Then he knelt down beside Sir Urre, whose litter had been taken from its horse-shafts and laid upon the floor of the Great Hall. ‘Sir Knight,’ he said, ‘I grieve for your suffering. Will you allow that I touch your wounds?’
‘Do as you will with me, my Lord King,’ said Sir Urre, his voice dry and weary in his throat; but it was clear that he had lost all hope of healing at any man’s hands.
Then the linen bandages were laid back, and the King touched Sir Urre upon each of the seven sickening wounds. But though he was as gentle as might be, the sick knight clenched his teeth, and winced at every touch. And when he had touched them all, the seven wounds were just as they had been before.
‘I knew that it would not be I,’ said the King, ‘but pray you be of good courage; there are better knights by far than I am, here in my court.’
Then one after another all the knights that were there at court came forward to lay their hands upon Sir Urre. Sir Gawain and his brothers, Sir Lional and Sir Bors and Sir Ector of the Marsh, Sir Bleoberis, Sir Kay the Seneschal and Sir Meliot de Logure, Sir Uwaine, Sir Gryflet le Fise de Dieu, Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere, Sir Mador and Sir Persant of Inde – and Sir Mordred, at whose touch the wounded knight could not forbear a groan. And many others, a hundred or more. And when the last had tried in vain, Sir Urre was near to swooning with the pain and weariness of so many hands upon him. Yet his wounds were all unchanged, save that they bled the more from so much handling.
‘Now we sorely need Sir Lancelot of the Lake,’ said King Arthur.
‘Aye, well, he will be here tomorrow,’ said Gawain, ‘when he comes with Sir Meliagraunce to keep their day of combat.’
Meanwhile Sir Lancelot had lain six days and six nights prisoned in the vault below Sir Meliagraunce’s castle, and every day there came a maiden who opened the trap and let food and drink down to him on the end of a silken cord. And every day she whispered to him, sweet and tempting, ‘Sir Lancelot, oh, sweet Sir Lancelot, I will bring you free out of this place if you will be my lord and my love.’
And every day he refused her, until on the last day her anger rose and she said, ‘Sir Knight, you are not wise to spurn me, for without my help you will not win free of this captivity. And if you are still here at noon tomorrow, your honour will be gone for ever.’
‘It would be greater dishonour for me to buy my freedom at your price,’ said Sir Lancelot, ‘and the High King and all men know me well enough, I hope, to know that it is not cowardice but some mischance or treachery against me that could hold me from keeping my tryst when the appointed day of combat comes.’
And the maiden secured the trap again and went her way.
Next morning, lying in the dark and listening to the sounds of the castle that filtered down to him from overhead, Sir Lancelot heard Sir Meliagraunce ride away, his horse’s hooves ringing hollow on the courtyard cobbles and out through the gate arch to the lower court. And he beat his fists together in fury and despair. But soon after, the maiden came, and lifted the trap, and knelt weeping beside it, looking down at him, while he stood below her looking up. And she said, ‘Alas! Sir Lancelot, I had hoped to win you, but you are too strong-set against me, and my love for you has been in vain. Yet I cannot see you dishonoured. Give me but one kiss in guerdon, and I will set you free, and you shall have back your armour, aye, and the best horse in Sir Meliagraunce’s stable.’
‘There is no harm in a kiss,’ said Sir Lancelot. ‘It is but courteous to thank a lady for her kindness.’
Then the maiden sent down a good stout rope with knots tied in it, in place of the silken cord. ‘I have made the end fast to the bar-socket of the door,’ she said. ‘Trust me, it will bear your weight. Now climb.’
And Sir Lancelot swarmed up the rope, and standing beside her when she had made all secure again, he kissed her once. Only once, but long and tenderly, for he was a man to pay his debts. Then the lady brought him to the armoury, and served him as his squire, aiding him to put on his armour, and when he was armed, and his sword at his side and a spear in his hand, she took him to the stables, where twelve fine coursers stood in their stalls, and bade him choose whichever he would.
He chose one that was as white as milk, with an arched neck and a falcon’s eye, and she aided him to saddle and bridle it, for the grooms, like everyone else in the castle, had gone streaming away after their lord to Camelot.
