The King Arthur Trilogy (43 page)

Towards noon he came upon a small chapel with a hermitage beside it. And drawing closer, he saw the black scar of a fire on the grass before the chapel, and an ancient man in a monk’s white habit kneeling in the chapel doorway, beside the body of another who lay there dead. And the kneeling monk was crying out
in grief and protest, ‘Dear God, why have You allowed this to be? He has served you heart and soul these many years, and could You not have kept him from this?’

Sir Lancelot dismounted and, hitching his horse’s reins on a branch, came close and said, ‘God keep you, sir, you grieve most sorely for this man’s death.’

‘Not for his death,’ said the aged monk, ‘but for the manner of it. For see the fine soft tunic that he wears, and his own garment cast aside.’

And looking where the old man pointed, Lancelot saw a horrible hair-cloth shirt lying tumbled close to the dead feet. And still he did not understand.

‘He was of my Order,’ said the monk, ‘though a fighting-man in his youth, and to us the wearing of fine linen is forbidden. Therefore, finding him like this, I know that the Devil must have come upon him at the last, and tempted him to the breaking of his vows, so that it was no godly death he died, and I cannot but fear that he is lost to all eternity.’

And Sir Lancelot did not know what to answer, to comfort the old man.

But out of the sorrowful silence, another voice answered, quiet as a little wind through the treetops but clear as a trumpet call, ‘Nay, he is not lost, but most gloriously saved.’

And looking round, Lancelot could see no one there; but clearly the old monk could see the
speaker well enough, for he looked upward from his kneeling, as though at one standing tall above him; and wonder and the beginning of relief were on his face.

‘Listen,’ said the voice, ‘and I will tell the manner of this man’s death. Thou knowest that he was of noble birth, and still has kinsmen in these parts. Two days since, the Count of the Vale went to war with one of these kinsmen, Agoran by name. And the man who lies here, knowing his kinsfolk outnumbered and their cause just, took his sword from the place where he had laid it by, and turned fighting-man again on their behalf. So by the feats of valour that he performed, his kinsman had the victory; and the good man came back here to his hermitage to take up again his true life where he had laid it down.

‘But followers of the Count knew at whose door to lay their defeat, and came after him, and called him out and would have cut him down with their swords. But though he was clad only in his habit and hair shirt, their blades turned and rebounded as though on the finest armour that was ever forged.

‘This threw them into a mindless fury; and they fetched branches and lit a fire, saying they would see if the flames could do what their blades could not. And they stripped the old man to the skin, he making no resistance, but saying, “If it be God’s will that my time
on earth is accomplished, then I shall die, and that will please me well. But if I die, it will be by God’s will, and not the fire; for the fire has no power to burn a hair of my head; nor is there a garment in the world, whether it be my own hair shirt or of the finest linen ever woven, that would be so much as scorched, if I were to put it on now.”

‘At this they cried “Moonshine”, with much laughter. And one of them tore off his own fine shirt, and they thrust it upon the old man in mockery, and cast him upon the flames.

‘That was yester morning; and when they returned at night, the fire was newly burned out, and the old man lying there as peacefully as on a bed; and dead indeed, but with no mark nor scorch upon him when they dragged him from the hot ash; and the fine shirt upon him fresh and unmarked as thou seest it.

‘Then great fear came upon them, and they ran, leaving him as thou didst find him here. Now therefore bury him in the white fine shirt, for it is no shame to him but the garment of his victory. And for the hair shirt he wore so many faithful years, there is another wearer waiting.’

Then came a sudden gust of wind, and a dazzle of sunlight in and out between the swaying treetop branches; and when all was quiet again, the voice spoke no more.

And the old monk brought his gaze down to look at his dead friend in joy and relief.

