by T. H. White
Just outside Sir Ector’s castle there was a jousting field for tournaments, although there had been no tournaments in it since Kay was born. It was a green meadow, kept short, with a broad grassy bank raised round it on which pavilions could be erected. There was an old wooden grandstand at one side, lifted on stilts for the ladies. At present the field was only used as a practice—ground for tilting, so a quintain had been erected at one end and a ring at the other. The quintain was a wooden Saracen on a pole. He was painted with a bright blue face and red beard and glaring eyes. He had a shield in his left hand and a flat wooden sword in his right. If you hit him in the middle of his forehead all was well, but if your lance struck him on the shield or on any part to left or right of the middle line, then he spun round with great rapidity, and usually caught you a wallop with his sword as you galloped by, ducking. His paint was somewhat scratched and the wood picked up over his right eye. The ring was just an ordinary iron ring tied to a kind of gallows by a thread. If you managed to put your point through the ring, the thread broke, and you could canter off proudly with the ring round your spear.
The day was cooler than it had been for some time, for the autumn was almost within sight, and the two boys were in the tilting yard with the master armourer and Merlyn. The master armourer, or sergeant—at—arms, was a stiff, pale, bouncy gentleman with waxed moustaches. He always marched about with his chest stuck out like a pouter pigeon, and he called out ‘On the word One –’ on every possible occasion. He took great pains to keep his stomach in, and often tripped over his feet because he could not see them over his chest. He was generally making his muscles ripple, which annoyed Merlyn.
Wart lay beside Merlyn in the shade of the grandstand and scratched himself for harvest bugs. The saw—like sickles had only lately been put away, and the wheat stood in stooks of eight among the tall stubble of those times. The Wart still itched. He was also sore about the shoulders and had a burning ear, from making bosh shots at the quintain – for, of course, practice tilting was done without armour. Wart was pleased that it was Kay’s turn to go through it now and he lay drowsily in the shade, snoozing, scratching, twitching like a dog and partly attending to the fun.
Merlyn, sitting with his back to all the athleticism, was practising a spell which he had forgotten. It was a spell to make the sergeant’s moustaches uncurl, but at present it only uncurled one of them, and the sergeant had not noticed it. He absentmindedly curled it up again every time Merlyn did the spell, and Merlyn said, ‘Drat it!’ and began again. Once he made the sergeant’s ears flap by mistake, and the latter gave a startled look at the sky.
From far off at the other side of the tilting ground the sergeant’s voice came floating on the still air.
‘Nah, Nah, Master Kay, that ain’t it at all. Has you were. Has you were. The spear should be ‘eld between the thumb and forefinger of the right ‘and, with the shield in line with the seam of the trahser leg…’
The Wart rubbed his sore ear and sighed.
‘What are you grieving about?’
‘I was not grieving; I was thinking.’
‘What were you thinking?’
‘Oh, it was not anything. I was thinking about Kay learning to be a knight.’
‘And well you may grieve,’ exclaimed Merlyn hotly. ‘A lot of brainless unicorns swaggering about and calling themselves educated just because they can push each other off a horse with a bit of stick! It makes me tired. Why, I believe Sir Ector would have been gladder to get a by—our—lady tilting blue for your tutor, that swings himself along on his knuckles like an anthropoid ape, rather than a magician of known probity and international reputation with first—class honours from every European university. The trouble with the Norman Aristocracy is that they are games—mad, that is what it is, games—mad.’
He broke off indignantly and deliberately made the sergeant’s ears flap slowly twice, in unison.
‘I was not thinking quite about that,’ said the Wart. ‘As a matter of fact, I was thinking how nice it would be to be a knight, like Kay.’
‘Well, you will be one soon enough, won’t you?’ asked the old man, impatiently.
Wart did not answer.
‘Won’t you?’
Merlyn turned round and looked closely at the boy through his spectacles.
‘What is the matter now?’ he enquired nastily. His inspection had shown him that his pupil was trying not to cry, and if he spoke in a kind voice he would break down and do it.
