And presently he said, ‘Sir, have I your leave to go and speak with yonder maiden who sits sad and alone?’

  ‘If you wish. It is nothing to me,’ said Geraint, not looking up from his hands.

  So the Earl went, and drew up a cushioned stool, and with a ‘By your leave,’ sat him down beside Enid. ‘Sweet lady,’ he said, speaking to her gently as though she were a falcon that he did not wish to startle into bating from his fist, ‘forgive me – I am thinking that you have little pleasure in following yonder knight.’

  ‘His journey is my journey,’ said Enid.

  ‘With neither servants nor maidens to accompany you?’

  ‘It is pleasanter to me to ride with my lord than to have servants and maidens.’

  ‘Yet he must be a churl to treat you so,’ said the Earl. ‘I would not treat you in such a way, if you were to remain with me.’

  Enid looked at him as though she were not sure she had truly heard his words. And when she saw that she had, she said simply, ‘My troth is pledged to that man, and I have no thought to break faith with him.’

  ‘Think again,’ said the Earl. ‘If I slay yonder man, I can keep you for myself as long as I will, and when I weary of you I shall turn you away. But if you come to me of your own free will, you shall be my wife and the lady of all my lands, and I will keep faith with you and love you as long as I live.’

  Then Enid was silent a long while, her mind scurrying this way and that as she thought what she must do. And it seemed to her that the best thing would be to pretend to come to the Earl’s way of thinking. So she said, speaking quick and low, ‘Then this must be the way of it. Tomorrow I must ride on with that knight as before, but in a little I shall contrive it so that it seems I am lost; and do you and a few of your men follow quickly to take me while I am parted from my lord, and bring me back here before he can seize me again. Then I shall be yours, and he will never know that it was by my own will.’

  And with that, the Earl was satisfied.

  So the next day they set out as before, Enid riding ahead and driving the nine captured horses. But as soon as they were well clear of the town and its castle she drew to the side of the road, and waited for Geraint to come up with her. And at first, when he saw her do so, Geraint made to rein back; but in the end, though darkly as ever, he rode on until he came up with her, and she heeled her mare round and rode beside him.

  And as she rode, she told him all that had passed between her and the Earl on the night before. ‘At any moment he will be after us, and I fear with more armed men than even you can withstand. Therefore, my dear lord, let us turn these captured horses loose, and take to the forest, where we may escape from him.’

  And this time, though still with a brooding face, Geraint heard her out, and when she had finished, he spoke less harshly to her than he had done during the two days of their journey. ‘Now despite all my orders it seems that you are determined to save my life. But I will not run like a coursed hare from the hounds. If they come after us, here will I wait their coming but do you make for the forest, and if I should be overcome, get you back to Arthur’s court, for you will be safe there.’

  ‘I have disobeyed y
ou often enough to disobey you once more!’ said Enid with a sudden flash of spirit that made him look at her for the first time in those two days. And as he looked, he saw her eyes go past him down the road that they had come; and looking the same way, he saw in the distance a rising dust-cloud turned to gold by the morning sun. And as the cloud rolled nearer he could make out at the base of it the forefront of many horsemen coming at full gallop, the sun glinting on crests and spear-points.

  ‘Give me the horses,’ he said, ‘and do you at least draw aside from the road to give me fighting room.’ And he pulled down his vizor.

  ‘You cannot! Even you, my lord. There must be four score of them and you are but one!’ cried Enid.

  ‘Do as I say,’ ordered Geraint, hollow behind his vizor. ‘There are ways to even the odds a little.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘An unknightly thing. Now, into the trees with you!’

  And Enid did as he bade her.

  Geraint remained waiting in the midst of the road, looking towards the nearing dust-cloud out of which began to sound the drum of many hooves. And at the right moment he loosed the captured horses, slashing his spear butt across the rumps of the hindmost so that they sprang forward snorting from the blows and sweeping the rest in panic along with them, so that all nine went bucketing along the road, the armour clattering and ringing on their backs, towards the on-coming knights.

  The Earl and his companions cursed and strove to pull their steeds aside, and then the runaways were in their midst, spreading confusion on all sides.

  And while his pursuers fought cursing with their startled mounts and all was a snorting and clashing turmoil, Geraint set his spear in rest and charged down upon them. He crashed into their midst and had picked the first man from the saddle on his spear-point before they knew what was upon them; then reversing his spear, swept three more from their saddles with a broadside blow before their own points were ready for him. Then as his spear broke in his hand he flung the splintered butt away and drew his sword.

  The dust-cloud rose and swirled about the battle, and out of it, to Enid watching on the woodshore, came the clash of weapons and the shouts of men and the neighing and trampling of horses, and the flash of blades in the sunlight, and the blades growing red. And again and again riderless horses broke free of the tumult and fled away; but none of them was Geraint’s willow-grey.

  Long and desperately he fought, grimly savage as a wild boar brought to bay with the hounds snapping and snarling at its flanks. But they were four score to his one, and there could be but a single end to that fight. He was struck down with many wounds, and lay for dead, save that dead men do not bleed so redly, upon the stained and trampled ground.

  Then his attackers stood back from him, and Enid slid from her saddle and came and knelt in the dust at his side, bending over him and seeming not to heed the Earl and his men all around. She gave a low wailing cry, ‘Alas! Now the only man I ever loved lies slain, and it is through me that he came to his death!’

  ‘Nay now, what of your promise to me?’ said the Earl, lifting her up. ‘Come back now to the castle, and we shall soon find means to heal your grieving.’

  And he set her again on her mare, and gave orders for the carrying back of the bodies of the knights that Geraint had slain. And Geraint himself he caused to be carried back lying in the hollow of his shield with his sword beside him.

