Arthur Rex (17 page)

Now in an antechamber to the throne room he came upon a musician a-carrying a lyre, the which Sir Tristram seized from him and covered his privy parts with it, for they were naked below his shirt, and so he entered the court.

And King Mark was sitting on his throne, and he said, “Ho, comest to sing in thy shirt, insolent rogue!” And he commanded his retainers to administer a severe birching to the impudent fellow and then to hurl him from the battlements.

But Sir Tristram begged the king to hear his tale, and Mark relented.

“But,” said the king, “thou must do it in song, for ’tis my time of day to be amused musically.”

“Very well, then,” said Tristram, and then he began to play the lyre, which he had learned to do when a boy, and he sang what follows in a marvelous voice, for he had such a gift and was the finest singer of all the knights of the Round Table.

“Now,” he sang, “I was born in a land across La Manche, which is to say the British Channel, to a great king and a fair queen, and scarcely had I been born when a lady who did illicitly love my father the king enchanted him and locked him into a castle and then did poison my mother the queen.”

Now King Mark made a great scowl, and he stopped the song, saying, “Unless thou dost soon become more amusing, I shall have thee whipped after all.”

And Tristram continued in this wise: “The wicked lady then did marry my father and become queen of the land, and once when I was a child she did give me a cup to drink of, but by error my father the king drank from it instead, and he fell stone dead, for it contained venom.”

By this time King Mark had heard quite enough, and he said, “What this lady could not manage, I shall do here.” And he directed his attendants to fetch a flagon full of vitriol and to pour it down the throat of him who sang such a lugubrious song.

But Sir Tristram continued to sing undaunted, “And therefore I fled that kingdom of Lyonesse—”

But at the sound of this name King Mark cried to his retainers to hold, and to Tristram he said, “Lyonesse, in France?” And then, because Sir Tristram was already singing of his rearing (which was conducted by the faithful Gorvenal, his father’s loyal old vassal, in a remote forest), the king asked, “What was thy mother’s name?”

And Tristram stopped singing at last and said, “Elizabeth, God rest her soul.”

“My dear nephew!” cried King Mark. “For she was mine own dear sister.” And with great joy and every evidence of affection he did welcome Sir Tristram to his court.

That evening a great banquet was held at Tintagel, with Tristram now properly attired in the finest clothing as befitted his station, and he was seated next his uncle the king. Now, the reason wherefore King Mark had not wanted to hear a sad song was that he had grievous trouble of his own and, contrary to the opinion of old wives, misery doth not always seek like company.

“My boy,” he said to his nephew, “I am very sorry to hear of my sister’s death, but that was now long ago and in another country. I am myself tormented currently. Cornwall is a small land, too small to hold its own without swearing fealty to one or another of the great tyrants on either side of it: Anguish of Ireland or Uther Pendragon of Britain, both of whom are monarchs most brutal. Uther for example murdered my predecessor Gorlois, so as to take his wife to swyve. Therefore I threw my lot in with Anguish, but the Irish king doth demand I pay an extravagant tribute to him each year, always in the amount of three hundred: three hundred pounds of gold, of diamonds, emeralds, rubies, or whichever precious gem. But in recent years he hath tired of treasure and asked instead for three hundred creatures, dwarfs, colored men, or young Cornish boys. And for this current year, this vicious king hath demanded three hundred virgins. Now, if I fail to provide these he will send to Cornwall a giant who will ravish my land.”

“Uncle,” said Sir Tristram, “firstly, Uther Pendragon is dead and the sovereign lord of Britain is now Arthur, who is the finest king in the history of the world. Indeed he hath sent me as emissary to you, for I am a knight of the Round Table, a fellowship of men devoted to bringing about the triumph of virtue. Swear fealty to him and you need pay no tribute to any tyrant. For his part, he will furnish you aid against such enemies as the Irish king.”

“These are good news,” said King Mark. “Therefore go to Arthur and tell him I am willingly his vassal and that I ask him to send me an host with which to deal with this Hibernian giant.”

“Well,” said Sir Tristram, “I shall alone fight this giant.”

