The King Arthur Trilogy

by Rosemary Sutcliff

  And the mist was rising, rising now all round the orchard, creeping almost among the feet of the apple trees and shutting out all things beyond, so that they might have been on an enchanted island.

  Merlin’s remembered voice, clear across twenty years and more, was in Arthur’s memory, and it was the day that he received Excalibur. ‘Away over yonder – away to the West – there lies Ynys Witrin, the Glass Island; Avalon of the Apple Trees, that is the threshold between the world of men and the Land of the Living …’ Merlin’s voice seemed actually in his head. ‘And not far off is Camlann, the place of the last battle … Nay, but that is another story, for another day as yet far off …’

  The voice faded, and he was back in the orchard below Camelot, and it was not Merlin with him, but Lancelot. And the voice in his ears was his own. ‘It grows late,’ he said, ‘let us be going in to the feasting, to make welcome our newest-come knight of the Round Table.’

  THE LIGHT BEYOND THE FOREST

  The Quest for the Holy Grail

  1

  The New-Made Knight

  ON EVERY SIDE, Camelot climbed, roof above coloured roof, up the steep slopes of the hill. About the foot of the hill the river cast its shining silver noose; and at the highest heart of the town rose the palace of King Arthur. And in the Great Hall of Arthur’s palace stood the Round Table, which could seat a hundred and fifty knights, each with his name written in fairest gold on the high back of his chair behind him: the Knights of the Fellowship of the Round Table, which had been formed long ago when Arthur was new and young to his kingship, for the spreading of justice and mercy and chivalry and the upholding of right against might throughout the land.

  Wherever the knights might be at other times – for they had lives of their own to lead, and quests of their own to follow – it was their custom always to gather to the King for the great feast days of the Church. And so one Pentecost Eve they were assembled and just sitting down to supper, when a maiden came riding into the Hall on a horse all lathered with sweat from the speed that she had made.

  And she called upon Sir Lancelot of the Lake, who was the greatest of all the Round Table knights, to ride with her, in the name of King Pelles, whom she served.

  ‘What thing is it that King Pelles wants of me?’ asked Sir Lancelot.

  ‘That you shall know in good time.’

  Sir Lancelot sat looking at his big bony sword hand on the table, while the past stirred within him, and his heart twisted a little with old sorrows and new foreshadowings. Then he rose from his place, all his companions looking on, and called for a squire to saddle his horse and another to bring his armour.

  And he rode with the maiden as she asked, down from the palace and across the three-spanned bridge, and into the green young-summer mazes of the forest.

  Soon he found that they were following a path that he had never followed before in all the years that he had known those forest ways; and after a league or less it brought them out into a broad clearing that was strange to him also; where the grey buildings of a nunnery sat peacefully among orchards and herb gardens beside the way. As they drew near, the gates were opened as if those within had been watching for them; and convent servants came to take Sir Lancelot’s horse, while others led him to a fair and high-ceilinged guest chamber.

  There was a bed in the middle of the chamber, and on it two knights lay asleep, and looking at their russet-brown heads burrowed into the pillows, Sir Lancelot saw that they were two young kinsmen of his, Bors and Lional, who he supposed must be on their way to the Round Table gathering. He laughed, and shook each by the shoulder to rouse them, and they plunged awake, reaching for their daggers before they saw who it was.

  And while they were still exclaiming and greeting each other, the abbess and two of her nuns came into the chamber, bringing with them a very young man. At their coming, the laughing and the horseplay ceased; and a great quiet came with them into the chamber.

  ‘Sir Lancelot,’ said the abbess, ‘we bring you this boy whom we have raised up and loved as our own, ever since his mother died, before he stood as tall as a sword-blade from the ground. Now it is time that he becomes a knight, and his grandsire, King Pelles, would have him receive his knighthood from your hand.’

  And the quiet closed in again after her words; and in the midst of it Sir Lancelot and the boy stood and looked at each other.

