The Once and Future King (51 page)

‘I suppose you were in a state of grace now, after your good confession, so you could be trusted with your might.’

‘That was what I thought, but you will see about it presently. I thought, now that I had got my sin off my chest, I would be allowed to be the best knight in the world once more. I rode away very happy, trying to sing a bit, until I came to a fair plain with a castle and pavilions and everything – and there was a tournament of five hundred knights in black and white. The white knights were winning, so I thought I would join with the black. I thought I would do a great exploit of rescue for the weaker party, now that I was forgiven.’ He stopped, and closed his eyes. ‘But the white knight,’ he added, opening them, ‘took me prisoner quite soon.’

‘You mean you were beaten again?’

‘I was beaten and disgraced. I thought I was more sinful than ever. When they had set me loose, I rode and cursed just as I had done on the first evening, and, when the night came, I lay down under an apple tree and actually cried myself to sleep.’

‘But this is heresy,’ exclaimed the Queen, who was a good
theologian, like most women. ‘If you were clean confessed, and had done penance and been absolved –’

‘I had done penance for one sin,’ said Lancelot. ‘But I had forgotten about another one. In the night I had a new dream, of an old man who came to me and said: “Ah, Lancelot of evil faith and poor belief, why is thy will turned so lightly toward thy deadly sin?” Jenny, I have all my life been in another sin, the worst of all. It was pride that made me try to be the best knight in the world. Pride made me show off and help the weaker party of the tournament. You could call it vainglory. Just because I had confessed about – about the woman, that did not make me into a good man.’

‘So you were beaten.’

‘Yes, I was beaten. And next morning I went to another hermit to be confessed again. This time I made a thorough job of it. I was told that it was not enough, in the Quest for the Grail, to be continent and to refrain from killing people. All boasting and pride of the world had to be left behind, for God did not like such deeds in his Quest. I had to renounce all earthly glory. And I did renounce it, and was absolved.’

‘What happened next?’

‘I rode to the water of Mortoise, where a black knight came to joust with me. He knocked me down as well.’

‘A third defeat!’

Guenever cried: ‘But if you really were absolved this time!’

Lancelot put his hand over hers, and smiled.

‘If a boy steals sweets,’ he said, ‘and his parents punish him, he may be very sorry and good afterwards. But that doesn’t entitle him to steal more sweets, does it? Nor does it mean that he must be given sweets. God was not punishing me by letting the black knight knock me down – He was only withholding the special gift of victory which it had always been within His power to bestow.’

‘But, my poor Lance, to have given up your glory and not to get anything back! When you were a sinful man you were always victorious, so why should you always be beaten when
you were heavenly? And why are you always hurt by the things you love? What did you do?’

‘I kneeled down in the water of Mortoise, Jenny, where he had knocked me – and I thanked God for the adventure.’

Arthur could not stand much more of this.

‘It is disgusting,’ he exclaimed indignantly. ‘I don’t like to listen to it. Why should a good, kind, dear person be tortured like that? It makes me feel ashamed inside, even to hear of it. What’

‘Hush,’ said Sir Lancelot. ‘I am very glad that I gave up love and glory. And, what is more, I was practically forced to do it. God did not take such pains for Gawaine or Lionel, did he?’

‘Bah!’ said King Arthur, in the tone which Gawaine had used before him.

Lancelot laughed.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s a convincing remark. But perhaps you had better hear the end of the story.

‘I lay down by the water of Mortoise that evening, and a dream came which told me to go in a ship. The ship was there when I woke up, sure enough; and when I went inside it there was the most lovely smell and feeling and food to eat and – well, whatever you can think of. I was “fulfilled with all things that I thought on or desired.” I know I can’t explain to you about the ship at this hour, because, for one thing, it is fading from me now that I am with people. But you mustn’t think just of incense in the ship, or precious cloths on it. There were these, but they were not the loveliness. You must think of a tar smell too, and the colours of the sea. Sometimes it was quite green, like thick glass, and you could see the bottom. Sometimes it was all in big, slow terraces, and the water fowl who were flying along the top vanished in the hollows. When it was
stormy, the huge fangs of the breakers gnawed at the rocky islands. They made white fangs on the cliffs, not as they burst up, but as the water streamed down. At night, when it was calm, you could see the stars reflected on the wet sands. There were two stars quite close together. The sands were all ribbed, like the roof of your mouth. And there was the smell of seaweed, the noise of the lonely wind. There were islands with little birds on them like rabbits, but their noses were rainbows. The winter was the best thing, because then there were the geese on the islands – long smoke lines of them singing like hounds in the cold streak of morning.

