The King Arthur Trilogy (46 page)

They were far on their way when the sun rose and dusty-gilded the dark spreading trees of late summer. And all that day and far into the night, they rode, not stopping to eat or rest. And in the clear green half-dark of the next dawn, they began to hear the sounding of the sea. So they came down to the shore, and found there waiting for them a ship whose drooping sails were all of white samite, and Bors and Percival standing on the deck, looking for them to come.

‘We must turn our horses loose here,’ said the maiden, and slipped to the ground, lifting down after her a casket of rare and exquisitely carved wood, which she had carried on her saddlebow all the way. Sir Galahad dismounted also, and unsaddled both horses and turned them loose to graze. Then he went down to the vessel, and stepped aboard, helping the maiden, still with her beautiful carved casket, over the side after him. Then there were great rejoicings, as the companions greeted each other; and for Sir Percival especially, when he saw the maiden, and knew her for his sister Anchoret, whom he had not seen for many years. And a great joy and peace of heart rose in all of them, at their coming together again.

And a wind came out of the quiet dawn and filled the sails, so that when the sun rose clear of the world’s edge they were far out to sea, beyond sight of any land. And still the three knights were talking; sometimes gravely, sometimes with laughter, telling each other of all that had passed since last they were together. But at last, when the sun had risen high enough to glow like a blurred golden rose through the white samite curve of the sail, a little silence fell between them. And Sir Bors said, ‘Now it seems to me that if my lord Lancelot, your father, were here, there would be nothing more that we could wish for, save for the fair ending of our quest.’

‘To me also,’ said Sir Galahad. ‘But it is not God’s will.’

All that day and all the next night the ship sped before the wind; and at dayspring they came to a low rocky island alive with the crying and calling of sea birds. And as though there was an unseen hand at the steering-oar, they headed up a narrow hidden creek; and the wind fell from the sails and the ship settled to rest. And just ahead of them beyond a sandy spur of the shore, so that she could only be reached on foot, they saw another ship much richer and larger than their own.

‘Good sirs,’ said the maiden Anchoret, who had kept herself happily apart, and scarcely spoken since the joyful moment of greeting her brother, ‘yonder is the adventure for which Our Lord has gathered you together. Do you come now, and see.’

So they sprang ashore, helping her among them, and she still carrying the beautiful casket cradled in her arms, and went scrambling across the dunes to the strange ship. When they got there, they saw written on her side: ‘Oh man who would set foot in me, take heed that thou be full of faith. For I am Faith, and if thou fail me, I shall fail thee.’

Then Bors and Percival hesitated on the shore. But Galahad stepped aboard, and the maiden with him, and so the other two followed.

In the midst of the ship, under an airy canopy, they
found a bed spread with fair silks and linens. And at the head of the bed rested a golden crown, and across the foot lay the most beautiful sword that any of them had ever seen; with a handspan of its blade drawn from the sheath. And the pommel was of one great gem-stone that shone with all the colours under Heaven; and engraved on the quillions were the words, ‘None was ever able to grip me, none ever shall, save one alone; and he shall surpass all who came before him, and all who come after.’

‘Here is a marvellous claim!’ said Sir Percival. ‘Let us test its truth.’ And he reached out to take up the sword. But big as he was, his hand could not encircle the grip. Then Sir Bors tried, with no better success. And then they looked to Sir Galahad. But he said, ‘Not yet.’ He was reading some words wonderfully etched on the unsheathed part of the blade. ‘Let no man draw me from my scabbard, unless he can outdo and outdare every other. Death it is to any lesser man who draws me.’

‘Why has the sword been left half-drawn from its sheath?’ said Sir Bors at last, as they stood looking down at it. ‘It is not good for a blade to be left exposed so, especially in the sea air.’

‘I can tell you that story,’ said the maiden Anchoret. ‘Long ago, when King Pelles, who men call the Maimed King, was whole and strong, he rode out hunting one day in his forest that stretches along the sea. He became separated from his hounds and huntsmen, and all his
knights save one, and trying to find his way back to them, he came at last through the forest to the coast which faces Ireland. And there, lying in a deep inlet, he found this ship on which we now stand. He read the words upon the side, but he was as good as any earthly knight; he had faith in God, as strong as any other, and he knew of no sin that he had committed against his God. And so he boarded the ship, while the knight who was with him waited on the shore. He found the sword, and unsheathed it by as much as you can see; but before he could draw it completely from the sheath, there came a spear flying out of nowhere, and pierced him through the thigh, making a wound which has never healed but maims him to this day. And in the moment of his wounding, his land was wounded also, and became as it is now; a land in which the waters do not flow and the harvest fails, and trees grow stunted and men and cattle hollow-eyed. And so it must remain until the man who draws this sword shall heal the King of his wound.’

And still they looked down upon the half-drawn sword; and as they looked, they saw another strange thing: that the sheath was worthy of the wondrous smith-craft it contained, of some strange skin the colour of a red rose and wrought over with gold and blue, but where there should have been a rich sword belt for its support, there was nothing but a length of hempen rope, so poor and frayed that it would surely not support the
weight of its weapon for an hour without breaking. And on the scabbard, in letters twisted among the blue and the gold so that they made part of the enrichment, they read, ‘Let not any man take off this sword belt to replace it with a better. That is for a maiden’s doing, and one that is without sin and the daughter of a king and a queen. And she shall replace it with another, made from that about herself which is most precious to her.’

Then the three knights fell to wondering how they were to find the right maiden. And listening to them, Anchoret smiled, and said, ‘Sirs, do not lose heart. So it please God, the new belt shall be in its place before we leave this ship. As rich and beautiful and potent a belt as even such a sword as this demands.’