“Nephew,” said Mark, “thou singest and playest the harp very well indeed, and thou art a comely young man. But this giant, who is hight the Morholt, stands so high as an oak. The very sight of him, with his great black beard, yellow tusks, and purple mouth opened wide as a cave, roaring with obscene mirth at the prospect of wreaking mayhem, is enough to send a battalion of the bravest knights to flee like unto a pack of curs from a whirling cudgel.”

“Nonetheless,” said Sir Tristram, “I am your nephew and a knight of the Round Table. It would be unseemly to send for further aid in view of these mine affiliations. I shall fight the Morholt.”

King Mark saw that Tristram’s heart was fixed upon this purpose and that he could not deter him without causing shame for both of them. Therefore, though he privately expected to lose this nephew so soon after finding him, he gave Tristram permission to represent Cornwall in single combat against the Morholt, the dread champion of Ireland.

And so couriers were sent across the Irish Sea with this advice, and when they returned, many weeks later (during which intervening time Tristram sang and played the harp for the lords and ladies of the court, thus making many enemies, for the lords already did envy his relationship with the king), these messengers brought the reply of the Morholt to this challenge, which was as follows: “To Piss-tram, the so-called knight. If thou hast the heart for it, meet me upon the islet of St. Samson’s, where I shall kill thee and by evening the gulls shall sup on thy brains.”

Now incensed by this vile insult, King Mark would have put to death the poor couriers who had fetched it, though they were his own men, but Sir Tristram said, “Nay, Uncle, that is the practice of the primitive and brutal past, to blame the news on him who brings it. We are chivalrous now.” And he did reward these messengers with gold for returning promptly.

Now King Mark lost whatever little hope he had had that his nephew would overcome the giant, for he believed Tristram to be womanish.

And he said, “I have me a plan. On the day before the fight is to take place, I shall send a company of knights to conceal themselves in the trees on that islet. When thou goest to face the Morholt, my men will attack him from behind, driving a score of spears into his back, while others hamstring him with swords and axes. Whilst he is so being weakened, thou canst deliver to him the
coup de grâce,
a thrust into his great stones. The Morholt will die only if his genitals are ruined, for he is a notorious satyr, and the living creatures in each tribute of three hundred have been used by him for unnatural sexual purposes.”

“Uncle,” said Sir Tristram, “know you that a knight of the Round Table fights fairly.”

“But what can be unfair against a loathsome monstrosity?” asked King Mark. “When he hath killed thee he will ravish our three hundred maids with his great tool! That is, if I can find so many maidenheads still extant in Cornwall.”

But Sir Tristram continued to refuse utterly this unjust aid, and therefore Mark determined privately to furnish it all the same. And he sent one hundred of his best knights to the islet of St. Samson’s, which proved to be not far from the Irish shore, for the Morholt was a disdainful and arrogant giant too lazy to travel far for his victims, and because the sea of Ireland is ever a body of rough waters, this entire company of Cornishmen were sick on the voyage and arrived green-faced and puking.

And the islet was but half a league square and flat as a table and sans trees, so that these knights could not blend with the forest, and the Morholt came across from the shore in a sailboat which he impelled by the mighty gusts of air from his own lips, more powerful than the breezes that blew, so that the boat did race across the sea. Then he anchored it in nine feet of water and waded to land, the waves reaching only to his belt, and seeing this the Cornish knights, sick and fearful, did leap into the sea and perish.

Meanwhile Sir Tristram was sailing alone in a little boat, and when the islet came into sight he thought he saw a castle standing in the middle of it, but then as he drew closer he saw it was rather the Morholt, who stood six yards high and carried a ten-foot shield and was armed with a sword twice as long as Tristram was tall. Yet Sir Tristram was not frightened, for he knew the issue of all battles is in God’s hands, who having given each of us a life hath the right to take it away when He wills, and in any event will take it sometime, whether today or tomorrow, and a knight can but live what he hath of it with courage. And Sir Tristram’s life, having been unhappy, was not so great a treasure to its owner.

Therefore when he had disembarked from his boat he stove in its bottom with his sword and he shoved it from the sand into the water, where it sank.

Now the Morholt watched this with amazement and then he said, in his great voice the breath from which raised the dust from the ground between him and Tristram, “Little man, why dost ruin thy boat?”