‘It is no good being indignant about what God did to me at the beginning, Arthur, for he gave me far more in return. I said: “Fair Sweet Father Jesu Christ, I wot not in what joy I am, for this joy passeth all earthly joys that ever I was in.”

‘A strange feature about the ship was that there was a dead woman in it. She had a letter in her hand which told me how the others had been getting on. It was stranger still that I was not frightened of her for being dead. She had such a calm face that she was company for me. We felt a sort of communion together in the ship and in the sea. I don’t know what I was fed on.

‘When I had been in this ship with the dead lady for a month, Galahad was brought to us. He gave me his blessing, and let me kiss his sword.’

Arthur was as red as a turkey cock.

‘Did you ask for his blessing?’ he demanded.

‘Of course.’

‘Well!’ said Arthur.

‘We sailed in the holy ship for six months altogether. I got to know my son very well in that time, and he seemed to care for me. Quite often, he said the most courteous things. We had adventures with animals on the out islands all that time. There were sea weasels which whistled beautifully, and Galahad showed me cranes flying along the water, with their shadows flying under them, upside down. He told me that the fishing people call a cormorant the Old Black Hag, and that ravens
live as long as men. They went cronk, cronk, high in the air, and came tumbling down for fun. One day we saw a pair of choughs: they were beautiful! And the seals! They came along beside the music of the ship, and talked like men.

‘One Monday we came to a forest land. A white knight rode down to the shore and told Galahad to come out of the boat. I knew that he was being taken away to find the Holy Grail, so I was sad that I couldn’t go too. Do you remember, when you were little, how children used to pick up sides for a game and perhaps you wouldn’t be picked at all? It felt like that, but worse. I asked Gahalad to pray for me. I asked him to pray God to hold me in his service. Then we kissed each other and said good—bye.’

Guenever complained: ‘If you were in a state of grace, I can’t understand why you should have been left.’

‘It is difficult,’ said Lancelot.

He opened his hands and looked between them on the table.

‘Perhaps my intentions were bad,’ he said at length. ‘Perhaps, inside myself, unconsciously, you could say, I had not a proper purpose of amendment…’

The Queen was subtly radiant as she listened.

‘Nonsense,’ she whispered, meaning the opposite. She pressed his hand warmly, and Lancelot took it away.

‘When I prayed to be
held
,’ he said, ‘perhaps it was because…’

‘It seems to me,’ said Arthur, ‘that you are allowing yourself the luxury of a needlessly tender conscience.’

‘Perhaps. At all events, I was not picked.’

He sat, watching the sea heaving between his hands, and hearing the wooden clatter of gannets on an island cliff.

‘The ship took me out to sea again,’ he said at length, ‘on a big wind. I did not sleep very much, and I prayed a great deal. I asked that, in spite of not being picked, I might be allowed to get
some
tidings of the Sangreal.’

In the silence which fell on the room, they pursued their separate thoughts. Arthur’s were of the pitiful spectacle – the
show of an earthly, sinful man, but the best of them, plodding along behind these three supernatural virgins; his doomed, courageous, vain toil.

‘Funny,’ said Lancelot, ‘how the people who can’t pray say that prayers are not answered, however much the people who can pray say they are. My ship took me at midnight, in a great gale, to the back side of Carbonek Castle. Strange, also, that it should have been the very place I was heading for when I started.

‘The moment the ship came alongside, I knew that I was to be granted a part of my desire. I couldn’t see it all, of course, because I was not a Galahad or Bors. But they were very kind to me. They went out of their way to be kind.

‘It was black as death behind the castle. I put on my armour and went up. There were two lions at the entry of the stairs, who tried to bar my way. I drew my sword to fight them, but a hand struck me on the arm. It was silly of me, of course, to trust in my sword, when I could have trusted in God. So I blessed myself with my numb arm and went in, and the lions didn’t hurt me. All the doors were open except the last one, and there I kneeled down. When I prayed, it opened.

‘Arthur, this must seem untrue as I tell it. I don’t know a way of putting it in words. Behind the last door there was a chapel. They were at Mass.

‘Oh, Jenny, the beautiful chapel with all its lights and everything! You would say: “The flowers and the candles.” But it was not these. Perhaps there were none.

