The Nonexistent Knight (9 page)

That dust was seen by Raimbaut as he ran about on foot looking for her, crying, “Where are you going, oh, where Bradamante. Here am I for you, for you, and you go away!” with a lover’s stubborn indignation which means, “I’m here, girl, loaded with love, how can you not want it, what
can
a girl want that she doesn’t take me, doesn’t love me, what can she want more than what I feel I can and ought to give?” So he rages, incapable of accepting rejection; at a certain moment love for her becomes love of himself, love of himself is love for her and for what could be for them both and is not. And in his frenzy Raimbaut ran into his tent, prepared horse, arms and knapsack, and left too. For war can be well fought where there’s a glimpse of a woman’s mouth between lance points. Nothing—wounds, dust, the stink of a horse—means anything but that smile.

Torrismund also left that evening, sad and hopeful too. He wanted to find the wood again, the damp dark wood of his infancy, his mother, his days in that cave, and even more, the pure comradeship of his fathers, armed and watching around a hidden bivouac fire, robed in white, silent in the thick of a forest, with low branches almost touching bracken and mushrooms sprouting from rich earth which never saw sun.

Charlemagne, as he rose from the banquet, rather shaky on his legs, heard of all these sudden departures and moved towards the royal pavilion thinking of days when the departures were of Astolf, Rinaldo, Guidon Selvaggio, Roland, to do deeds which later entered the epics of poets, while now the same veterans would never move a step unless forced by duty. “Let them go, they’re young, let them get on with it,” said Charlemagne, with the habit, usual to men of action, of considering movement always good, but already with the bitterness of the old who suffer at losing things of the past more than they enjoy greeting those of the future.

8

BOOK, evening is here, and I have begun to write more rapidly. No sound now rises from the river but the rumble of the cascade; bats fly mutely by the window, a dog bays, voices ring from the haystacks. Maybe this penance of mine has not been so ill chosen by the Mother Abbess. Every now and again I notice my pen beginning to hurry over the paper as if by itself, with my hurrying along after it. 'Tis towards the truth we hurry, my pen and I, the truth which I am constantly expecting to meet deep in a white page, and which I can reach only when my pen strokes have succeeded in burying all the disgust and dissatisfaction and rancor which I am forced here in seclusion to expiate.

Then at a mere scamper of a mouse (the convent attics are full of them), or a sudden gust of wind banging the shutter (always apt to distract me, and I hurry to reopen it), or at the end of some episode in this tale and the start of another, or maybe just at the repetition of a line, my pen is heavy as a cross once again and my race towards truth wavers in its course.

Now I must show the lands crossed by Agilulf and his squire on their journey. I must set it all down on this page, a dusty main road, a river, a bridge, and Agilulf passing on his light-hooved horse, toc-toc toc-toc, for this knight without a body weighs little, and the horse can do many a mile without tiring and its master is quite untirable. Next a heavy gallop passes over the bridge: tututum! It’s Gurduloo clutching the neck of his horse, their two heads so close it’s impossible to tell if the horse is thinking with the squire’s head or the squire with the horse’s. On my paper I trace a straight line with occasional curves, and this is Agilulf's route. This other line all twirls and zigzags is Gurduloo’s. When he sees a butterfly flutter by, Gurduloo at once urges his horse after it, thinking himself astride not the horse but the butterfly, and so wanders off the road and into the fields. Meanwhile Agilulf goes straight ahead, following his course. Every now and again Gurduloo’s route off the road coincides with invisible short cuts (or maybe the horse is following a path of its own choice, with no guidance from its rider) and after many a twist and turn the vagabond finds himself again beside his master on the main road.

Here on the river’s bank I will set a mill. Agilulf stops to ask the way. The miller woman replies courteously and offers wine and bread, which he refuses. He accepts only fodder for the horse. The road is dusty and sun-swept. The good millers are amazed at the knight’s not being thirsty.

When he has just left, up gallops Gurduloo, with the sound of a regiment at full tilt. “Have you seen my master?”

“And who may your master be?”

“A knight ... no, a horse...”

“Are you in a horse's service then?”

“No ... it’s my horse that’s in a horse’s service...”

“Who’s riding that horse?”