  Now Sir Lancelot of the Lake was an ugly man, with an ugliness such as women love. His dark face under the thick badger-streaked hair looked as though it had been put together in haste, so that the two sides of it did not match. One side of his mouth was grave with heavy thought, while the other lifted in joy; one eyebrow was level as a falcon’s wing and the other flew wild like a mongrel’s ear. He had lived forty-five summers and winters in the world, and loved and sorrowed and triumphed and fought to the utmost, and every joy and sorrow and striving had set its mark on him.

  The boy’s face was pale and clear, waiting for life to touch it, and his hair made a smooth cap as of dark silk on his head. He was like his mother, Elaine, the daughter of King Pelles; and Sir Lancelot saw that in the first moment that they turned to each other. But the look which had made men call Elaine ‘The Lily’ in him made them think of a spear-blade or a still tall flame.

  Yet from the strong chaos of Sir Lancelot’s face, and the waiting quietness of the boy’s, the same wide grey eyes looked long and steady out at each other.

  And Sir Bors and Sir Lional, watching, exchanged quick startled glances.

  ‘What is your name?’ said Sir Lancelot, at last.

  ‘Galahad,’ said the boy.

  There was a sudden wild weeping deep down in Lancelot where no one but he could know of it. All the years of his manhood he had loved Guenever, King Arthur’s queen, and for her sake had never looked towards another woman. But there had been a time, long ago, when King Pelles’ daughter had set her love on him and, being desperate, had won him to her by a trick for just one night. And of that one night she had borne a son, and called him Galahad.

  ‘My name also was Galahad, before I gained my second name that now men call me by,’ said Lancelot. And then knew that he need not have said it, for his son already knew.

  To the lady abbess he said, ‘Madam, let him keep his vigil in the church tonight, and it shall be as his grandsire wishes in the morning.’

  So that night Galahad kept his vigil, kneeling before the high altar of the nunnery church; and when the birds woke to their singing in the first light of Pentecost morning, Sir Lancelot dubbed him knight.

  ‘Now come with us to King Arthur’s court,’ he said, when it was done.

  But the abbess shook her head. ‘Not yet. Go you back to Camelot; and when it is the right time, he will come.’

  So Sir Lancelot and his young cousins rode back to Camelot alone. And all the way Sir Lancelot looked straight between his horse’s ears and spoke not one word.

  When they reached Camelot, the King and Queen had gone with all their court to hear morning Mass, and it was too late to join them. So the three knights went into the Great Hall to wait for their return. And there they found a most strange thing.

  This was the way of it.

  Long before, when the Fellowship was formed, Merlin the old and wise, the master of secret knowledge, who had taught Arthur those things which a king should know, had made for him by magic arts the Round Table with its places for a hundred and fifty knights. But no more than a hundred and forty-nine had ever sat down at that table, while always the last seat remained empty. And this seat was called the Seat Perilous, for no man might sit in it that disaster did not befall him. Now Merlin, who had forgotten his wisdom and given his heart to an enchantress because she smiled at him and was beautiful, slept where she had locked him in a magic hawthorn tree; and for twenty years and more, Arthur and his brotherhood had sat at his Round Table with the empty seat among them. And some of those who had sat there in the early years were dead now, and new young knights come to fill
their places; and others were scarred by old battles and had grey in their hair that had been black or gold or brown when first they gathered there. And still the Seat Perilous remained empty and waiting.

  But now the sun falling through one of the high windows touched the carved and beautiful chair, and on its high back something glinted in the light. And drawing near, the three knights read, in letters that seemed that moment to have been set there in new-fired gold: ‘Four hundred and fifty years have passed since the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ. And on the day of Pentecost this seat shall find its master.’

  ‘That is today,’ said Sir Lancelot, at half breath.

  And Sir Bors, scarce knowing why he did so – and he was not one to do things without clear reason – spread his cloak over the back of the Seat Perilous, so that the words were hidden until their moment came.