‘It was, oh, the shout of it – the power and the glory. It seized on all my senses to drag me in.

‘But I couldn’t go in, Arthur and Jenny – there was a sword to stop me. Galahad was inside, and Bors, and Percivale. There were nine other knights, from France and Danemark and Ireland: and the lady from my ship was there as well. The Grail was there, Arthur, on a silver table, and other things! But I was forbidden to go in, for all my yearning at the door. I don’t know who the priest was. It may have been Joseph of Arimathaea, it may have been – oh, well. I did go in to help
him – in spite of the sword – because he was carrying what was too heavy to be carried. I only wanted to help, Arthur, as God was my witness. But a breath smote my face at the last door like a blast from a furnace, and there I fell down dumb.’

In the dark chamber there was a coming and going of maids. The cans and pails rattled on the stairway, and there was much steam. When the maids trod in the puddles on the floor, they made a slashing noise, and from the next room there was whispering mixed with the secret noise of silk.

The Queen had climbed the six steps of the wooden ladder which led to her bath, and now she was sitting on the plank inside it, with her head showing over the top. The bath was like a large beer barrel, and her head was wrapped in a white turban. She was naked, except for a pearl necklace. There was a mirror – it had been very expensive – in one corner, and a little table in another one held the scents and oils. Instead of a powder puff, there was a chamois leather bag with powdered chalk in it, scented with attar of roses from the Crusades. All over the floor between the puddles, there was a Confusion of linen towels for drying herself, and of jewellery boxes, brocades, garments, garters, shifts, which had been brought from the other room for her to choose. There were some condemned headdresses lying in disgrace – strange shapes of starch like candle extinguishers, and meringues, and the double horns of cows. The hair nets which kept them together were strung with pearls, and the kerchiefs were of Eastern silk. One of the ladies—in—waiting was standing in front of the Queen’s tub, holding an embroidered mantle for inspection. It was charged with the impaled arms of her husband and of her father: the dragon rampant of England and the six charming lioncels passant regardant of King Leodegrance, who bore lions on account of his name. This mantle had a heavy silk tassel, like a curtain
cord, to join it across her breast. The silk bordure was furred with countervair, silver and blue.

Guenever had lost her raddled look, and sat accepting the clothes which were recommended for her, without fuss. The ladies—in—waiting had a happy air. For more than a year they had waited on a Queen who was petulant, cruel, contradictory, miserable. Now she was pleased with anything, and did not hunt them. They were all quite sure that Lancelot must have become her lover again. This was not the case.

Guenever looked upon the six lioncels passant regardant – they were marching along with red tongues and claws, winking pertly over their backsides and waving their flame—tipped tails. She nodded her head with a contented, sleepy look, and the lady—in—waiting carried it to the dressing—room with a curtsey. The Queen watched her go.

You could pretend that Guenever was a sort of man—eating lioncelle herself, or that she was one of those selfish women who insist on ruling everywhere. In fact, this is what she did seem to be, to a superficial inspection. She was beautiful, sanguine, hot—tempered, demanding, impulsive, acquisitive, charming – she had all the proper qualities for a man—eater. But the rock on which these easy explanations founder, is that she was not promiscuous. There was never anybody in her life except Lancelot and Arthur. She never ate anybody except these. And even these she did not eat in the full sense of the word. People who have been digested by a man—eating lioncelle tend to become nonentities – to live no life except within the vitals of the devourer. Yet both Arthur and Lancelot, the people whom she apparently devoured, lived full lives, and accomplished things of their own.

One explanation of Guenever, for what it is worth, is that she was what they used to call a ‘real’ person. She was not the kind who can be fitted away safely under some label or other, as ‘loyal’ or ‘disloyal’ or ‘self—sacrificing’ or ‘jealous.’ Sometimes she was loyal and sometimes she was disloyal. She behaved like herself. And there must have been something in this self, some sincerity of heart, or she would not have held two people like
Arthur and Lancelot. Like likes like, they say – and at least they are certain that her men were generous. She must have been generous too. It is difficult to write about a real person.

She lived in warlike times, when the lives of young people were as short as those of airmen in the twentieth century. In such times, the elderly moralists are content to relax their moral laws a little, in return for being defended. The condemned pilots, with their lust for the life and love which is probably to be lost so soon, touch the hearts of young women, or possibly call up an answering bravado. Generosity, courage, honesty, pity, the faculty to look short life in the face – certainly comradeship and tenderness – these qualities may explain why Guenever took Lancelot as well as Arthur. It was courage more than anything else – the courage to take and give from the heart, while there was time. Poets are always urging women to have this kind of courage. She gathered her rose—buds while she might, and the striking thing was that she only gathered two of them, which she kept always, and that those two were the best.