‘I shall not be a knight,’ replied the Wart coldly. Merlyn’s trick had worked and he no longer wanted to weep: he wanted to kick Merlyn. ‘I shall not be a knight because I am not a proper son of Sir Ector’s. They will knight Kay, and I shall be his squire.’
Merlyn’s back was turned again, but his eyes were bright behind his spectacles. ‘Too bad,’ he said without commiseration.
The Wart burst out with all his thoughts aloud. ‘Oh,’ he cried, ‘but I should have liked to be born with a proper father and mother, so that I could be a knight errant.’
‘What would you have done?’
‘I should have had a splendid suit of armour and dozens of spears and a black horse standing eighteen hands, and I should have called myself The Black Knight. And I should have hoved at a well or a ford or something and made all true knights that came that way to joust with me for the honour of their ladies, and I should have spared them all after I had given them a great fall. And I should live out of doors all the year round in a pavilion, and never do anything but joust and go on quests and bear away the prize at tournaments, and I should not ever tell anybody my name.’
‘Your wife will scarcely enjoy the life.’
‘Oh, I am not going to have a wife. I think they are stupid.
‘I shall have to have a lady—love, though,’ added the future knight uncomfortably, ‘so that I can wear her favour in my helm, and do deeds in her honour.’
A humblebee came zooming between them, under the grandstand and out into the sunlight.
‘Would you like to see some real knights errant?’ asked the magician slowly. ‘Now, for the sake of your education?’
‘Oh, I would! We have never even had a tournament since I was here.’
‘I suppose it could be managed.’
‘Oh, please do. You could take me to some like you did to the fish.’
‘I suppose it is educational, in a way.’
‘It is very educational,’ said the Wart. ‘I can’t think of anything more educational than to see some real knights fighting. Oh, won’t you please do it?’
‘Do you prefer any particular knight?’
‘King Pellinore,’ he said immediately. He had a weakness for this gentleman since their strange encounter in the Forest.
Merlyn said, ‘That will do very well. Put your hands to your sides and relax your muscles. Cabricias arci thurum, catalamus, singulariter, nominativa, haec musa. Shut your eyes and keep them shut. Bonus, Bona, Bonum. Here we go. Deus Sanctus, est—ne aratio Latinas? Etiam, oui, quare? Pourquoi? Quai substantivo et adjectivum concordat in generi, numerum et casus. Here we are.’
While this incantation was going on, the patient felt some queer sensations. First he could hear the sergeant calling out to Kay, ‘Nah, then, nah then, keep the ’eels dahn and swing the body from the ‘ips.’ Then the words got smaller and smaller, as if he were looking at his feet through the wrong end of a telescope, and began to swirl round in a cone, as if they were at the pointed bottom end of a whirlpool which was sucking him into the air. Then there was nothing but a loud rotating roaring and hissing noise which rose to such a tornado that he felt that he could not stand it any more. Finally there was utter silence and Merlyn saying, ‘Here we are.’ All this happened in about the time that it would take a sixpenny rocket to start off with its fiery swish, bend down from its climax and disperse itself in thunder and coloured stars. He opened his eyes just at the moment when one would have heard the invisible stick hitting the ground.
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br /> They were lying under a beech tree in the Forest Sauvage.
‘Here we are,’ said Merlyn. ‘Get up and dust your clothes.
‘And there, I think,’ continued the magician, in a tone of satisfaction because his spells had worked for once without a hitch, ‘is your friend, King Pellinore, pricking toward us o’er the plain.’
‘Hallo, hallo,’ cried King Pellinore, popping his visor up and down. ‘It’s the young boy with the feather bed, isn’t it, I say, what?’
‘Yes, it is,’ said the Wart. ‘And I am very glad to see you. Did you manage to catch the Beast?’
‘No,’ said King Pellinore. ‘Didn’t catch the beast. Oh, do come here, you brachet, and leave that bush alone. Tcha! Tcha! Naughty, naughty! She runs riot, you know, what. Very keen on rabbits. I tell you there’s nothing in it, you beastly dog. Tcha! Tcha! Leave it, leave it! Oh, do come to heel, like I tell you.
‘She never does come to heel,’ he added.