  In due time the King and Queen and all the court returned from Mass, and greeted the newcomers; and the King asked Sir Lancelot how his venture of the day before had gone. Sir Lancelot told how the maiden had taken him to a nunnery, and how there he had knighted a young man who was King Pelles’ grandson. But he said no more as to the boy, for he thought, Every one will know, soon enough. Yet the Queen must have guessed, for she bade them all God’s greeting and withdrew quickly to her own chambers, her ladies going with her.

  Then the pages began to set the table for dinner; but just as the knights were about to take their places, a squire came running, crying out as he burst upon them, ‘Sirs – my Lord King – there is a great wonder –’

  ‘And what wonder is that?’ said the King. He was hungry.

  ‘A stone – a great stone floating as light as a leaf along the river; and in the stone a sword standing upright! With my own eyes I saw it!’

  The King remembered another sword in another stone, and how he had pulled it out and so proved himself the true fore-chosen King of Britain; and he forgot his hunger. And with all his knights behind him he went down from the palace to the river bank. There, caught by an out-thrust of rooty bank, they found a block of red marble, and standing upright in it a sword with a pommel formed of a ball of amber as large as an apple. And engraved on the quillions in letters of gold they read: ‘None shall take me hence, but he at whose side I am to hang. And he shall be the best knight in the world.’

  Arthur knew that his own sword and its stone were past and behind him; and he called to Sir Lancelot who was nearest and dearest to him of all his knights, ‘This sword all but has your name on it.’

  ‘Not mine, my lord the King.’ Lancelot did not know why he said it. It was not modesty. He knew his own reputation as well as the world knew it. But he knew that it had to be said.

  ‘Try,’ said the King.

  ‘No,’ said Lancelot, and his hand went to the hilt of the sword at his side. ‘I have Joyeux; why should I turn faithlessly to seek another blade?’ And his mouth shut like a trap and he moved no nearer.

  Then at the King’s bidding Sir Gawain of Orkney, who was the King’s nephew and loved him well, set his two hands to the sword-grip and pulled until the veins stood out on his neck, but could not shift the blade; and then young Sir Percival of Wales spat on his hands and tried, more to keep Sir Gawain company than anything else, for he was a large, kind, simple-hearted young man and had no high opinion of himself. After he, too, had failed, no one else came forward; and so after a while they left the sword in its block of red marble among the alder roots, and went back to the Great Hall to dinner.

  But another marvel was to come upon them before they ate that day.

  For when they were all seated, and with a ringing and singing and sounding of horns the first dishes had just been borne in, suddenly, and without any hand touching them, all the doors and window-shutters slammed to as in a squall of wind. Yet there was no wind. And the Hall was still lit as though with the clear brightness of the day outside.

  All round the table men looked at each other with startled faces. And in the same instant, none seeing how they came, there were two strangers among them; an old man robed in white, and beside him a knight whose surcoat over his armour blazed red as though he were a tongue of flame, but with no shield over his shoulder and only an empty sheath hanging from his sword belt.

  ‘Peace be with you,’ said the old man to the King.

  ‘And with you, stranger,’ returned the King. But his gaze went to the knight in the scarlet surcoat.

  ‘Sir,’ said the old man, ‘I bring before you this knight of the line of King Pelles, and through him of the line of Joseph of Arimathea; he who brought to this land the Holy Grail, from the land where Our Lord Jesus Christ drank from that wondrous cup, and shared its wine with his disciples when they gathered to the Last Supper. That was the beginning of the mystery of the Grail’s sojourn among men; and many wonders and many sorrows have followed therefrom; and because of it King Pelles himself lies maimed of a wound that never heals and his land is a wilderness; but now the time comes for the ending of all these things. And with the time, comes the knight who shall bring them to fulfilment and surcease.’

  ‘If it be as you say,’ said the King, ‘there was no man ever more welcome.’