And in the lower court he mounted, and leaning down to her from the high saddle, said, ‘Lady, my thanks are yours for all time; and all my life my service is yours if you should need it, for this day’s work.’
And touching his spurs to the horse’s flank, he clattered out under the gate arch, while the maiden stood looking after him with the taste of her own salt tears on her lips where his kiss had been, as other maidens had stood before her.
Sir Lancelot settled down into the high saddle, and set his horse’s head towards Camelot. He had seven miles to cover before noon, and the time was short, with the sun already high in the sky.
Meanwhile in the meadow between the town and the river, all things had been made ready for the joust. The King and Queen and all the court had come down to watch; even Sir Urre had been borne down to the field on his litter and set in the shade of a clump of ancient alder trees. And Sir Meliagraunce had already arrived. And when the King, seeing that he rode alone, asked for Sir Lancelot, he showed great surprise. ‘Sir Lancelot? Is he not here? He left me on the morning of the second day, to ride off on some business of his own; but I did not think that he would forget this day – unless …’
‘Unless?’ said the King.
‘Unless, maybe, having been so long accounted the Queen’s champion and the best of knights, and being no longer so young as once he was …’ said Sir Meliagraunce, and grinned under the shadow of his open vizor.
‘That sounds not like Sir Lancelot,’ said the King.
And Sir Gawain standing close by growled into his rusty beard, ‘And he that says so speaks foul slander! If Sir Lancelot comes not to keep this day, it is slain or wounded the man is – or lies captive somewhere!’
And if any had been looking at the Queen, they would have seen how her face faded to the whey-white of thorn blossoms.
But no one was looking at the Queen, for at that moment the sun flashed back from some point of swiftly moving light across the river, and upon the waiting quiet came the urgent beat of a horse’s hooves, and craning that way they saw a knight on a white destrier come pricking out of the forest on to the river track. He headed for the three-arched bridge and came drumming over; and as he drew near, and they made out the device on his shield, the shout went up, ‘It is Sir Lancelot! It is Sir Lancelot of the Lake!’
And if any had then been looking at the Queen (but no one was, save maybe Sir Mordred), they would have seen her flush from her whey-whiteness to a painful fiery rose.
Sir Lancelot swung left-hand from the bridge on to the tilting ground, and reined to a trampling halt, his horse scattering foam from its muzzle.
Then the King sent squires to summon Sir Lancelot before him. And Sir Lancelot set his horse pacing forward up the field and reined in again, below the stand where the King sat with Guenever the Queen at his side.
‘Sir Lancelot,’ said the King, ‘you come late to your tryst.’
And Sir Lancelot spoke up in a loud clear voice for all the company to hear, and told how Sir Meliagraunce had dealt with him in the past days. And Sir Meliagraunce would have turned his horse and been swiftly on his way; but the King checked him. And he sat by, with a frightened and sullen face, and could make no answer when King Arthur demanded of him whether he could deny the charge.
Then Lancelot said, ‘My Lord King, this creature who calls himself a knight, and a knight of the Round Table, has sought by treachery to bring black dishonour upon my name; therefore, in place of the simple joust which was planned for today, I demand that he shall do battle with me to the uttermost!’ Which was to say, to the death, neither man being
free to yield himself to the other’s mercy if he were defeated in the usual custom of a joust.
‘The demand is granted,’ said the King.
Then a fresh horse was brought for Sir Lancelot, and he and Sir Meliagraunce drew apart to the far ends of the lists, and turned, and at the trumpet’s sounding, set their spears in rest, and came thundering down upon each other. And Sir Lancelot’s spear took Sir Meliagraunce in midshield, and hove him backwards over his horse’s crupper.
Then as Sir Meliagraunce scrambled to his feet, Sir Lancelot swung down from his horse; and drawing their swords, they fell to hewing and smiting at each other, until at last Sir Lancelot got in such a blow to the side of his adversary’s helm that he went down like a poled ox.
