King Arthur's Knights
'I will not eat,' she cried, straining from his hold towards where
Geraint lay, 'unless my dear lord shall eat also.'
'But he is dead already, thou mad woman,' cried the earl. 'Drink this
goblet of wine,' he commanded, 'and thou wilt change thy mind.'
'I will not drink again until my dear lord drink also,' said Enid, and
strove to free herself from the grasp of the earl.
'Now, by Heaven!' said Madoc wrathfully, 'I have tried gentle means
with thee. Let this teach thee that I am not to be baulked of my will.'
With that he gave her a violent blow on the ear, and tried to drag her
away out of the hall. And Enid shrieked and wept and cried for help,
but none of the knights that sat there dared to oppose their lord.
But suddenly men started up from their seats in terror to see the
corpse of Geraint rise from the hollow of the shield. Enid's cries had
roused him from his swoon, and his hand as he raised himself felt the
hilt of the sword beside him.
He leaped from the litter, and, drawing his sword, he ran towards the
earl, who by now had almost dragged Enid to the door. Raising the
sword, Geraint struck him with so fierce a blow that he cleft his head
in twain.
Then, for terror at seeing what they thought was a dead man rise up to
slay them, the knights ran from the hall and left Geraint and Enid
alone.
Enid threw her arms about Geraint, her face bright with happiness.
'My dear lord, I thank God thou art not dead, as this man said thou
wert. And I pray thy forgiveness for doubting that thou hadst forgotten
thy manhood, for of a truth none is so brave, so good as thou art.'
Geraint kissed his wife, smiling wanly the while.
'Sorry I am, my dear wife,' he said, 'that I was swooning when thou
hadst need of me. And as for any doubts thou hadst of me, why, let us
both forget them from this time forth. And now we must away, ere this
lord's men recover their fright and pursue us.'
Enid led him instantly to the stalls where she had seen the horses had
been led, and Geraint took the spear and the horse of the knight whom
the trolls had slain, and, when he had mounted, he took up Enid from
the ground and placed her before him.
Thus they rode out of the castle, and away as rapidly as they could.
And now that they were reconciled, much joyful and loving talk was
between them.
But night was coming on, and Geraint was weak from his wounds and loss
of blood, and Enid was full of trouble for the pain her husband
suffered. She prayed fervently that soon they might reach a town where
she could obtain help for him.
Suddenly she heard far away in the distance the tramp of horses, and
Enid could have wept for sorrow. But she kept her face calm, though her
lips trembled, Geraint also heard the beat of the hoofs, and turning in
his saddle he looked up, and saw on the skyline of the narrow road the
glint of spears between them and the sky.
'Dear wife,' he said, with a faint brave smile, 'I hear some one
following us. I will put thee in hiding behind this thicket, and should
they slay me, do thou make thy way homeward to my father Erbin, and bid
him avenge my death.'
'O my dear Geraint!' said Enid, sobbing, for all her bravery, as she
thought that he would surely be slain, and that, after all their
trouble, they were not to be allowed to enjoy the happiness of their
reconciliation. 'I would liefer die with thee, my dear, dear lord. Let
them kill us both, if it is to be.'
'Nay, dear wife,' said Geraint, 'I would not have thee slain. Revenge
my death if they slay me.'
So, with many lingering kisses, he set her down upon the road, and saw
her hide in the thickets.
By now the gloom of evening had settled upon them, and the sound of
trampling horses had rapidly approached. And painfully, by reason of
his stiff wounds, Geraint dressed his armour as best he could, and laid
spear in rest, and drew his shield before him, and so waited in the
dark road.
He heard a single knight riding before the others, and soon saw his
figure issue from the gloom with couched lance. And Sir Geraint made
him ready also, resolved to sell his life dearly at the last.
But as they began to spur their horses, there came the voice of Enid
from the hedgerow beside them. And she cried out piteously in the dark:
'O chieftain, whoever thou art, what renown wilt thou gain by slaying a
dead man?'
The stranger stopped his horse, and called out:
'O Heaven, is it my lord, Sir Geraint?'
'Yes, in truth,' said Enid, 'and who art thou?'
'I am the little king!' said the other, and rode swiftly towards Sir
Geraint. Then he leaped from his horse and came to the stirrup of his
chief.
'My lord,' he said, 'I learned that thou wert in trouble, and came to
see if I could aid thee.'
And Enid ran forward with joy at hearing this, and welcomed the little
king, and told him in what a hard pass was Sir Geraint.
'My lord and my lady,' said Griffith, 'I thank Heaven sincerely for the
favour that I come to you in your need. I learned of thy fight with the
trolls and of thy slaying of Earl Madoc, and that thou wert wounded.
Therefore I rode on to find thee.'
'I thank thee heartily,' said Sir Geraint, 'and my dear wife also
thanks thee. For of a truth I am spent, and must needs get me rest and
a leech for my wounds.'
'Then come at once with me,' said the little king, and after he had
helped Enid to her place before Geraint, he leaped on his own horse.
'Now thou shalt go to the hall of a son-in-law of my sister which is
near here,' said King Griffith, 'and thou shalt have the best medical
advice in the kingdom.'
