Arthur Rex (27 page)

“Thou hast taken a vow of chastity?” asked Guinevere. “And hast thou sworn as well never to fall ill with the plague?”

“Lady, a sickness of soul can never be likened unto that of the body,” Sir Launcelot said, “for the latter is but a wretched temporal thing, the which is necessarily corrupted by each passing moment and soon feeds the worms. But the soul can be polluted only by exercising wrongfully the liberty of choice given us by God.”

Then Sir Launcelot went away, and Guinevere knew a great need to ruin him, being the most formidable and the worst enemy he ever had, except himself, and he had begun to understand that, for she had evoked from him a statement of his principles, which when put into words seemed fatuous in the extreme. Yet little did he know that what she found damnable in him was his strength and not his weakness.

Therefore at this time Sir Launcelot believed that Guinevere thought him a driveling fool. And for her part, she assumed that to him she was but a queen to be the champion of, and she bitterly remembered her dream, in which she had loved him before he became incarnate.

Now, as these things happen, in Camelot it was commonly known, as it was not in Cornwall, that Tristram and Isold were in love because they drank the potion brewed by Brangwain, the handmaiden and witch, and Guinevere was so exercised by her spite against Launcelot that she did entertain briefly the wish to send to her sister-queen for to get some of this liquid and feed it to him. But then she trembled with the thought of such wickedness, for, unlike Mark, Arthur was a great king, indeed the greatest ever or ever to be, and she did love him nobly, whereas what she felt for Launcelot was in another region of the heart. Indeed, it was rather hatred, was it not? as she did ask herself, and in grievous confusion she fell ill and she took to her bed, and no one, not King Arthur nor even her confessor, knew the reason.

And Sir Launcelot went to Astolat and he told Sir Bernard wherefore he had come.

But old Bernard said, “Well, my daughter is no longer ill, as you can plainly see.” And he pointed to where she was walking in the garden and singing sweetly.

Sir Launcelot was overjoyed to know this, and he was pleased to put the matter aside and to tell Sir Bernard of the prowess shown by his sons at the tournament, who had won their seats at the Round Table. Now while they talked, a rain began to fall without, first gently and then in torrents, and at length Launcelot saw that the fair Elaine was yet standing in it, in the garden, and singing yet, though through the noise of the rain she could not be heard at all. And she was quite soaked, with her hair in strings.

Therefore he called this to the attention of old Bernard, saying, “Methinks she will soon be ill again.” And then they both went out to her.

“My lord,” said she to Bernard, “I fear this drought will quite wither my blossoms.” And the rain was streaming down her face. Then she plucked a wet pink rose and gave it to Launcelot, saying, “Sir, there you have my flower.” And in withdrawing her hand from the stem she cut her finger on a thorn, and she said, bleeding, “Ah, I am well pricked.”

Now Launcelot drew Bernard aside and said, “My lord, I fear she is perplexed.”

“Alas,” said Sir Bernard. “Come, let us get her out of the rain.”

So they took her within, to her chamber, and they called her waiting-women for to remove her sopping clothes, and Sir Bernard and Launcelot went into an anteroom.

“I shall send for Sir Gawaine,” said Bernard, “for he was her best medicine. Would that he were my son-in-law, but the daughter of a mere landed knight is of too low a station for the nephew of a king.”

“Nay,” said Sir Launcelot, “he would like nothing more than to wed the fair Elaine, but ’tis she who will not have him.”

“The chit!” cried old Bernard. “I shall not brook this insolence.” And he would have gone forthwith to chide her, ill as she was, had not Launcelot stayed him.

“My venerable friend,” said Sir Launcelot, “your daughter suffers a malady of which you are not aware, and I fear it hath grown ever worse.”

“’Tis true she doth seem distracted currently, but, believe me, ’twill pass,” said Bernard. “Her mother was given to such transports, as are all women sporadically, owing to the changing phases of the moon, which doth move their blood as it moves the waters of the sea. One goes to women as one goes to fishes: they are slippery, silvery things, and do exude saline liquids.”

“Methinks this is more than mensual disorder,” said Launcelot. “Indeed, it was the noble Gawaine, always a great frequenter of females and now their special defender, who hath sent me here. We both of us agree that the unfortunate Elaine should be entered into a segregated community of the religious, such as the convent, just near by, of the Little Sisters of Poverty and Pain.”