  And himself, he took the bridle of Enid’s mare, and so led her back to the castle. And all the way she spoke no word, but gazed straight before her as though she looked at some dreadful sight that had struck her dumb.

  When they came into the Great Hall, the bearer-knights laid Geraint, still on his shield, on the dais at the upper end of the place. And then the Earl called for a chamber to be made ready and rosewater warmed for washing and fine silks brought out of the clothes-chests, that Enid might change her threadbare and dusty gown that was now stained also with Geraint’s blood.

  ‘I have no taste for emerald damasks and rose-scarlet silks when my lord lies dead,’ said she.

  ‘Nay, sweet lady, be not so sorrowful,’ said the Earl. ‘What though yonder knight be dead? Have you not a rich earldom and its lord along with it to replace him? I shall make you happy again if you will but let me.’

  ‘I shall never be happy again in all my life,’ said Enid; and she did not change her gown.

  ‘At least come and eat,’ said the Earl, when the tables were set for the noonday meal. ‘See, your place shall be here by me.’ And he took her hand and led her to the table.

  ‘Eat,’ he said again, and himself set the best and most delicate morsels of food on the white manchet bread before her.

  But Enid said suddenly in a clear cold voice, ‘I swear to God that I will not eat until my lord rises from where he lies upon his shield and eats with me.’

  ‘That is an oath you cannot keep,’ said the Earl, ‘for that man is already dead.’

  ‘Then I shall not eat again in this world,’ said Enid in the same cold clear voice.

  ‘Drink, then,’ said the Earl, pouring golden wine into the cup beside her. ‘Drink at least, and the fire of the wine will warm you to another way of thinking.’

  ‘I will not drink until my lord rise and drink with me.’

  At that, the Earl lost his hard-held temper and shouted at her as he would have shouted at a disobedient hound, ‘Since fair words are nothing to you, let us be seeing what this will do!’ And he struck her across the face, so that the imprint of his hand sprang out crimson on her white skin.

  She let out a wild shriek, and sprang up. ‘If my lord were yet living, you would not have dared to strike me so!’

  Now a while before this, Geraint had begun to come back to himself, like someone lying in dark water rising slowly towards the light and the world of living men; but though he heard what passed between Enid and the Earl, he did not know whether he lived, or whether everything about him was real or all a dream; and he lay a while unmoving, as though between two worlds. But Enid’s shriek when the Earl struck her pierced through to him like a sword-thrust, and he broke surface from the darkness in which he had lain. And at the sound of Enid’s weeping the strength rushed into him, and he sprang to his feet, snatching up his sword that lay in the hollow of his shield beside him, and hurled himself upon the Earl and dealt him such a blow that the keen blade split his head in two and was not stopped in its downward sweep until, as he sagged forward among the platters and wine cups, it was stayed by the table edge.

  Then a great tumult broke out, and everyone except Enid fled from the Hall, not fearing one living man with a sword, but believing that a dead man had risen up to slay them by some wizardry.

  And alone in the empty Hall, Geraint stood cleaning his blade on the white table linen, and looking at Enid who stood unmoving and white as the linen, her eyes clinging to his face. And suddenly his heart smote him with a pang of love for her that was sharper than the pain of his wounds. But there was no time for soft words now; all that must wait.

  ‘Enid,’ he said, and the tone of his voice was all the soft words that she needed. ‘Do you know where the stables are?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and then, ‘Will you have me go and fetch the horses?’

  ‘We will go together,’ said Geraint, ‘and swiftly before the Earl’s men find their courage again and return, for I am in no state now for another fight.’

  So they went swiftly to the stables, found their horses and saddled them and, mounting, rode out from the castle whose gates stood wide, and not a soul to stand in their path or question their going.

  They took the road towards the forest which lay dark as a cloud shadow across the distance; and in the open country the midsummer heat was great, and Geraint’s armour stuck to him with blood and sweat, and the heat of it seared his wounds and his head swam and there was a darkness before his eyes. And when they had reached the forest and ridden a short way further, they turned aside under the trees and st
ruggled on further yet, until they judged that the Earl’s men would be hard put to it to find them. Then, under a great oak tree, they dismounted and hitched their horses to a low-hanging branch, and the Lady Enid set herself to help Geraint unarm. And she could not hold herself from weeping as she saw the wounds upon him. And while she was helping him with the laces and buckles, they heard hunting horns among the trees.

  The meaning of the horns was this: King Arthur and his company had ridden out from Camelot, hunting far into the south-western hills; and their hunting camp was pitched close by in a pleasant clearing of the forest. And it was the horn of the King’s huntsman gathering in his hounds that Geraint and Enid had heard. And almost in the same breath of time they heard the sound of a rider brushing through the trees, and out on to the deer-path that led beside the oak tree rode Sir Kay the King’s Seneschal.

  And Geraint knew him, but he did not know Geraint without his shield which he had left in the Earl’s Hall, for even though his helm was off and his face bare, he was so battered and bloodstained and like a man half dead that scarce anyone save Enid would have known him. And Enid had turned away to gather up his armour, so that her face was hidden.

  So Sir Kay demanded of him to know what he did, standing there so close to the King’s hunting camp.

  ‘I am standing here in the shade of a tree out of the sun,’ said Geraint, swaying a little on his feet.

  ‘Who are you? And on what journey are you bound?’

  ‘As to who I am, that is my own concern, as for my journey, I am bound wherever adventure leads me.’

  ‘And by the look of you, it has led you into some unchancy places,’ said Sir Kay. ‘So now leave off your adventuring a while, and come you to King Arthur, whose pavilion is pitched nearby.’

  ‘That I will not, unless I choose,’ said Geraint, who was in no mood to be taking Kay’s orders.