Arthurian Romances

by Chretien de Troyes

  ‘Indeed, good sir,’ answered Lancelot, ‘in but a few words I can tell you everything just as it happened to me. Meleagant, the wicked traitor, has kept me imprisoned since the day the prisoners were released from his land. He has forced me to live shamefully in a tower by the sea. He had me captured and walled in there, and there I would still be suffering were it not for a friend of mine: a maiden for whom I had once done a small favour. For that tiny favour she has given me a huge reward; she has done me great honour and great good. Now, however, without further delay, I wish to repay the man for whom I have no love. He has long hounded and pursued me, and has treated me with shame and cruelty. He has come here to court to seek his payment, and he shall have it! He need wait no longer for it, because it is ready. I myself am prepared for battle, as is he – and may God never again give him cause to boast!’

  Then Gawain said to Lancelot: ‘My friend, it would cost me little to repay your creditor for you. I am already equipped and mounted, as you can see. Good gentle friend, do not refuse me this favour I eagerly beg of you.’

  Lancelot replied that he would rather have both his eyes gouged from his head than be so persuaded. He swore never to let Gawain fight for him. He had given his own pledge to fight Meleagant, and he himself would repay what he owed. Gawain saw that nothing he might say would be to any avail, so he loosed his hauberk and lifted it from his back, then disarmed himself completely. Lancelot immediately donned these same arms, so eager was he for his debt to be repaid and cancelled. He was determined not to rest until he had repaid the traitor.

  Meleagant, meanwhile, was stunned beyond belief at everything he had just witnessed with his own eyes. He felt his heart sink within and nearly lost his mind.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said to himself, ‘what a fool I was not to check before coming here to make certain that Lancelot was still secure within my prison tower. Now he has the better of me. Ah, God, but why should I have gone there? There was never any reason to suspect that he could have escaped. Wasn’t the wall solidly constructed and the tower tall and strong? There was no flaw or crack through which he could slip without help from outside. Perhaps someone gave away my secret? But even granted that the walls cracked before their time and crumbled and fell, would he not have been buried under them and killed, his body crushed and dismembered? Yes, by God, if they had fallen he would surely have died within. Yet I am positive that those mighty walls would not have cracked before the last drop of water in the oceans had dried up and the mountains been levelled, unless they were destroyed by force. All this is impossible. There must be another answer: he had help in escaping, otherwise he’d not be free. I have no doubt that I’ve been betrayed. So I must accept the fact that he’s free. If only I had taken more precautions, it never would have happened, and he would never again have come to court! But now it is too late to feel sorry for myself. The peasant, who doesn’t like to lie, speaks the truth in his proverb: it’s too late to lock the stable door after the horse has been stolen. I know that I shall be brought to great shame and humiliation unless I endure many trials and sufferings. What trials and sufferings? So help me God, in whom I place my trust, I’ll fight my best for as long as I’m able against the knight I have challenged.’

  Thus he gathered his courage and now asked only that they be brought together on the field of battle. I don’t believe there’ll be a long delay, for Lancelot, anticipating a quick victory, is eager to meet him. But before either charged the other, the king asked that they go down below the tower on to the heath, the fairest from there to Ireland. They did as he ordered, going there without delay. The king, accompanied by milling crowds of knights and ladies, followed. No one remained behind; and the queen with her fair and beautiful ladies and maidens crowded at the windows to watch Lancelot.

  On the heath was the finest sycamore that ever grew, spreading wide its branches. Around it, like a woven carpet, was a beautiful field of fresh grass that never lost its green. From beneath the elegant sycamore, which had been planted in the time of Abel, there gushed a sparkling spring of rapid running water over a bed of beautiful stones that shone like silver. The water flowed off through a pipe of purest, rarefied gold and ran down across the heath into a valley between two woods. Here it suited the king to take his place, for he found nothing that displeased him.

