by T. H. White
‘In the last letter it says that Gawaine had a duel with him. He must have been miserable, to fight him.’
Agnes said emphatically: ‘I can’t think why the King will go with that there Sir Gawaine against his best friend. Anybody can see that it is only out of blind temper. And then to lay waste the land of France, just to spite Sir Lancelot, and to do these terrible killings, and to say such things as them Thrashers do. It won’t do nobody no good, to carry on like that. Why can’t they let bygones be bygones, is what I ask?’
‘I think the King goes with Sir Gawaine because he is trying to be just. He thinks that the Orkneys have a right to demand justice for Gareth’s death – and I suppose they have. Besides, if the King didn’t cling to Sir Gawaine he would have nobody left. He was prouder of the Round Table than of anything, and now it is splitting up and he wants to keep somebody.’
‘It is a poor way to keep the Table together,’ said Agnes, ‘by fighting Sir Lancelot.’
‘Sir Gawaine has a right to justice. At least, they say he has. And the King’s choice is not free either. He is swept along by the people – by men who want conquest in France and have made a claim to it, or who are sick of the long peace he has managed to keep, or who are anxious for military promotion and a killing in return for those who died in the Market Square. There are the young knights of Mordred’s party, who believe in nationalism, and who have been taught to think that my husband is an old fogey, and there are the relatives of the ones who were in the fight on the stairs, and there is the clan Orkney, with their ancient hatreds on their minds. War is like a fire, Agnes. One man may start it, but it will spread all over. It is not about any one thing in particular.’
‘Ah, these high and mighty matters, madam – they are beyond us poor women. But come now, what did it say in the letter?’
Guenever sat for some time, looking at the letter without seeing it, while her mind revolved the problems of her husband. Then she said slowly: ‘The King likes Lancelot so much that he is forced to be unfair to him – for fear of being unfair to other people.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘It says,’ said the Queen, noticing the letter she was looking at with a start, ‘it says that Sir Gawaine rode in front of the castle every day, and called out that Lancelot was a coward and a traitor. Lancelot’s knights were angry, and went out to him one by one, but he charged them all down, and hurt some of them badly. He nearly killed Bors and Lionel, until at last Sir Lancelot had to go himself. The people inside the castle made him. He told Sir Gawaine that he was driven to it, like a beast at bay.’
‘And what did Sir Gawaine say?’
‘Sir Gawaine said: “Leave thy babbling and come off, and let us ease our hearts.”’
‘And did they?’
‘Yes, they had a duel in front of the castle. Everybody promised not to interfere, and they began at nine o’clock in the morning. You know how Sir Gawaine can always fight better in the mornings. That was why they began so early.’
‘Mercy on Sir Lancelot, to have him as strong as three! For I did hear tell that the Old Ones have the fairy blood in them, through the red hair, you know, madam, and this makes the laird as strong as three people before noon, because the sun fights for him!’
‘It must have been terrible, Agnes. But Sir Lancelot was too proud not to give the advantage.’
‘I wonder he was not killed.’
‘He nearly was. But he covered himself with his shield and parried slowly all the time and gave ground. It says he received many sad brunts, but he managed to defend himself until midday. Then, of course, when the fairy strength had gone down, he was able to take the offensive, and he ended by giving Gawaine a blow on the head which knocked him over. He could not get up.’
‘Alas, Sir Gawaine!’
‘Yes, but he could have killed him there and then.’
‘But he didn’t.’
‘No. Sir Lancelot stood back and leaned on his sword. Gawaine begged him to kill him. He was more furious than ever and called out: “Why do you stop? Come on then: kill me and finish your butchering. I will not yield. Kill me at once, for I shall only fight you again if you spare my life.” He was crying.’
‘We may depend upon it,’ said Agnes wisely, ‘that Sir Lancelot refused to strike a felled knight.’
‘We may depend.’
‘He was always a kind, good gentleman, though not what you may call a beauty.’