He asked Sir Lancelot to bide with him in keeping watch beside the body, and help him next morning to bury it. So Sir Lancelot remained with him through the rest of that day. And again he made his confession, and the old monk gave him much good advice. And next day, when they had buried the holy man before the altar of his little chapel, and the knight was making ready to arm and ride away, the monk said to him, ‘Sir Lancelot, last night, when I had heard your confession, I gave you absolution and blessing. Now, before you ride on, I give you your penance. It is that you shall wear this hair shirt from now on. And further, I charge you to eat no meat and drink no wine while you follow the quest on which you have started out. But above all, keep to the hair shirt, for while you wear it it shall keep you from further sin.’

So Sir Lancelot stripped, and took up the hair shirt of the man he had just helped to bury, and pulled it on, with its rasping bristles next to his bare skin, and then put on his tunic and then his harness. And so he took his leave of the old monk, and mounted and rode away.

That night he came to a woodland shrine where two ways parted, and laid him down there with his shield for a pillow. Watching and fasting had wearied him out, till not even the prickling and chafing of the hair shirt could
keep him awake. But his sleep was restless and broken with dreams, and with the first cobweb light of dawn he was glad to be up and riding on.

Noon found him in a valley between wooded cliffs, all shut in and murmurous with small winged things among the young bracken. And there riding towards him he beheld the knight who had robbed him of hope and helm and his well-loved sword Joyeux before the chapel of the Grail.

The knight saw him in the same instant, and shouted to him to defend himself or he was a dead man, then struck spurs to his horse – Lancelot’s horse – and rode at him full tilt. Sir Lancelot spurred to meet him, anger and gladness mingled in his answering shout. The point of the other knight’s lance took him in the shoulder; but though it broke through the links of his hauberk it did little more than gash the skin, and he crouched low in the saddle, and gathering up all his strength, got in a blow that brought the horse crashing down and all but lifted the rider’s head from his shoulders, as he galloped past. Without pause, he wrenched round and came thundering back on his tracks; but although the horse was already struggling up, the knight lay where he had fallen among the bracken, and the fight was over.

Then Sir Lancelot dismounted and took Joyeux from the fallen man’s sheath, leaving the blade that he himself had carried since yesterday in its place. The battered
helmet was not worth the taking back. He tied the bay to a birch tree where the knight would find it when he came to himself and was fit to ride, and took back his own horse, that came at his whistle and was dear to him like his sword – it had been a bad moment when he saw the horse go down – and rode on.

And as he rode, his heart lightened and warmed within him, and the prickling and chafing of his hair shirt where his armour pressed it against his skin was a kind of sharp joy to him, for he thought that the winning back of his horse and his sword was maybe a sign that God’s face was no longer quite turned away from him, and the strength and potency of his knighthood were given back to him once more.

Sir Lancelot rode for many days in the forest and along the fringes of the Waste Land, sleeping now beneath the roof of a holy man or a forester or a hurdle maker, now under a tree or at the foot of a wayside cross, or on open heathland, where the night wind searched him to the bone. He dreamed strange dreams in his solitude as he slept by night and rode by day, of men with stars between their eyes, and trees that bore bright and bitter fruit, and knights who turned into lions, and lions who grew sky-wide wings. And still he looked and listened for tidings of the knight with the red cross on the white shield. For he knew in his heart that that knight had
some special meaning for him. And always he looked and listened for tidings of Sir Galahad, not knowing that they were one and the same. And always he rode with his heart wide open, waiting for God to tell him what next to do in the following of his quest.

One day he came out into a vast clearing in the forest, and saw in the midst of it a strong and splendid castle. Between him and the castle lay a wide meadow; and clustered all round the meadow verges, bright as the small flowers of spring time, were tents and pavilions, striped and chequered, blue and violet, green, red and yellow, each blinking with goldwork on fluttering pennants. And in the open midst of the meadow a great tournament was going forward.

Five hundred knights at least, he judged, were taking part; and half of them were cloaked and armed in black as glossy midnight-deep as ravens’ feathers, while the other half were cloaked and armed in white; the proud fierce white of swan’s wing or lightning flash. And the white knights had taken up the side towards the castle, while the black had the side towards the forest, so that their backs were to Sir Lancelot as he sat his horse and watched them.