But Sir Meliagraunce scrambled towards Sir Lancelot and clung to his knees, crying, ‘Spare my life! I yield me! I cry quarter and yield me to your mercy!’
Then Sir Lancelot did not know what to do, for this was a fight to the uttermost, and he was bound for his honour’s sake neither to ask nor to give mercy, but to kill or be killed. Yet his gorge rose at the thought of killing a man grovelling at his feet.
‘Get up!’ he said. ‘Get up and fight, if you would not shame your manhood more than you have done already!’
But the other went on grovelling and clinging and crying out, ‘I yield! I yield! Spare my life!’
‘Get up!’ said Sir Lancelot in an agony. ‘And I will lay aside my helmet and my shield and my left gauntlet and fight you with my left hand tied behind my back!’
Then Sir Meliagraunce ceased howling, and stumbled to his feet and cried out for all to hear, ‘My Lord the King, take heed of this offer, for I will accept it!’
There was a sick silence, and then a murmur of distaste among the watching knights, and the King said to his friend, ‘Sir Lancelot, are you set upon this?’
And Sir Lancelot said steadily, ‘I never yet went back on my word.’
So the squires came and took his helm and shield, and bound his left arm behind his back; and the two knights stood once more face to face; and a murmur ran round the field at sight of Sir Lancelot standing there bareheaded and shieldless and one-handed, before his fully-armed opponent. Then Sir Meliagraunce swung up his sword, and Sir Lancelot stood as it were drawing him on with his bare head and shieldless left flank; then as the blade came whistling down, he side-slipped and twisted with a silver flash like a leaping salmon, swinging up his own sword Joyeux so that the two clashed and ground together and for a moment hung locked. And then the other blade was beaten aside, and Sir Lancelot’s blade took his enemy on the helmet-crest with such force that both the helmet and the head within it were cloven in two, and Sir Meliagraunce fell dead upon the trampled ground.
Then the squires came and bore his body away, leading his horse after it. And while Sir Lancelot stood leaning on his sword and wiping the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his bare hand, the King himself went to him and led him to where Sir Urre lay upon his litter under the alder trees. And he told Sir Lancelot of the knight’s wounds, and how they had all failed to heal him.
‘And indeed,’ said Arthur, ‘we had small hope of success, seeing that his wounds may be healed only by the touch of the best knight in Christendom. But now that you are returned to us, the hope rises again within our hearts.’
‘In mine also,’ said Sir Urre; and his eyes clung to Sir Lancelot’s face like the eyes of a sick dog. And his mother and sister were standing by.
‘Not me,’ said Sir Lancelot, ‘this is for the best knight in Christendom. God forbid that I should think to achieve what so many good knights have failed to do!’
‘It is for the best knight in Christendom,’ the King said gently.
Sir Lancelot shook his head. ‘I was, maybe, once.’
‘Galahad is dead,’ said the King, still more gently. And then, ‘See now, you do this thing not out of any pride or presumption, but because your King commands you.’
‘Then I must obey the King’s command,’ said Sir Lancelot. He was weary to the bone, and still rank with the sweat of battle. And he knew that if he tried to do this thing, and failed, he would be shamed before all his fellows of the Round Table. But he knelt down beside the litter, and set his hands together, one bare and the other still mailed, and prayed deep in his own heart where none might hear him save the One to whom he prayed, ‘Oh God, make me Your servant and Your channel for the healing of this sick knight. By Your virtue and grace, let him be made whole through me, but never by me.’
And then, seeing that he still wore his right-hand gauntlet, he stripped it off, and asked Sir Urre very humbly, ‘Will you grant me now that I touch your wounds?’
‘In God’s name lay your hands upon me,’ said Sir Urre.
And Sir Lancelot touched the wounds upon his head. And as he did so, it seemed that something flowed through him, like a wind or a fire or his own heart’s blood. And the bleeding ceased beneath his hands, and the edges of the wounds drew together. And then he touched the wounds on Sir Urre’s body and again the power and the love flowed through him and the wounds closed; and lastly he took Sir Urre’s sword-hand in both of his, and felt it grow whole and strong again between his palms.