‘He was the chief of all.’
They fell silent, shy of their feelings, and began to stitch. Presently the Queen said: ‘The light gets bad, Agnes. Do you think we could have the rushes?’
‘Certainly, madam. I was thinking the same myself.’
She began lighting them at the fire, grumbling about the backward place and the naked, northern savages to have no candles, while Guenever hummed absently. It was the duet which she used to sing with Lancelot, and, when she recognized it, she stopped abruptly.
‘There, madam. The days seem to draw out.’
‘Yes: we shall have the spring soon.’
Sitting down and stitching away in the smoky light, Agnes resumed her catechism where it had broken off.
‘And what did the King say about the business?’
‘He cried when he saw how Gawaine was spared. It made him remember things, and he became so wretched that he was ill.’
‘Would that be what they call a nervous shakedown, madam?’
‘Yes, Agnes. He fell sick for sorrow, and Gawaine had concussion, so they were bad together. But the knights are keeping up the siege.’
‘Well, it isn’t a very cheerful letter, is it, madam?’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘I remember having a letter once – but there, they say bad news travels the fastest.’
‘Everything is letters now – now that the court is empty, and the world split, and nobody left but the Lord Protector.’
‘Ah, and that there Sir Mordred: I never could abide the likes of him. What does he want to go a—speechifying at the people for, and taking off his hat to make them cheer? Why can’t he dress more cheerful like, instead of hanging about in that black, as if he were Holy Doomsday? He caught it from poor Sir Gawaine, I dare say.’
‘The uniform is supposed to be in mourning for Gareth.’
‘He never cared for Sir Gareth, that one didn’t. I don’t believe he cares for anybody.’
‘He cared for his mother, Agnes.’
‘Aye, and she had her throat slit for being no better than she should be. They are a queer pack, the lot of them.’
‘Queen Morgause,’ said Guenever thoughtfully, ‘must have been a strange person. It is common knowledge, now that Mordred is made the Lord Proctector, so it doesn’t matter talking about it. But she must have been a powerful woman to have caught our King when she had four big boys of her own. Why, she caught Sir Lamorak when she was a grandmother. She must have had a terrible effect on her sons, if one of them could have felt so fiercely about her that he killed her. She was nearly seventy. I expect she ate Mordred, Agnes, like a spider.’
‘They did used to talk at one time, about the Cornwall sisters being witches. Of course, the worst of them was Morgan le Fay. But that there Morgause ran her close.’
‘It makes one sorry for Mordred.’
‘You keep your pity for yourself, my lady, for you will get none from him.’
‘He has been polite since he was left in charge.’
‘Aye, that he has. It is the quiet ones that do the mischief.’
Guenever considered this, holding her material to the light. She asked with some anxiety: ‘You don’t think that Sir Mordred means to do wrong, do you, Agnes?’
‘He is a dark one.’
‘He wouldn’t do anything wrong when the King has left him to look after the country, and to look after us?’
‘That King of yours, madam, if you will excuse the liberty, is quite beyond my comprehension. First he goes to fight with his best friend becau
se Sir Gawaine tells him to, and then he leaves his bitterest enemy to be the Lord Protector. Why does he choose to act so blind?’
‘Mordred has never broken the laws.’
‘That is because he is too cunning.’
‘The King said that Mordred would have to be the heir to the throne, and you could not take the King and the heir out of the country at the same time, so naturally he had to be left as the Protector. It was only fair.’
‘That fairness, madam, it will never come to no good.’
They sewed away.
Agnes added: ‘The King should have stayed, if that is true, and let Sir Mordred go.’
‘I wish he had.’
Later she explained: ‘I think the King wants to be with Sir Gawaine, in case he can moderate between them.’
They stitched uneasily, the needles fusing through the dark material with a long gleam like falling stars.
‘Are you frightened of Sir Mordred, Agnes?’