  After King Arthur ordered his people to keep their distance, Lancelot rode angrily towards Meleagant, as at a man he hated intensely. But before striking a blow, he shouted in a loud, bold voice: ‘Come forward, I challenge you! And be assured that I will not spare you!’ Then he spurred on his horse, pulling back to a spot about a bowshot’s distance away. Now they charged towards one another as swiftly as their horses could run; each knight struck the other’s sturdy shield so forcefully with his lance that it was pierced through. Yet neither knight was wounded. They rode past, then wheeled about and returned full gallop to strike more mighty blows on their strong, good shields. Each was a courageous, bold, and valiant knight, and each rode a swift and powerful steed. With the mighty thrusts from their lances, they hammered the shields that hung from their necks, piercing the shields through and forcing a way right to the bare flesh, without the lances breaking or splitting. With powerful blows they drove one another to the ground. Breast-straps, girths, stirrups – nothing could keep them from being tumbled backwards from their saddles on to the bare earth. Their frightened horses reared and plunged, bucking and biting; they too wished to kill each other!

  The fallen knights leapt up as quickly as they could. They drew their swords, engraved with their mottoes. Protecting their faces with their shields, they studied how best to injure one another with their sharp steel blades. Lancelot was unafraid, for he was twice as skilled at fencing as Meleagant, having practised it since his youth. Both struck such powerful blows to the shields and gold-plated helmets that they split and broke. But Lancelot relentlessly pursued Meleagant and gave him a strong and mighty blow that severed his steel-covered right arm when his shield did not deflect it. As soon as Meleagant felt the loss of his right arm, he determined to sell his life dearly. If he could grasp the opportunity, he would avenge himself, for he was nearly insane with anger, spite, and pain. His situation was hopeless if he could not find some evil trick to destroy Lancelot. He rushed towards him, thinking to take him by surprise, but Lancelot was on his guard and opened Meleagant’s belly so wide with his sharp sword that he would not be healed before April or May. A second blow slashed his helmet, knocking the nasal into his mouth and breaking three teeth.

  Meleagant was so enraged he could not speak a word – not even to ask for mercy – because his foolish heart, which bound him and held him prisoner, had so besotted him. Lancelot approached, unlaced Meleagant’s helmet, and cut off his head. Never again would Meleagant deceive him: he had fallen in death, finished. But I assure you now that no one who was there and witnessed this deed felt any pity whatsoever. The king and all the others there rejoiced greatly over it. Then the happiest among them helped Lancelot remove his armour and led him away amid great jubilation.

  My lords, if I were to tell any more, I would be going beyond my matter. Therefore I draw to a close: the romance is completely finished at this point. The clerk Godefroy de Lagny27 has put the final touches on The Knight of the Cart; let no one blame him for completing Chrétien’s work, since he did it with the approval of Chrétien, who began it. He worked on the story from the point at which Lancelot was walled into the tower until the end. He has done only this much. He wishes to add nothing further, nor to omit anything, for this would harm the story.

  HERE ENDS THE ROMANCE OF LANCELOT OF THE CART

  THE KNIGHT WITH THE LION (YVAIN)

  ARTHUR, the good king of Britain whose valour teaches us to be brave and courteous, held a court of truly royal splendour at that most costly feast known as Pentecost. The king was at Carlisle in Wales.1 After dining, the knights gathered in the halls at the invitation of ladies, damsels, or maidens. Some told of past adventures,
others spoke of love: of the anguish and sorrows, but also of the great blessings often enjoyed by the disciples of its order, which in those days was sweet and flourishing. But today very few serve love: nearly everyone has abandoned it; and love is greatly abased, because those who loved in bygone days were known to be courtly and valiant and generous and honourable. Now love is reduced to empty pleasantries, since those who know nothing about it claim that they love, but they lie, and those who boast of loving and have no right to do so make a lie and a mockery of it.

  But let us look beyond those who are present among us and speak now of those who were, for to my mind a courteous man, though dead, is more worthy than a living knave. Therefore it is my pleasure to tell something worthy to be heard about the king whose fame was such that men still speak of him both near and far; and I agree wholly with the Bretons that this fame will last for ever, and through him we can recall those good chosen knights who strove for honour.