“I know these sisters,” said old Bernard, “who do come here oft for to beg scraps from our kitchens. They live purely, but wretchedly, yet no doubt that is one and the same. And Elaine hath ever eaten like a sparrow. I had wanted to make a good match for her, Launcelot, for she is a comely thing and hath winning ways, or did have as a child. Blast the melancholy of her ways since becoming a woman!”

And Sir Launcelot privately deplored this unfortunate oath, though he knew that Bernard had good reason to be vexed. “But to be the bride of Our Lord,” said he, “is to possess the greatest wealth, and such a woman knows a glory to which the most radiant queen cannot attain.” And suddenly he did think of Guinevere, all golden, and he trembled as if in a chill.

“Well,” said Sir Bernard, “and in her current condition, who else would have her?” He was a coarse old knight, but he was not unkind, and he added, “Poor wretch! Yes, this distress, having lasted more than a month, can scarcely be owing to a mere monthly. Then to the nunnery shall she go! I am grateful to you, noble Launcelot, among whose great missions this must be the least. Truly you are a knight of worship so to take pains for a provincial little maid.”

And Sir Launcelot took his leave from Sir Bernard, and he did never see Elaine again. And when he returned to Camelot, he went to Sir Gawaine and told him what had happened, and he said, “I trust this hath ended in a fashion that will please God.”

“I thank thee,” said Sir Gawaine. “But forgive me, please, if I remain mournful awhile and, though I know it as sinful, to yearn only for the promised stroke of the Green Knight, the which will surely cut off mine head.”

“Nay, Gawaine,” said Launcelot, “there is some magic in that, the green one being obviously monster, not man, and therefore thy best defense would be piety.”

Then Sir Launcelot went to King Arthur, and when he had told him of the matter of Elaine and how he had treated it, Arthur said, “Thou hast performed well, my dear Launcelot, and now may I ask thee to go to thy lady Guinevere, who is ill as well, but will suffer no treatment by the physicians. Now, this is scarcely a mortal malady, but is rather methinks an access of the ennui that doth attack all women, even queens, and thanks be to God for making us men! Prithee go and amuse her, for she knoweth a great fondness for thee.”

“Sire,” said Launcelot, “have you no quest for me?”

“Pray do not be insulted,” said King Arthur. “To bring a bit of cheer to the queen is not unworthy of thee, as her champion, and be assured that when a grander task must be done, thou shalt be relieved of the petty.”

Therefore Sir Launcelot did dutifully go to Guinevere, in a kind of dread, for contrary to what King Arthur believed, he knew of her disdain for him, and he believed it of the kind that could not be altered except by a total alteration of himself, so that he would be a different man from what he was: the which was an impossibility. But when he found her, in her chamber, Guinevere was pale and drawn, and with great shadows beneath her eyes, and she slept fitfully with trembling and labored breath.

And looking at her, who was weak and ill and not at all radiant now, for the first time Sir Launcelot found her peculiarly beautiful. And while he stood there silently at her bedside, Guinevere did speak his name feebly, though still in seeming sleep.

And he answered, “Lady, I am at your service.”

Now she stirred but she did not awaken, and she said again, “Launcelot.”

“God save you, madam,” he said.

Then in sleep she extended to him the lily of her hand, and he did bend and kiss it, and she withdrew her hand and put it into the bosom of her gown at the place where her heart was, and to Sir Launcelot it was as though she had put her bare hand on his own naked heart, and he started as if burned and he cried out.

Guinevere wakened thereupon and seeing him did wax wroth. “Wicked knight,” said she, “what can be thy purpose, so to have stolen into the queen’s bedchamber? O disorderly and contumacious man!”

“I was sent here by the royal Arthur,” said Launcelot, but even so he knew a guilty confusion.

“Well, what a pretty piece of vileness this is,” Guinevere said. “Hath the king become a pander?”

Now Launcelot believed her the captive of a madness to have spoken so, and he said softly, “Lady, lie back again and let sleep soothe this anguish. You are amongst friends.”