At this the dog put a cock pheasant out of the bush, which rocketed off with a tremendous clatter, and the dog became so excited that it ran round its master three or four times at the end of its rope, panting hoarsely as if it had asthma. King Pellinore’s horse stood patiently while the rope was wound round its legs, and Merlyn and the Wart had to catch the brachet and unwind it before the conversation could go on.
‘I say,’ said King Pellinore. ‘Thank you very much. I must say. Won’t you introduce me to your friend, what?’
This is my tutor Merlyn, a great magician.’
‘How—de—do,’ said the King. ‘Always like to meet magicians. In fact I always like to meet anybody. It passes the time away, what, on a quest.’
‘Hail,’ said Merlyn, in his most mysterious manner.
‘Hail,’ replied the King, anxious to make a good impression.
They shook hands.
‘Did you say Hail?’ inquired the King, looking about him nervously. ‘I thought it was going to be fine, myself.’
‘He meant How—do—you—do,’ explained the Wart.
‘Ah, yes, How—de—do?’
They shook hands again.
‘Good afternoon’ said King Pellinore. ‘What do you think the weather looks like now?’
‘I think it looks like an anti—cyclone.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said the King. ‘An anti—cyclone. Well, I suppose I ought to be getting along.’
At this the King trembled very much, opened and shut his visor several times, coughed, wove his reins into a knot, exclaimed, ‘I beg your pardon?’ and showed signs of cantering away.
‘He is a white magician,’ said the Wart. ‘You need not be afraid of him. He is my best friend, your majesty, and in any case he generally gets his spells muddled up.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said King Pellinore. ‘A white magician, what? How small the world is, is it not? How—de—do?’
‘Hail’ said Merlyn.
‘Hail,’ said King Pellinore.
They shook hands for the third time.
‘I should not go away,’ said the wizard, ‘if I were you. Sir Grummore Grummursum is on the way to challenge you to a joust.’
‘No, you don’t say? Sir What—you—may—call—it coming here to challenge me to a joust?’
‘Assuredly.’
‘Good handicap man?’
‘I should think it would be an even match.’
‘Well, I must say,’ exclaimed the King. ‘it never hails but it pours.’
‘Hail,’ said Merlyn.
‘Hail,’ said King Pellinore.
‘Hail,’ said the Wart.
‘Now I really won’t shake hands with anybody else,’ announced the monarch. ‘We must assume that we have all met before.’
‘Is Sir Grummore really coming,’ inquired the Wart, hastily changing the subject, ‘to challenge King Pellinore to a battle?’
‘Look yonder,’ said Merlyn, and both of them looked in the direction of his outstretched finger.
Sir Grummore Grummursum was cantering up the clearing in full panoply of war. Instead of his ordinary helmet with a visor he was wearing the proper tilting—helm, which looked like a large coal—scuttle, and as he cantered he clanged.
He was singing his old school song:
We’ll tilt together.
Steady from crupper to poll,
And nothin’ in life shall sever
Our love for the dear old coll.
Follow—up, follow—up, follow—up, follow—up, follow—up,
Till the shield ring again and again
With the clanks of the clanky true men.
‘Goodness,’ exclaimed King Pellinore. ‘It’s about two months since I had a proper tilt, and last winter they put me up to eighteen. That was when they had the new handicaps.’
Sir Grummore had arrived while he was speaking, and had recognized the Wart.
‘Mornin’,’ said Sir Grummore. ‘You’re Sir Ector’s boy, ain’t you? And who’s that chap in the comic hat?’
‘That is my tutor,’ said the Wart hurriedly. ‘Merlyn, the magician.’
Sir Grummore looked at Merlyn – magicians were considered rather middle—class by the true jousting set in those days – and said distantly, ‘Ah, a magician. How—de—do?’
‘And this is King Pellinore,’ said the Wart. ‘Sir Grummore Grummursum – King Pellinore.’
‘How—de—do?’ inquired Sir Grummore.
‘Hail,’ said King Pellinore. ‘No, I mean it won’t hail, will it?’
‘Nice day,’ said Sir Grummore.
‘Yes, it is nice, isn’t it, what?’
‘Been questin’ today?’
‘Oh, yes, thank you. Always am questing, you know. After the Questing Beast.’