  On that Pentecost of which I am speaking the knights were very surprised to see the king arise early from table, and some among them were greatly disturbed and discussed it at length because never before at such a great feast had they seen him enter his room to sleep or rest. But that day it happened that the queen detained him, and he tarried so long at her side that he forgot himself and fell asleep. At the entrance to his chamber were Dodinel2 and Sagremor, and Kay and my lord Gawain; and my lord Yvain3 was there too, and with them was Calogrenant, a very handsome knight, who began telling them a tale not of his honour but of his disgrace.

  As he was telling his tale, the queen began to listen to him. She arose from beside the king and came to them so quickly that before anyone was aware of her, she had settled in among them. Calogrenant alone leapt to his feet to show her honour. And Kay, who was spiteful, wicked, sharp tongued, and abusive, said to him: ‘By God, Calogrenant, I see how gallant and sharp you are, and of course I’m delighted that you’re the most courteous among us. And I’m sure you think you are – you’re so lacking in good sense! It’s only natural my lady should believe you are more gallant and courteous than all the rest of us: perhaps it appears that it was out of laziness we neglected to rise, or because we didn’t deign to do so? But by God, sir, that wasn’t it; rather it was because we didn’t see my lady until after you’d risen.’

  ‘Indeed, Kay,’ said the queen, ‘I do think you’d soon burst if you couldn’t pour out the venom that fills you. You are tiresome and base to reproach your companions like this.’

  ‘My lady, if we are not better for having your company,’ said Kay, ‘make sure we are not the worse for it. I don’t believe I’ve said anything that should be noted to my discredit; so if you please, let’s talk no more of it. It is not courteous or wise to argue over silly things; such argument should go no further, nor should anyone make more of it. Instead, have him tell us more of the tale he started, for there should be no quarrelling here.’

  At these words, Calogrenant joined in and answered: ‘My lady, I’m not greatly upset by the quarrel; it’s nothing to me, and I don’t care. Though Kay has wronged me, it will do me no harm. You have spoken your slander and spite to braver and wiser men than I, my lord Kay, for you do it habitually. The dungheap will always smell, wasps will always sting and hornets buzz, and a cad will always slander and vex others. Yet I’ll not continue my story today, if my lady will excuse me and, by her grace, not command that which displeases me.’

  ‘My lady, everyone here will be grateful to you and will willingly hear him out,’ said Kay. ‘Don’t do anything on my account but, by the loyalty you owe the king, your lord and mine, order him to continue; you will do well in doing so.’

  ‘Calogrenant,’ said the queen, ‘don’t pay any heed to this attack by my lord Kay the seneschal; he so frequently speaks ill of people that we cannot punish him for it. I urge and pray you not to be angry in your heart on his account nor fail to tell of things it would please us to hear. If you wish to enjoy my love, pray begin again at once.’

  ‘Indeed, my lady, what you order me to do is very difficult. Except for my fear of your anger, I’d rather let one of my eyes be put out than to tell them anything more this day; but though it pains me, I’ll do what pleases you. Since it suits you, listen to me now!

  ‘Lend me your hearts and ears, for words that are not understood by the heart are lost completely. There are those who hear something without understanding it, yet praise it; they have only the faculty of hearing, since the heart does not comprehend it. The word comes to the ears like whistling wind, but doesn’t stop or linger there; instead it quickly leaves if the heart is not alert enough to be ready to grasp it. However, if the heart can take and enclose and retain the word when it hears it, then the ears are the path and channel through which the voice reaches the heart; and the voice, which enters through the ears, is received within the breast by the heart. So he who would hear me now must surrender heart and ears to me for I do not wish to speak of a dream, or a fable, or a lie, which many others have served you; instead I shall tell what I have seen myself.