And Tristram did grimace from the stink of the Morholt’s breath, which was foul with a corruption which made sweet the odors of rotten cheese and the foist of dogs, and a gull flying through it fell stone dead onto the beach.

“Because,” said Sir Tristram, “there will be but one of us who will leave this isle.”

“O impudent dwarf,” cried the Morholt in rage, and he raised his great sword and swung it with all his force, but Tristram was so far beneath him that the blade cut only the air above his helmet, and when the sword passed over him, he ran close in to the giant’s legs and he hacked them both off at the knees, reducing the Morholt in height by two yards.

Yet the Irish giant did not fall but rather standing sturdily on the stumps of his great thighs, like unto two great stone columns, he struck at Tristram again, and now his blow was lower and it took away the crest of Tristram’s helmet though did not quite reach unto the skull.

Then Tristram using all his force smote the Morholt through the waist, cutting off his lower portions altogether, and the huge trunk fell heavily onto the ground yet stayed upright and was as tall as Sir Tristram though three times as broad, and the Morholt was no nearer to dying, for (contrary to King Mark’s belief) he was immortal except if his head was lost. But his blood did flow vastly and cover the entire islet, the sand of which is colored red to this day, and he did wax wroth at the loss of his lower body, for he set great store in his privy parts, with which he had misused myriads of men, women, children, and even animals, and indeed he knew no other pleasure.

Therefore swearing dreadful oaths and spewing his loathsome breath onto Sir Tristram, who was slipping on the slimy blood thick as treacle, he struck at him and now he wounded Tristram grievously in the left side, and he would have done worse had not, at his current height, his sword been too long to swing with accuracy.

But notwithstanding this terrible hurt, which was near mortal, Sir Tristram then hacked the Morholt’s head off, but the neck being of solid bone, this job took more than one stroke, and a great piece of steel was broken from the blade of Sir Tristram’s sword and remained in the neck of the Morholt.

Now the giant’s head rolled along the beach and was soon a great ball of bloody sand, and then it went into the water, where it was washed off, discovering a face so hideous that a school of passing fish were struck dead by its sight and floated white bellies upwards.

But Sir Tristram was very near death himself, and when he cast off in the Morholt’s boat for to return to Cornwall, he did soon swoon from his hurt, and the winds instead carried him to the Irish shore near by, where he was beached and lay as if dead for three days, and worms did grow upon his wound and the great birds that feed on dead things did perch upon the gunwales and watch his body hungrily.

But at last some fisherfolk came there and determined, by probing him with sticks, that he was yet quick though almost dead, and so they transported him to the best surgeon in Ireland, who happened to be the daughter of the king, and her name was La Belle Isold. And now that Guinevere was married, Isold was the most beautiful maiden in the world, with hair black as sable, skin white and soft as swan’s-down, and eyes blue as the ocean under the morning sky.

Now when Isold bathed the forehead of Sir Tristram with the fragrant water of Cologne, he opened his eyes and believed he had died and gone to Heaven, where he lay in the lap of the Mother of God (for which blasphemous misapprehension he can be forgiven, owing to his near-morbidity at this time).

“My lord,” said La Belle Isold to him, “you are most sorely wounded, but methinks I can cure you, for you look to be a man of great worship.” And she cleaned his wound and anointed it with a wax into which quicksilver and gold had been mixed with balsam and the droppings of unicorns, which were not noisome but sweet and had great curative properties, and her own tears fell into this paste and made it even more efficacious, for she did weep over the hurt of this gentle, brave, and handsome knight, with whom she fell in love on the instant.

Now though Sir Tristram began to wend towards good health from the moment in which he first gazed into the face of La Belle Isold, he did not recover in full for many weeks, for the Morholt’s fell sword had hacked in him an hole the which could have contained two fists joined, and of his vital spirits he had lost so much that he could scarcely do more than flex his smallest finger. Therefore holding his head in her lap La Belle Isold fed him broths, and she bathed his face with scented oils and dried him with the costliest silk stuffs, and when he had got some better she brought her lyre and sang sweetly to him, for she had a fine Hibernian voice.