Guenever’s central tragedy was that she was childless. Arthur had two illegitimate children, and Lancelot had Galahad. But Guenever – and she was the one of the three who most ought to have had children, and who would have been best with children, and whom God had seemingly made for breeding lovely children – she was the one who was left an empty vessel, a shore without a sea. This was what broke her when she came to the age at which her sea must finally dry. It is what turned her for a little time into a raving woman, though that time was still in the future. It may be one of the explanations of her double love – perhaps she loved Arthur as a father, and Lancelot because of the son she could not have.

People are easily dazzled by Round Tables and feats of arms. You read of Lancelot in some noble achievement, and, when he comes home to his mistress, you feel resentment at her because she cuts across the achievement, or spoils it. Yet Guenever could not search for the Grail. She could not vanish into the English forest for a year’s adventure with the spear. It was
her part to sit at home, though passionate, though real and hungry in her fierce and tender heart. For her there were no recognized diversions except what is comparable to the ladies’ bridge party of today. She could hawk with a merlin, or play blind man’s bluff, or pince—merille. These were the amusements of grown—up women in her time. But the great hawks, the hounds, heraldry, tournaments – these were for Lancelot. For her, unless she felt like a little spinning or embroidery, there was no occupation – except Lancelot.

So we must imagine the Queen as a woman who had been robbed of her central attribute. As she grew to her difficult age, she did strange things. She was even to be suspected of poisoning a knight. She even became unpopular. But unpopularity is often a compliment – and Guenever, though she lived tempestuously and finally died in an unreconciled sort of way – she was not cut out for religion, as Lancelot was – was never insignificant. She did what women do, on the whole right royally, and at the moment, in the tub with the lioncels before her, she was busy doing it.

When a man had practically seen God, however human he might be, you could not immediately expect him as a lover. When the man was Lancelot, who was mad on God in any case, you had to be both sanguine and cruel to expect him like that at all. But women are cruel in this way. They do not accept excuses.

Guenever knew that Lancelot would come back to her. She had known it from the moment when he had prayed to be ‘held.’ The knowledge had revived her like a watered flower too long left unwatered. It had swept away the rouge and bedizening silks which had moved his pity when he first came back. Now it only remained for her to accomplish the reunion smoothly and fully. There was no hurry.

Lancelot, who did not know that he was to betray his much—loved God again for the sake of the Queen, was made happy by her attitude – though it surprised him. He had feared some terrible scene of jealousy or recrimination. He had wondered
how he would be able to explain to the tortured child, imprisoned in the painted eyes, that he could not come to her – that he had a sweeter necessity, however much her pain. He had been afraid that she would attack him, would lay her poor snares before him – snares which would be all the more pitifully beguiling because of their poverty. He had really not known how he was to face the pity.

Instead, Guenever had bloomed and lost her paints. She had made no assault, no recrimination. She had smiled with real joy. Women, he had told himself wisely, were unpredictable. He had even been able to discuss the matter with her, in complete frankness, and she had agreed with what he said.

Guenever, sitting, in the bath and looking sightlessly upon the lioncels, had a sleepy look of secret happiness when she remembered their conversation. She saw the charming, ugly face, talking so seriously about the interests of its honest heart. She loved these interests – loved the old soldier to follow so faithfully his innocent love of God. She knew it was doomed to failure.

Lancelot had said, apologizing and begging her not to think him offensive, (1) that they could not very well go back to the old way, after the Grail; (2) that, had it not been for their guilty love, he might have been allowed to achieve the Grail; (3) that it would be dangerous in any case, because the Orkney faction was beginning to watch them unpleasantly, particularly Agravaine and Mordred; and (4) that it would be a great shame to themselves and also to Arthur. He numbered the points carefully.

At other times, he tried to explain to her, in confused words and at great length, about his discovery of God. He thought that if he could convert Guenever to God, this would solve the moral problem. If they could go to God together, he would not be deserting his mistress or sacrificing her happiness to his own.

The Queen smiled outright. He was a darling. She had agreed with every word he said – was a regular convert already.

Then she lifted one white arm out of the bath, and reached for a scrubbing brush on an ivory handle.