But Guinevere would not be placated. “Thou harlot,” she said, “thy wanton fingers were at my breast.”

“’Twas your own hand, madam,” said Launcelot, but in telling the truth he felt as though prevaricating, and he colored violently. “I am being wronged here, lady! Apply to the king, I pray you. He sent me, for to cheer you in your melancholy.”

“By fondling me criminally?” asked Guinevere. “Dost thou call Arthur a perverse felon?” And she did cry for her guards, who were ever without the door since the incursion of Sir Meliagrant, and when they came hastily within, she commanded them to arrest Launcelot and put him into confinement.

But for this they had no stomach though they were armed cap-à-pie and carried great halberds, and Sir Launcelot was naked of weapons, for such awe did Launcelot’s presence inspire in mere kerns, and therefore with boorish cunning they pretended not to see him, and they fled as if in pursuit of an escaping rogue, and soon could be heard in the anteroom probing the tapestries and opening the cupboards.

Seeing this, Guinevere became no less distraught, and Launcelot’s efforts to calm her were of no avail, because her haughtiness was such that she had rather be killed than touched intimately, and even the evil Sir Meliagrant had never done this while she was his helpless captive.

“Madam,” said Sir Launcelot finally, “shall I then submit myself to the torture, to prove that I put mine hand on you at no time and in no wise, except to take the fingers you extended to me and to kiss them respectfully as the vassal’s custom would have it?”

Then Guinevere herself did color, for her rage had made her even more pale.

“I did this?” she asked, and even as she spake she began to feel the infection of self-doubt, for no man would so offer to have himself broken on the wheel unless he believed his truth would thereby be established: for though this trial would kill him in any event, he would not go to Hell as a liar.

“Well,” said she, “give me thine hand now.” And he did so, and she examined it, saying, “’Tis large, in truth, and horny. Such calluses would abrade.” And she gave it back to him and stretching her bodice did look within at her tender skin whiter than the plumage of a dove and finer than samite.

Now Sir Launcelot did thrill with some terrible feeling, and he bit his lip till he felt the salt of his blood, and then Guinevere looked up from her white breasts to him and saw his mouth encarmined.

And she asked, “Sir, art wounded? Thou, who art invulnerable?”

“To a kind of death, madam,” said Sir Launcelot. “Methinks you would kill me.” And he wiped the blood from his mouth with his hand.

“If I commanded thee to love me, shouldst thou comply?” asked Queen Guinevere.

And Sir Launcelot swore the first oath of his life. “May God damn me, lady, if I do that not by your order, but by mine own need!” And he thrust his bloodied hand into her golden hair and cleansed it thereupon, saying, “Now we are both stained forever.”

And Guinevere clasped him to her and demanded his fealty of body and soul, the which, transported, he could not withhold, and sinning against God and king, and in violation of all vows, they hastened together towards the littler death from which a mortal surviveth many times to continue his wretched progress towards the greater one, on which occasion he must justify himself to God Almighty.

And Launcelot and Guinevere were the most notable adulterers ever to be, for their joining was not in ignorance of the consequences nor as a result of a magical potion, but they came together from Envy and Vanity and the offspring of these: the hunger for mastery by man over woman and vice versa.

And now we flee the spectacle of their calamitous first sinning, for to be the witness of such is in God’s eyes to be no better than a participant, and go to the noble Gawaine, who though beginning as a lecher had grown ever more virtuous in the company of the Round Table.

N
OW SIR GAWAINE DID
not soon cease to think about the fair Elaine of Astolat, and he knew guilt for encouraging her hopes that Launcelot would come to love her, for suffering from it himself he believed that unrequited love was a disease from which there was no cure. And though a God-fearing knight, he was not sufficiently devout to believe in the efficacy of taking the veil if a woman, nor the tonsure in a man, in which doubt he did sin grievously, God save his soul.

Yet he knew that what Sir Launcelot had done was right, as always, for that greatest of all knights could not err, and in all the company of the Round Table, Gawaine’s faith in Launcelot was second only to that of King Arthur, and it would be a terrible day when it failed.

But Sir Agravaine, the eldest of Gawaine’s younger brothers, was never fond of Launcelot from the first, having an envy in the name of his brother of which Gawaine himself was innocent.