“Eh ... no one knows ...”

“Who is riding your own horse, then?”

“Oh, ask it!”

“Don’t you want any food or drink either?”

“Yes, yes! Eat! Drink!” and he gulps it all down.

Now I am drawing a town girt with walls. Agilulf has to pass through it. The guards at the gate ask him to show his face. They have orders to let no one pass with closed visor, lest he be a ferocious brigand infesting the local countryside. Agilulf refuses, comes to blows with the guard, forces his passage, escapes.

Beyond the town I now trace out a wood. Agilulf scours it through and through until he finds the dreadful bandit. He disarms him, chains him up, and drags him before the guards who had refused him passage. “Here is the man you so much feared!”

“Ah blessings on you, white knight! But tell us who you are, and why you keep your helmet shut?”

“My name is at my journey’s end,” says Agilulf, and flees.

Around the town goes a rumor that he is an archangel or soul from purgatory. “The horse moved so lightly,” says one, “there might have been no one in the saddle at all.”

Here by the edge of the wood passes another road also leading to the town. Along this road is riding Bradamante. To those in the town shé says, “I am looking for a knight in white armor. I know him to be here.”

“No. No, he’s not,” is the reply.

“If he’s not, then it must be him.”

“Go and find where he is, then. He’s rushed away from here.”

“Have you really seen him? White armor which seems to have a man inside?”

“Who’s inside if not a man?”

“One who is more than all other men!”

“There’s devil’s work in this,” says an old man, “and in you too. O knight of the gentle voice!”

Away spurs Brandamante.

A little later, Raimbaut reins his horse in the town square. “Have you seen a knight pass?”

“Which? Two have passed and you’re the third.” “One rushing after the other.”

“Is it true one isn’t a man?”

“The second is a woman.”

“And the first?”

“Nothing.”

“What about you?”

“Me? I’m ... I’m a man.”

“Thanks be to God!”

Agilulf was riding along, followed by Gurduloo. A damsel ran onto the road, with flowing hair and tattered dress, and flung herself on her knees. Agilulf stopped his horse. “Help, noble cavalier,” she invoked. “Half a mile from here a flock of wild bears is besieging the castle of my lady, the noble widow Priscilla. Only a few helpless women inhabit the castle. Nobody can get in or out. I was dropped by a rope from the battlements and escaped the claws of those beasts by a miracle. O knight, come and free us, do!”

“My sword is always at the service of widows and helpless creatures,” said Agilulf. “Gurduloo, take on your crupper this damsel who will guide us to the castle of her mistress.”

They began climbing a rocky path. The squire was not even looking at the way as he rode; the breast of the woman sitting in his arms showed pink and plump through the tears in her dress, and Gurduloo felt lost.

The damsel turned to look at Agilulf. “What a noble bearing your master has!” she said.

“Uh, uh,” replied Gurduloo, reaching out a hand towards that warm breast.

“He’s so sure and proud in every word and gesture ...” said she, still with eyes on Agilulf.

“Uh,” exclaimed Gurduloo as, his rein slung on his wrist, he tried with both hands to ascertain how a creature could be so steady and soft at the same time.

“And his voice,” said she, “so sharp and metallic...”

From Gurduloo’s mouth came only a faint whine, for he had buried it between the young woman’s neck and shoulder and was lost in their scent.

“How happy my mistress will be to find herself freed from the bears by such a man ... Oh I do envy her ... But hey, we’re going off the track! What is it, squire, are you distracted?”

At a turn in the path was a hermit holding out a hand for alms. Agilulf, who gave to every beggar he met the regular sum of three centimes, drew in his horse and rummaged in his purse.

“Blessings on you, knight,” said the hermit pocketing the money, and signing for him to bend down so as to speak in his ear, “I will reward you at once by telling you to beware of the widow Priscilla! This tale of the bears is all a trap. She herself raises them, so as to be freed by the most valiant knights passing on the road below and draw them up to the castle to feed her insatiable lust.”

“It may be as you say, brother,” replied Agilulf, “but I am a knight and it would be discourteous to reject a formal request for help made by a female in tears.”

“Are you not afraid of the flames of lust?”

Agilulf was slightly embarrassed. “Well, we’ll see...”