‘Yes, madam, that I am.’
‘So am I. He walks about so softly lately, and…looks at people in a queer way. And then there are all these speeches about Gaels and Saxons and Jews, and all the shouting and hysterics. I heard him laughing last week, by himself. It was horrible.’
‘He is a sly one. Maybe he is listening now.’
‘Agnes!’
Guenever dropped her needle as if she had been struck.
‘Oh, come now, madam: you must not take on. I was only having my joke.’
But the Queen remained frozen.
‘Go to the door. I believe you are right.’
‘Oh, madam, I couldn’t do that.’
‘Open it at once, Agnes.’
‘Madam, but suppose he is there!’
She had caught the feeling. The hopeless rushlights were not enough. He might have been in the room itself, in a dark corner. She rose in a flutter, like a partridge while the hawk is over, and plucked at her skirt. For both women the castle was suddenly too dark, too empty, too lonely, too northerly, too full of night and winter.
‘If you open it, he will go away.’
‘But we must give him time to go away.’
They strove with their voices, feeling themselves to be under a black wing.
‘Stand near it and speak loudly then, before you open.’
‘Madam, what shall I say?’
‘Say, “Shall I open the door?” Then I will say, “Yes, I think it is time to go to bed.”’
‘I think it is time to go to bed.’
‘Go on.’
‘Very good, madam. Shall I begin?’
‘Begin, yes, quickly.’
‘I don’t know as I can do it.’
‘Oh, Agnes, please be quick!’
‘Very well, madam. I think I can do it now.’
Facing the door as if it might attack her, Agnes addressed it at the top of her voice.
‘I am going to open the door!’
‘It is time to go to bed!’
Nothing happened.
‘Now open it,’ said the Queen.
She lifted the latch and threw it open, and there was Mordred smiling in the frame.
‘Good evening, Agnes.’
‘Oh, sir!’
The wretched woman dropped him a fluttering curtsey, with one hand clutching at her breast, and scuttled past him for the stairs. He stood aside politely. When she was gone he stepped into the room, sumptuous in his black velvet, with one cold diamond beaming in the rushlight from his scarlet badge. Anybody who had not seen him for a month or two would have known at once that he was mad – but his brains had gone so gradually that those who lived with him had failed to see it. He was followed by his small black pug dog, flirting its bright eyes and curly tail.
‘Our Agnes seems to be in a nervous state,’ he said. ‘Good evening, Guenever.’
‘Good evening, Mordred.’
‘A little fine embroidery? I thought you would be knitting socks for soldiers.’
‘Why have you come?’
‘Just an evening call. You must forgive the drama.’
‘Do you always wait outside doors?’
‘One has to come through a door somehow, madam. It is more convenient than coming through the window – though, I believe, some people have been known to do that.’
‘I see. Will you sit down?’
He took his seat with an elaborate gesture, the pug jumping into his lap. In a way it was tragic to watch him, for he was doing what his mother did. He was acting, and had ceased to be real.
People write tragedies in which fatal blondes betray their paramours to ruin, in which Cressidas, Cleopatras, Delilahs, and sometimes even naughty daughters like Jessica bring their lovers or their parents to distress; but these are not the heart of tragedy. They are fripperies to the soul of man. What does it matter if Anthony did fall upon his sword? It only killed him. It is the mother’s not the lover’s lust that rots the mind. It is that which condemns the tragic character to his walking death. It is Jocasta, not Juliet, who dwells in the inner chamber. It is Gertrude, not the silly Ophelia, who sends Hamlet to his madness. The heart of tragedy does not lie in stealing or taking away. Any feather—pated girl can steal a heart. It lies in giving, in putting on, in adding, in smothering without the pillows. Desdemona robbed of life or honour is nothing to a Mordred, robbed of himself – his soul stolen, overlaid, wizened, while the mother—character lives in triumph, superfluously and with stiffling love endowed on him, seemingly innocent of illintention. Mordred was the only son of Orkney who never married. He, while his brothers fled to England, was the one who stayed alone with her for twenty years – her living larder. Now that she was dead, he had become her grave. She existed in him like the vampire. When he moved, when he blew his nose, he did it with her movement. When he acted he became as unreal as she had been, pretending to be a virgin for the unicorn. He dabbled in the same cruel magic. He had even begun to keep lap dogs like her – although he had always hated hers with the same bitter jealousy as that with which he had hated her lovers.