  Then the old man, serving the knight as though he were his squire, helped him to disarm and put his flame-red surcoat on again over his white tunic. And now that his head was bared, many were the eyes that went from his face to Sir Lancelot’s and back again. And the old man led him straight to the Seat Perilous, and pulled aside Bors’s cloak, so that the golden lettering shone out once more. But the words had changed since Bors had covered them, and now they read: ‘This is the seat of Galahad.’

  The young knight sat down in it, very grave and still. He looked at the old man and said, ‘Faithfully you have done what was demanded of you. Now go back to Corbenic as you came. Greet my grandsire, and tell him that I will surely come when the time brings me.’

  And the ancient man went to the great door, and opened it, no one daring to move or follow him, and went his way.

  Behind him, the King and all his knights set themselves to making Sir Galahad welcome. They would have done the same for any newcomer to their brotherhood. But from the old man’s words, they had added reason for gladness at his coming. They knew well enough, all of them, of King Pelles, who men called the Grail Keeper, the Fisher King, and who they called also the Maimed King because of the wound he had in his thigh that never healed; and they knew that because of this wound, his land suffered also, bound by drought and lean harvests and the shadow of sorrows and strange happenings that hung over it like a cloud. Now, it seemed, through the new young knight in their midst, all this was to be mended; and so they rejoiced.

  But for another reason also they were glad. For a long while they had felt, the older knights especially, that in Camelot the high and shining days were over, that the long struggle for right against might was behind them, and the dreams were done with, and life had settled into a solid mould; and there was a weariness of heart among the Fellowship of the Round Table. Now there was something ahead of them again, instead of all in the past. Something coming; joy or grief, maybe death, but something coming …

  A light beyond the forest, thought Sir Lancelot, but the dark forest to be traversed first. And was not quite sure why he had thought it.

  If I were a tree, and spring was coming – a long way off, but still coming – this is how I should feel, thought Sir Percival, and his wide serious gaze was on the young knight who sat so gravely and calmly in the forbidden seat. Sir Percival was a born follower, and to such a one there is nothing better in the world than to find the leader his heart goes out to.

  ‘How is it that he can sit there, and no harm come to him?’ said Sir Bors, worried, to Sir Lancelot beside him. ‘He has had no time yet to prove his worthiness.’

  And Sir Lancelot said, ‘Did you not see his name on the back? I am thinking it could only be because God would have him sitting there.’

  2

  The Thund
er and the Sunbeam

  AS THE MEAL drew to its end, the King was telling his newest knight of the wonder that they had all seen that morning before his coming. ‘Since the seat is for you, it may be that the sword is for you also,’ said the King. ‘Come, and we will put the matter to the test.’

  So again the knights went down through the steep narrow streets of Camelot, where the swallows darted between the eaves in the summer air; and again they gathered on the river bank.

  The block of red marble still lay stranded among the alder roots, and the strange and beautiful sword still stood fast in it.

  And Sir Galahad stepped down among the wet roots where the water ran shallow under the bank, and drew the sword from its stone as sweetly as from a well-oiled sheath.

  A gasp broke from the watching knights; and the King said, ‘Surely here is a wonder indeed! Two of my best knights have failed in that attempt.’

  Sir Galahad stood looking at the sword in his hand, feeling its balance. ‘The adventure was not theirs, but mine,’ he said, not boasting but simply stating the simple fact, and slid the blade into the empty sheath at his side. ‘I am no longer a knight without a sword. All that I need now is a shield.’

  ‘God shall send you a shield, even as he has sent you the sword,’ said the King.

  And Sir Lancelot remembered the words on the hilt, and beat down a bitter sense of loss, telling himself that no man could be for ever the best knight in the world, able to tell himself that, because he did not yet quite believe it.

  Then the King spoke again, ‘My brothers, the thought is on me that soon we are to scatter, and never again shall I see you all here with me as you are now. Therefore, for the rest of this day, let us hold a joust here in the meadows below Camelot, and do such deeds that after our time is past, old men shall tell of it to their grandsons by the fire on winter nights, and the children’s eyes shall shine at the hearing, and they shall tell of it to their grandsons in turn.’