“Do you know what remains of a knight after a sojourn in that castle?”

“What?”

“You see it before your eyes. I too was a knight. I too saved Priscilla from the bears, and now here I am!” And he really was in rather bad shape.

“I will take note of your experience, brother, but I affront the trial,” and Agilulf spurred away and up to Gurduloo and the girl.

“I don’t know what these hermits always find to gossip about,” said the girl to the knight. “No group of religious or lay folk chatter so much and so maliciously.”

“Are there many hermits round here?”

“It’s full of ’em. And new ones are constantly being added.”

“I will not be one of those,” exclaimed Agilulf. ‘Let’s hurry!”

“I hear the snarl of bears,” exclaimed the girl. “I’m afraid! Let me get down and hide behind that bush!”

Agilulf came out onto the open space before the castle. Everything was black with bears. At the sight of horse and knight they bared their teeth and lined up side by side to bar his way. Agilulf set his lance and charged. One or two he pierced, others he stunned, others he bruised. Gurduloo came riding up and chased them with a kitchen spit. In ten minutes those not stretched on the ground like so many carpets had gone to hide in the forest depths.

The castle gate opened. “Noble knight, can hospitality repay what I owe you?” On the threshold had appeared Priscilla, surrounded by her ladies and maids. Among these was the young woman who had accompanied the pair till then. Inexplicably, she was already home and no longer dressed in rags but a nice clean apron.

Agilulf, followed by Gurduloo, made his entry into the castle. The widow Priscilla was not tall and not short, not plump but well contained, with a bosom not large but well in view, and sparkling black eyes, in fact a woman with something to say for herself. There she stood, before Agilulf’s white armor, looking pleased. The knight was grave but reserved.

“Sir Agilulf Emo Bertrandin of the Guildivern,” said Priscilla, “I know your name already and know who you are and who you are
not
."

At this announcement Agilulf, as if freed from a discomfort, put aside his shyness and looked more at ease. Even so he bowed, dropped on one knee, and said, "At your service,” then jumped to his feet with a start.

“I have heard you much spoken of,” said Priscilla, "and it has been for long my ardent wish to meet you. What miracle has brought you along this remote road?”

“I am travelling,” said Agilulf, “to trace, before it be too late, a virginity of fifteen years ago.”

“Never have I heard a knightly enterprise with so fleeting an aim,” said Priscilla. “But as fifteen years have passed I have no scruples in retarding you another night, and requesting you to be a guest in my castle,” and off she moved beside him.

The other women all stood there with eyes fixed on him until he vanished with the chatelaine into a series of withdrawing chambers. Then they turned to Gurduloo.

“Aha, what a fine figure of a squire,” they cried, clapping their hands. He stood there like an ape, scratching himself. “A pity he has so many fleas and stinks so,” they said. “Quick, let’s wash him!” They bore him to their quarters and stripped him naked.

Priscilla had led Agilulf to a table laid for two. “I know your habitual temperance, knight,” said she, “but how else can I begin to do you honor but by inviting you to sit at my board? Certainly,” she added slyly, “the signs of gratitude which I intend to offer do not stop there!”

Agilulf thanked her, sat down facing the chatelaine, broke a few pieces of bread in his fingers, and after a moment or two of silence, cleared his voice and began to converse fluently.

“How truly strarige and eventful, lady, are the adventures which befall a knight errant. These can be grouped under various headings. First...” And so he conversed, affably, clearly, informatively, at times arousing a suspicion of overmeticulousness, soon banished by the volubility with which he went on to other subjects, interlarding serious phrases with jests in excellent taste, expressing about matters and persons opinions neither too favorable nor too contrary, and always such as to offer his partner opportunities to voice her own opinions, and encouraging her with gracious questions.

“Oh, what delicious talk is this!” exclaimed Priscilla, beaming.

Then just as suddenly as he had begun talking Agilulf went silent.

“Let the singing begin,” cried Priscilla, and clapped her hands. Lute girls entered the chamber. One intoned the song which starts, “ 'Tis the unicorn gathers the rose”; then another, “
Jasmin
,
veulliez embellir le beau coussin.”

Agilulf had words of appreciation for both music and voices.