  ‘It happened more than seven years ago that I, alone like a peasant, was riding along in search of adventures, fully armed as a knight should be; I discovered a path to the right leading through a thick forest. The way was very treacherous, full of thorns and briars; with considerable effort and difficulty I kept to this course and this path. For nearly the whole day I rode along in this manner until I emerged from the forest, which was named Broceliande.4

  ‘From the forest I entered into open country, where I saw a wooden brattice half a Welsh league away; if it was that far, it was no further. I rode that way at a good pace, saw the brattice and a deep and wide moat all around; and on the drawbridge stood the man to whom the fortress belonged, with a moulted goshawk upon his wrist. I had no sooner greeted him than he came to take hold of my stirrup and invited me to dismount. I had no inclination other than to do so, for I needed lodging; and he told me at once more than seven times in a row that blessed was the route by which I had arrived therein. With that we crossed the bridge and passed through the gate into the courtyard.

  ‘In the middle of the vavasour’s courtyard – may God grant him as much joy and honour as he showed to me that night – there hung a gong; I don’t believe it was made with any iron or wood, or of anything but pure copper. The vavasour struck three blows upon this gong with a hammer that was hanging from a little post. Those inside, hearing the voices and this sound, came out of the house and down into the courtyard. Some ran to my horse, which the good vavasour was holding. And I saw that a fair and noble maiden was approaching me. I looked at her intently, for she was beautiful, tall, and proper; she was skilful in helping me disarm, which she did quickly and well. Then she dressed me in a short, fur-lined mantle of peacock-blue scarlet. Then everyone left, and no one remained there with me or with her; this pleased me, for I had eyes for no one else. And she led me to sit down in the most beautiful meadow in the world, enclosed roundabout with a small wall. There I found her to be so talented, so charming in speech, so gifted, so comforting, and of such a fine nature, that I was very delighted to be there and no duty could ever have caused me to leave.

  ‘But that night the vavasour laid siege to me by coming to fetch me when it was the time and hour to sup; since I could tarry no longer, I did his bidding at once. Of the supper I’ll tell you in short that it was entirely to my liking since the maiden, who was in attendance, was seated opposite me. After dinner the vavasour told me that he couldn’t recall how long it had been since he had given lodging to a knight-errant riding in search of adventure; he had not lodged any in a long while. Then he besought me to accord him the service and recompense of returning by way of his lodging; I responded “Willingly, sir.” For it would have been a shame to refuse him; I would have seemed ungrateful had I refused my host this boon.

  ‘That night I was lodged well, and my horse was saddled as soon as one could see the dawn; I had ardently requested it the evening befo
re, and my request had been honoured. I commended my good host and his dear daughter to the Holy Spirit; I begged leave of everyone and set off as soon as I could. I was not far from my lodging when I discovered, in a clearing, wild bulls on the loose that were fighting among themselves and making such an uproar and commotion and disturbance that, if the truth be told you, I backed off a little way; for no beast is as fierce as or more bellicose than a bull.

  ‘A peasant who resembled a Moor, ugly and hideous in the extreme – such an ugly creature that he cannot be described in words – was seated on a stump, with a great club in his hand. I approached the peasant and saw that his head was larger than a nag’s or other beast’s. His hair was unkempt and his bare forehead was more than two spans wide; his ears were as hairy and as huge as an elephant’s; his eyebrows heavy and his face flat. He had the eyes of an owl and the nose of a cat, jowls split like a wolf’s, with the sharp reddish teeth of a boar; he had a russet beard, tangled moustache, a chin down to his breast and a long, twisted spine with a hump. He was leaning on his club and wore a most unusual cloak, made neither of wool nor linen; instead, at his neck he had attached two pelts freshly skinned from two bulls or two oxen.

  ‘The peasant leapt to his feet as soon as he saw me approaching him. I didn’t know if he wanted to strike me, or what he intended to do, but I made ready to defend myself until I saw that he stood there perfectly still, without moving. He had climbed up on a tree trunk, where he towered a good seventeen feet high. He looked down at me, without saying a word, no more than a beast would have; and I thought he didn’t know how to talk and was mute. None the less I summoned enough nerve to say to him: “Come now, tell me if you are a good creature or not?”

  ‘And he answered: “I am a man.”