And as he watched, it seemed to him that the raven ranks were getting the worst of the contest. He saw that they were beginning to fall back towards him; and his lance hand itched and his knees tightened their grip
on his horse’s flanks, and instantly he was on their side, as he had always been on the side of anyone hard pressed by a stronger man. And next moment, scarce knowing what he did, he had struck in his spurs and, couching his lance, was out from the woodshore to their aid.

He took the first knight to come against him with such force that he brought down both horse and rider; the next he got with the point to the helmet-crest, the most difficult stroke of all and only to be attempted by a master. Then thundering on, he broke his lance against a third man’s shield, yet unhorsed him all the same; and drawing his sword, plunged on into the thick of the struggle. And there he fought so valiantly, dealing out such skilled and mighty blows, that he should surely have carried off the crown of any tournament. Yet it seemed that not all his strength and skill and valour could avail against the ranks of the white champions. His blows might have landed upon mighty tree-trunks, or Joyeux have been no more than a sword of plaited rushes, for all the harm he seemed able to do the men he fought with, and he was powerless to check their forward thrust that drove the black knights back and back.

Again and again he charged them, striving to break an opening in their ranks, again and again he failed, until he could barely lift his sword arm for weariness,
and though there was no scathe on him, his whole body was drained of strength as a man sore wounded may be drained of his life’s blood.

At last a band of the white knights surrounded him and bore him down by main force, and dragged him off into the forest; while without his aid the raven ranks were quickly overwhelmed and put to flight.

Once in the forest, Sir Lancelot looked for death and did not care; but his captors simply turned him free, and that was the worst shame of all.

‘Let you remember,’ said one of the white knights, ‘that though it comes about by our strength and not by your choosing, you are of our company now. Remember that, and ride on your way.’

One of them gave him his sword again, and he sheathed it, fumblingly, at his side. And, slumped wearily in the saddle, his head on his breast, he rode away.

Never before, no matter how long or hard the fighting, had this dreadful weakness sapped his sword arm; never before had he been captured and then turned free in casual mercy. And what was left of his pride was bleeding-raw within him. Now, he thought, I have lost everything; my love, and the strength of my knighthood; and God’s face is still turned away from me.

That night he passed in a wild and craggy place far from the haunts of men, dividing the dark hours between little sleep and much prayer. And in the morning, when
the sky was clear-washed with light in the east, and the birds began to sing, he prayed again; and as he prayed, and the sun rose and dazzled into his eyes, a new feeling came upon him. Not hope, quieter than hope, but a kind of peace, an acceptance that what had happened to him yesterday, whatever happened to him henceforth, it was God’s will for him; even if it was God’s will that he should remain shut out.

And he saddled his horse again and rode on.

He came at last to a valley running down between sides of sheer black rock, to a mighty river. And on the bank of the river, mounted on a great warhorse of his own colour, waited a knight in armour so black that the blackness had a bloom on it like the bloom on a thundercloud, and cast its own darkness over the daylight all around. At sight of Sir Lancelot he struck in his spurs and came for him full tilt, at such speed that there was no chance of avoiding him, nor of getting in the first thrust. His levelled lance took Sir Lancelot’s horse in the breast, so that it screamed and reared up, then came crashing down with its scarlet heart’s blood fountaining from the wound. And the black rider on his black steed whirled on unchecked, and in a few breaths of time was lost to sight.

Sir Lancelot scrambled to his feet, and stood looking down at his dead horse; and grief was heavy in him, for they were old friends and had been through many
adventures together. But for himself, he cared nothing that he had been worsted yet again. All that was over with him. He accepted it as the will of God, and unslung his shield from the saddlebow, and started walking towards the river.

When he reached it, he saw how wide and deep and fast it ran, so that there could be no way over without a boat or wings. The rocky bluffs on either side of the valley were beyond any man’s scaling, and to turn back into the forest would be a backward-going over the way he had come. So he laid aside helm and shield, and lay down in the lee of a mossy outcrop of the rocks on the river bank, for the daylight was fading fast, to wait until God should show him the way forward.