‘Interestin’ job, that, very.’
‘Yes, it is interesting. Would you like to see some fewmets?’
‘By Jove, yes. Like to see some fewmets.’
‘I have some better ones at home, but these are quite good, really.’
‘Bless my soul. So these are her fewmets.’
‘Yes, these are her fewmets.’
‘Interestin’ fewmets.’
‘Yes, they are interesting, aren’t they? Only you get tired of them,’ added King Pellinore.
‘Well, well. It’s a fine day, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is rather fine.’
‘Suppose we’d better have a joust, eh, what?’
‘Yes, I suppose we had better,’ said King Pellinore, ‘really.’
‘What shall we have it for?’
‘Oh, the usual, I suppose. Would one of you kindly help me on with my helm?’
They all three had to help him on eventually, for, what with the unscrewing of screws and the easing of nuts and bolts which the King had clumsily set on the wrong thread when getting up in a hurry that morning, it was quite a feat of engineering to get him out of his helmet and into his helm. The helm was an enormous thing like an oil drum, padded inside with two thicknesses of leather and three inches of straw.
As soon as they were ready, the two knights stationed themselves at each end of the clearing and then advanced to meet in the middle.
‘Fair knight,’ said King Pellinore, ‘I pray thee tell me thy name.’
‘That me regards,’ replied Sir Grummore, using the proper formula.
‘That is uncourteously said,’ said King Pellinore, ‘what? For no knight ne dreadeth for to speak his name openly, but for some reason of shame.’
‘Be that as it may, I choose that thou shalt not know my name as at this time, for no askin’.’
‘Then you must stay and joust with me, false knight.’
‘Haven’t you got that wrong, Pellinore?’ inquired Sir Grummore. ‘I believe it ought to be “thou shalt”.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Sir Grummore. Yes, so it should, of course. Then thou shalt stay and joust with me, false knight.’
Without further words, the gentlemen retreated to the opposite ends of the clearing, fewtered their sp
ears, and prepared to hurtle together in the preliminary charge.
‘I think we had better climb this tree,’ said Merlyn. ‘You never know what will happen in a joust like this.’
They climbed up the big beech, which had easy branches sticking out in all directions, and the Wart stationed himself toward the end of a smooth bough about fifteen feet up, where he could get a good view. Nothing is so comfortable to sit in as a beech.
To be able to picture the terrible battle which now took place, there is one thing which ought to be known. A knight in his full armour of those days, or at any rate during the heaviest days of armour, was generally carrying as much or more than his own weight in metal. He often weighed no less than twenty—two stone, and sometimes as much as twenty—five. This meant that his horse had to be a slow and enormous weightcarrier, like the farm horse of today, and that his own movements were so hampered by his burden of iron and padding that they were toned down into slow motion, as on the cinema.
‘They’re off!’ cried the Wart, holding his breath with excitement.
Slowly and majestically, the ponderous horses lumbered into a walk. The spears, which had been pointing in the air, bowed to a horizontal line and pointed at each other. King Pellinore and Sir Grummore could be seen to be thumping their horses’ sides with their heels for all they were worth, and in a few minutes the splendid animals had shambled into an earthshaking imitation of a trot. Clank, rumble, thump—thump went the horses, and now the two knights were flapping their elbows and legs in unison, showing a good deal of daylight at their seats. There was a change in tempo, and Sir Grummore’s horse could be definitely seen to be cantering. In another minute King Pellinore’s was doing so too. It was a terrible spectacle.
‘Oh, dear!’ exclaimed the Wart, feeling ashamed that his blood—thirstiness had been responsible for making these two knights joust before him. ‘Do you think they will kill each other?’
‘Dangerous sport,’ said Merlyn, shaking his head.
‘Now!’ cried the Wart.
With a blood—curdling beat of iron hoofs the mighty equestrians came together. Their spears wavered for a moment within a few inches of each other’s helms – each had chosen the difficult point—stroke – and then they were galloping off in opposite directions. Sir Grummore drove his spear deep into the beech tree where they were sitting, and stopped dead. King Pellinore, who had been run away with, vanished altogether behind his back.