‘Do I feel a coldness in the air this evening?’
‘It is bound to be cold in February.’
‘I was referring to the delicacy of our personal relationship.’
‘The Protector, whom my husband appointed, is bound to be welcome to the Queen.’
‘But not the husband’s bastard, I suppose?’
She lowered her needle and looked him in the face.
‘I don’t understand your coming like this, and I don’t know what you want.’
She had no wish to be hostile, but he was forcing her. She had never been afraid of anyone.
‘I was thinking of a chat about the political situation – just a little chat.’
She knew that they had reached a crisis of some sort, and it made her weak. She was too old now to deal with madmen, although she still had no suspicion of his sanity. Only the cumbrous irony of his tone made her feel unreal herself – made her unable to put her own words simply. But she would not give in.
‘I shall be glad to hear what you want to say.’
‘That is extremely generous of you…Jenny.’
It was monstrous. He was making her into one of his fantasies, not speaking to a real person at all.
She said indignantly: ‘Will you be so kind as to address me by my title, Mordred?’
‘But certainly. I must apologize if I have been trespassing on Lancelot’s preserves.’
The sneer acted like a tonic. It raised her stature to the royal lady which she was, to a straight—backed dowager whose rheumatic fingers flashed with rings, who had ridden the world successfully for fifty years.
‘I believe,’ she said at once, ‘you would find some difficulty in doing that.’
‘Well! However, I am afraid I asked for it. You were always a bit of a spitfire…Queen Jenny.’
‘Sir Mordred, if you can’t behave like a gentleman, I shall
go.’
‘And where will you go
?’
‘I should go anywhere: anywhere where a woman old enough to be your mother would be safe from this extravagance.’
‘The question is,’ he observed reflectively, ‘where you would be safe? The plan seems bound to founder in the last resource, when you consider that everybody has gone away to France, and that I am the ruler of the kingdom. Of course, you could go to France…if you could get there.’
She understood, or began to understand.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Then you must think it out.’
‘If you will excuse me,’ she said, rising, ‘I will call my woman.’
‘Call her by all means. Though I should have to send her away.’
‘Agnes will take her orders from me.’
‘I doubt it. Let us try.’
‘Mordred, will you leave me?’
‘No, Jenny,’ he said. ‘I want to stay. But, if you will sit down quietly for a minute, and listen, I promise to behave like a perfect gentleman – like one of your preux chevaliers, in fact.’
‘You leave no option.’
‘Very little.’
‘What do you want?’ she asked. She sat down, folding her hands in her lap. She was accustomed to a life of danger.
‘Come now,’ he said, in high good humour, quite mad, enjoying his cat—and—mouse. ‘We must not rush it in this bald way. We must be at ease before we begin our conversation, otherwise it will seem so strained.’
‘I am listening.’
‘No, no. You must call me Mordy, or some such pet name. Then it will seem more natural when I call you Jenny. Everything will go forward so much more pleasantly.’
She would not answer.
‘Guenever, have you any idea of your position?’
‘My position is that of the Queen of England, as yours is that of the Protector.’
‘While Arthur and Lancelot are fighting each other in France.’
‘That is so.’
‘Suppose I were to tell you,’ he asked, stroking the pug, ‘that I had a letter this morning? That Arthur and Lancelot are dead?’
‘I should not believe you.’
‘They killed each other in battle.’
‘It is not true,’ she told him quietly.