And as they all turned to look at her, she opened the casket that she had carried all that while, and drew out a belt woven of gold thread and silk and strands of yellow hair; and the hair so bright and burnished that it was hard to tell it from the threads of gold; and brilliant gems strung among the fantastic braids, and gold buckles to make all secure.

‘Good sirs,’ said she, ‘I am the daughter of a king and of a queen, as my brother Percival knows. And I have never knowingly sinned; and this sword belt I braided of the most precious thing I had, my hair. Last Pentecost a voice spoke to me, telling of what was before me, and what I must do; and I obeyed the voice, and cut off my
hair, which maybe I loved too much; but I cut it gladly, none the less, and wrought with it as you see.’

And while they watched, finding no words to speak, she bent over the sword and untied the hempen rope, and fitted on the beautiful belt as skilfully as though it had been her daily task.

‘Now,’ said Bors, drawing a long breath when it was done, and turning to Galahad, ‘put on your sword.’

And Percival echoed him, ‘Put on your sword.’

‘First I must make sure of my right to it,’ said Galahad. And he took it by the hilt, and his hand closed round the grip with the ease of familiar things, as though it were a sword of his own, long lost, and found again. And as his watching companions caught their breaths, he unsheathed it and let the light play on the blade, smiling a little. Then he slid it back into the sheath; and the maiden unbuckled his old sword, the sword that he had drawn from its red marble block in the river below Camelot, and laid it in the place left empty across the foot of the bed, and buckled on the new one.

‘This is your sword,’ she said. ‘It has been waiting for you since the world stood at morning.’

‘For your part in this,’ said Galahad, looking down at her, where her veil had fallen back from her bright boy’s head, ‘I cannot speak my thanks. I would that you were my sister, as you are Percival’s. But sister or no, I am your true knight, for ever.’

SO THE THREE
knights and the maiden returned to their own ship; and as soon as they were on board the wind caught and filled the sail and carried them swiftly from the islet.

More days passed; and one morning the ship came sailing into a small land-locked harbour far to the north of any lands that they had known before. And since it seemed to them that their ship would not have brought them so surely to this landfall, if it were not for some purpose, they went ashore and took the track which ran up from the waterside and looked as though it must lead to some living-place of men.

Presently the track lifted over a moorland ridge, and they saw before them the dark mass of a castle rising like a rock-crag from the heather that washed to its walls. And as they stood looking, ten knights came riding out
through the castle gateway; and behind them a maiden carrying a great silver bowl.

When they came up, the leader of the troop spoke to Sir Galahad, with no courtesy of greeting. ‘The maiden you have with you is of noble birth?’

‘She is the daughter of a king and of a queen,’ said Sir Galahad.

‘Has she ever sinned?’

‘Never. That is known to all of us, by certain signs of a ship and of a sword belt.’

‘Then she must obey the custom of the castle.’

‘I am weary of the customs of castles,’ said Galahad. ‘What is this one?’

‘It is that every maiden of noble birth to pass this way must pay passage dues, not in gold, but in blood from her right arm.’

‘That is an ugly custom,’ said Galahad.

And Percival moved closer to his sister.

‘It is still the custom,’ said the leader, urging his horse closer. ‘The dues must be paid.’

‘Not while the strength is in my sword arm,’ said Galahad.

‘Or in mine,’ said Percival.

‘Or yet in mine,’ said Bors.

And as the knights came thrusting about them, they drew their swords and turned shoulder to shoulder, facing outwards all ways, with the maiden Anchoret
in their midst. And when the knights charged in on them, they hurled them back. But scarcely was the fighting begun, when a score more knights came riding out from the castle and ringed them round. Then the attackers drew back a little, panting. ‘You are three valiant fighting-men,’ said the leader, ‘and so we have no wish to kill you. But even you cannot burst out of this circle; and as to the maiden, it will be all one in the end. Yield her up now, and go free.’

‘Such freedom would not taste over-sweet,’ said Galahad.

‘Then you are bent on dying?’

‘As God wills. But it is not yet come to that.’ Galahad brought up his sword.

Then the fighting burst out again, fierce and furious; and the knights drove in upon the three companions from all sides. All day they fought, until the shadows grew long and were lost in dusk, and the dusk deepened into the dark and they could no longer see the sword strokes. Then a trumpet sounded from the castle to break off the fray. And as the three stood leaning on their weary swords, the horsemen still ringed around them, more men came from the castle, bearing torches, and behind the torch-bearers an old white-haired man with a gold chain about his neck, who said to the companions, ‘Sirs, the last of the fighting-light is gone from the sky. Therefore it is time to call a truce. Do
you come back now with us to the castle, and have safe lodging for the night. No harm shall come to you nor to the maiden while darkness lasts, and in the morning you shall all return to this place and state in which you stand now, and the fighting shall go forward as though there had been no pause between one sword-stroke and the next.’

And the maiden Anchoret said, ‘Let us go with them. We shall be safe under the truce; and I know in my heart that this is the thing we are to do.’

So they went with the old man and the castle knights, through the deep gateway into the stronghold. And there they were made welcome as honoured guests. And when supper was over in the Great Hall, the old man told them more concerning the custom of the castle.

‘Some two years ago, the lady of this place, whose knights we are, fell sick of that dread disease, leprosy. We sent for every physician far and near, but none could heal her sickness. At last, a wise man told us that if she were bathed with the blood of a maiden, who was of noble birth, and who had never sinned in fact or in thought, our mistress would be instantly healed. Therefore no high-born maiden passes this way, that we do not take from her a bowlful of her blood. That is all the story.’