At the hall of the baron, whose name was Tewder, and a most knightly
and gentle lord, Sir Geraint and the Lady Enid were received with great
welcome and hospitality. Physicians were sent for, and they attended
Geraint day by day until he was quite well again.
The fame of his adventures began to spread along the borders of his
kingdom, and at length reached his own court. And the robber lords and
brigands of the marches, hearing of his deeds, ceased their evil-doing
and made haste to hide from his wrath. Also his father Erbin and the
host at his court repented of their hard thoughts and sneers concerning
him, and praised the strength of his arm, the gentleness of his
courtesy, and his justice and mercy.
When Sir Geraint and the Lady Enid returned home, all the people
gathered to welcome them. And thenceforth he reigned prosperously, and
his warlike fame and splendour lasted with renown and honour and love,
both to him and to the Lady Enid, from that time forth.
VII
HOW SIR PERCEVAL WAS TAUGHT CHIVALRY, AND ENDED THE EVIL WROUGHT BY SIR
BALIN'S DOLOROUS STROKE
It befell upon a time when King Arthur was Pendragon, or overlord of
the island of Britain, that Earl Evroc held an earldom of large
dominion in the north under King Uriens. And the earl had seven sons,
the last being but a child still at play about his mother's chair as
she sat with her maidens in the bower.
Lord Evroc was a valiant and a mighty warrior, ever battling against
the hated pagans, when their bands of blue-eyed fierce fighters landed
on his coasts. And when peace was on the land, he went about on
errantry, jousting in tournaments and fighting champions.
His six elder sons did likewise, and all were famed for their knightly
prowess.
But the mother sat at home, sad of mood. For she hated war, and would
rather have had her lord and her six tall sons about her in the home.
And in her heart she resolved that she would plead with Evroc to let
her have her little son Perceval to be a clerk or a learned bard, so
that he should stay at home with her and run no risk of death.
The sorrow she was ever dreading smote her at length. For a messenger
came one day, saying that Earl Evroc her lord had been slain at
Bamborough, in a mighty melee between some of the best and most valiant
knights of Logres and Alban, and two tall sons with him.
As the years passed, and her little son began to run, three black days
came within a little of each other, for on these days messengers came
with the sad news of the death of her other boys. One of them had been
done to death by an evil troll on the lonely wastes by the Roman wall,
two others were slain by the shores of Humber, repelling a horde of
fair-haired Saxon raiders, and the other was killed at a ford, where he
had kept at bay six bandit knights that would have pursued and slain
his wounded lord.
Then, in her grief, the widow dame resolved that she would fly with her
little son, and make a home for him in some wilderness, where never
sounds or sights of war or death would come, where knights would be
unknown, and no one would speak to him of arms and battles. And thus
did she do, and she left the hall where she had lived, and removed to
the deserts and wastes of the wilderness, and took with her only her
women, and a few boys and spiritless men, too old or feeble to fight,
or to think of fighting.
Thus she reared the only son left to her, teaching him all manner of
nobleness in thought and action and in learning, but never suffering
him to see a weapon, nor to hear a tale of war or knightly prowess.
He grew up loving all noble things, gentle of speech and bearing, but
quick to anger at evil or mean actions, merciful of weak things, and
full of pity and tenderness.
Yet was he also very strong of body, fleet of foot, quick of eye and
hand. Daily he went to divert himself in the great dark forest that
climbed the high mountains beside his home, or he roamed the wide
rolling moors. And he practised much with the throwing of stones and
sticks, so that with a stick he could hit a small mark at a great
distance, and with a sharp stone he could cut down a sapling at one
blow.
One day he saw a flock of his mother's goats in the forest, and near
them stood two hinds. The boy wondered greatly to see the two deer
which had no horns, while the goats had two each; and he thought they
had long run wild, and had lost their horns in that way. He thought he
would please his mother if he caught them, so that they should not
escape again. And by his great activity and swiftness he ran the two
deer down till they were spent, and then he took them and shut them up
in the goat-house in the forest.
Going home, he told his mother and her servants what he had done, and
they went to see, and marvelled that he could catch such fleet
creatures as the wild red deer.
Once he overheard his mother say that she yearned for fresh venison,
but that the hunter who was attached to her house was lying wounded by
a wild boar. Always Perceval had wondered what the little dark man did
whom they called the hunter, who was always so secret, so that Perceval
could never see where he went or when he returned from the forest.
So he went to the hut where Tod the hunter lay sick, and charged him by
the love and worship he bore to the countess, that he should tell him
how he could obtain fresh venison. And the dwarf told him.
Then Perceval took a few sticks of stout wood, with points hardened by
fire, and went into the forest as Tod had told him, and seeing a deer
he hurled a stick at it and slew it. And then he brought it home.
The countess was greatly wroth that Tod had taught him how to slay, and
she said that never more should the dwarf serve her. And Tod wept, but
when he was well again the countess would not suffer him to stay, but
said he should leave the hall and never come there again.
She commanded Perceval never to slay any more living things, and the
lad promised. But hard was it to keep his word, when he was in the
forest and saw the wild things passing through the brakes.
Once, as he strayed deep in the wood, he came upon a wide glade or