And he knew that at long last, with all his sins upon him, God had granted him the miracle he had prayed for all his life.
Sir Urre sat up, and looked about him in great wonder, then got slowly to his feet. And King Arthur and all his knights cried out in joy; and kneeling, bowed their heads and gave thanks to God for His mercy.
But kneeling still beside the empty litter, Sir Lancelot covered his face with his big swordsman’s hands, and wept like a little child that has been beaten.
4
The Queen’s Chamber
TIME WENT BY, and on the surface it seemed still that life stood at summer; but below the surface, the shadows were closing in on Britain. The shining light of Logres shone as high and clear as ever, but as a candle flares before it gutters out.
And more and more Sir Lancelot found himself remembering Sir Tristan, dead these nine years past. Sir Tristan sitting beside the fire in the Great Hall at Camelot, his little harp on his knee, turning the love between himself and Iseult of Cornwall into a harpsong of such piercing sorrow and sweetness that all his listeners wept to hear. For more and more Sir Lancelot’s love for Guenever was becoming what Tristan’s for Iseult had been, a power that dragged him where it would, as the moon drags the tides to follow it.
And always Sir Agravane and Sir Mordred watched him and the Queen, with hatred in their hearts for both of them and for the King also; the King above all, though they made pretence that all their concern was for his sake.
One evening when another May had come round, and again the cuckoo was calling in the wooded hills about Caerleon where the court was at that time, Sir Gawain and his brothers and their half-brother Mordred were talking together in the chamber high in the North Tower of the castle where Gawain had his quarters. It was a dark, austere room, with no beauty in it save for the flames upon the hearth and the yellowish-white skin of a great snow-bear with chunks of amber for eyes, that lay slung across the low bed-place. The four Orkney brothers were gathered about the hearth, while Mordred stood by the narrow window, a little removed – he never forgot, nor allowed them to forget, that he was no full brother of theirs – and played with a tiny jewelled dagger as though it were a flower between his fingers.
‘We have all seen them together,’ said Sir Agravane. ‘We all know how often they are together, and more closely so when we do not see. The whole court knows of their love for each other; and it is foul shame that we should leave the King unwarned.’
‘The King knows!’ said Sir Gawain harshly. ‘Do you think he is a blind fool?’
Gaheris said, puzzled, ‘Then why does he do nothing?’
Sir Gareth said slowly, thinking the thing out as he went along, ‘Do you not see? He knows, but he pretends even to himself that he does not know, because so long a
s he does that, he need do nothing to harm the two people he loves best in the world.’
‘Well thought out, little brother,’ said Gawain, ‘but there’s more to it than that.’
Sir Agravane said shrilly, ‘And meanwhile they bring shame upon the King and our Round Table brotherhood, and upon the whole Kingdom of Logres!’
Sir Gawain kicked a smouldering log on the hearth and watched it burst into flame. ‘There are others who do that,’ he said, and glared at his brother. ‘Leave it, Agravane.’
‘You are the eldest of us, you should tell him.’
Rage and helplessness rose in Gawain and almost choked him. He could think of no way out, no way of thrusting back the evil. Even if he were indeed to tell the King – warn him – that would be to do Mordred’s work for him, in the end. ‘I will have no part in it,’ he growled in his throat. His grey-streaked red hair seemed almost to rise like the hackles of an angry hound. ‘If you do this, you will tear the Round Table asunder, for you must know that many of the knights will take sides with Sir Lancelot, while others will follow you and Mordred, thinking that in doing that, they stand true to the King – until in your own time you will stand forth against him yourselves. There will be red war, and the end of Logres and all that we have striven for so long. And who will be for the King then?’
‘You will be for the King,’ said Gareth, ‘and I.’
‘I also,’ said Gaheris, ‘and a few more. Most of us old hounds with grey muzzles.’
Sir Mordred spoke for the first time, playing with the dagger. ‘Agravane, if you are afraid to come with me to the King my father, I will go to him alone.’
‘Nay, I go with you,’ said Sir Agravane. ‘The time has come when our liege lord must be forced to know, and to act!’
The King Arthur Trilogy Page 41