King Arthur's Knights
many prayers and with much weeping, to the Thames, and there they put
her and the bed in a barge.
Over all the bed and the barge, except her fair face, was placed a
cloak of black samite, and an old and faithful servant of the house
stepped into the barge to guide it.
They let it go from them with great grief, and the aged man steered it
down the river towards London, where was the court of Arthur.
It happened that, as the king and his queen were looking from a window
of the palace which looked upon the Thames, they saw the black barge,
and marvelled what it might mean.
The king made the barge to be held fast, and took the queen's hand, and
with many knights went down to the water's edge, and there they saw a
fair gentlewoman lying on a rich bed, and she lay as if she slept.
The king took the letter gently from the fair hand which held it, and
went into his court, and ordered all his knights to assemble, and then
opened the letter and read what was written. The words were these:
'Most noble knight, my lord Sir Lancelot du Lake, now hath death come
to me, seeing that you would not give me your love. Yet do thou do this
little thing I ask, now that I am dead, for I ask thee to pray for my
soul and to bury me, and think of me sometimes. Pray for my soul and
think of me, as thou art a knight peerless and most gentle.'
Sir Lancelot heard it word by word and went pale as ashes, so that men
marvelled to see his sorrow. When it was finished, he said:
'My lord, King Arthur, wit ye well that I am right heavy for the death
of this fair damsel. God knoweth that I was never causer of her death
by my will, as her brother Sir Lavaine here will avouch for me. She was
both fair and good, and exceeding kind to me when I was wounded; but
she loved me out of all measure, and of that I was sore heavy.'
'Ye might have loved her,' said the queen, weeping for sorrow at the
hapless fate of one so fair and fond.
'Madam,' said Sir Lancelot, 'I could not be constrained to love her,
but I sorrow for her death exceedingly.'
'Truth it is,' said the king, 'that love is free and never will be
forced, for all the prayers that may be said to it. But thou wilt of
thy worship bury this fair maid, Sir Lancelot?'
'That will I do,' said the knight, 'and in all richness and solemnity.'
Thus was it done, and all the knights of the Round Table sorrowfully
followed the body of the fair Elaine to the grave.
On her tomb in letters of gold both thick and deep were set the words:
'Here lieth the body of Elaine, the Lily Maid of Astolat, who died of a
passing great love'
X
HOW THE THREE GOOD KNIGHTS ACHIEVED THE HOLY GRAAL
Now the time drew nigh which had been foretold by Merlin, before he had
been snared by a greater wizardry than his, and buried alive beneath
the great stone in the forest of Broceliande.
He had prophesied that, with the coming of King Arthur, the island of
Britain should grow in strength and fame, and her knights should be
more valiant and more pure in word and deed than the knights of any
other land. But that, in a little while, they would become proud, and
finding that none could withstand them, they would use their strength
evilly.
To the court of King Arthur, as he sat in London, came tidings of how
his barons warred with each other in remoter parts of his dominions,
seizing the strong castles of each other, putting one another to death,
and forsaking the ways of the Holy Church of Christ and turning to the
idolatry of the old British pagans, some of whom still lurked and
performed their evil rites in the desolate and secret places of the
forests and the hills.
The heart of the king was heavy as he sat thinking, and he wondered why
this evil was entering into the hearts of his knights and barons. He
resolved to take good counsel, and therefore commanded his clerk to
come to him and bade him write down all his thoughts.
Then he gave the letter to a trusty knight, named Sir Brewis, and bade
him take it to the Archbishop of Britain, where he sat, an old and
feeble man, in his great cathedral of St. Asaph, far on the verge of
the western sea. He was the king's kinsman, and already known for his
great sanctity as St. David. In a month the knight brought back the
answer, which was in these words:
'The time draws nigh for the trial and testing of Britain. Three good
knights shall come to you, and you must pray that their spirit shall
spread like fire in the hearts of all your knights. You shall have all
my prayers, dear kinsman, and I bid you say to all your knights, "Watch
and Pray."'
A few days later, when the king sat in hall before the great fire, for
it was passing cold and the wintry wind snarled at the windows, the
great door was flung open, and into the hall came three men bearing a
wounded knight in armour upon his shield. When they had set him down,
the knights that were with the king knew him for Sir Kay the seneschal,
and Sir Kay looked sourly about him, and bade those that carried him
take him to his pallet and fetch a leech, and not stand gaping like
fools.
'How now,' said Sir Gawaine, 'who hath tumbled thee, Sir Kay?'
'A fool whose head I will rase from his shoulders when I am hale
again,' snapped Sir Kay, as he was borne away to his bed.
Then into the hall came a troll, and after the troll came a knight
dressed all in white armour, who, going towards the king, knelt at his
feet.
'Sir,' the knight said, 'I would that ye make me a knight.'
'Of what lineage have ye come?' asked the king.
'I am the only son left to my mother,' replied the knight, 'and she is
the widow of Earl Evroc of the Wolds.'
'Ah,' said the king, and frowned, 'was he one of those turbulent lords
of the north that now slay and war as if they were kin to the pagans,
and threaten to bring ruin into my kingdom?'
'Nay, lord,' said the young knight, 'my father hath been dead these
twenty years.'
'Then what is your name? What have ye done to deserve knighthood?'
asked the king, who was angry at the hurt his old friend and
foster-brother Kay had received.
'Sir, I am Perceval who slew the Dragon Knight, and I am not yet made a
knight.'
All those that stood there cried out in joy, and King Arthur raised the
young knight from his knees and kissed him on both cheeks.
'Fair young warrior, I knew ye not,' said the king, 'and I repent me my
churlish speech. We all have heard your great deeds, and much have I
longed to see ye, and many reproaches gave I to Sir Kay, whose churlish
manner thrust you from my hall.'
'Sir,' said Perceval, when he had clasped the hands of the knights, all
of whom were eager to know him, 'I vowed that I would not come to you
until that I had avenged the blow which Sir Kay had given to my good
friend Tod, who is my squire, and good fortune brought Sir Kay to me,
or perhaps it was the will of Heaven. For as I came riding hitherwards
this morning, I saw in the snow where a hawk had torn a thrush, and the
blood lay on the whiteness of the ground. I stopped and gazed upon it,
for I thought of the white life of Christ who gave His blood to save us
all. Then I wondered whether the blood that He had shed upon the cruel
Cross would ever be so pitiful a thing in men's minds that this dear
Britain of ours would be rid of the evil which seems to be creeping
into it, and in place thereof would turn as white as the sheets of snow
that now lay over all the fields and ways. As I thought thus, I sank
deeper and deeper in my thoughts. Suddenly I felt one strike me on the
arm with the flat of his sword. I turned and saw a knight, who asked me
why I gaped like a mooncalf at the torn bird. I told him it was my
pleasure so to do. He asked if it was my pleasure to have to do with
him, but I said I would liefer pursue my thoughts again. Nevertheless,
he would not let me in quiet, and I drew my sword and beat him in my
anger to the ground. When my squire unlaced his helm he knew him for
Sir Kay, and told some passing men to bear him unto the court.
'So have I punished him both for the insult to my friend and squire and
to myself.'
Men marvelled at the quiet speech and gentle looks and manners of one
whose fame for great deeds was in all men's mouths; and Sir Gawaine
said:
'Of a truth, young chieftain, it had served Sir Kay rightly if ye had
slain him, and he should thank thee for sparing him.'
The other knights agreed that Sir Kay had done most unknightly in thus
picking a quarrel with one who had not offended, and he had merited
defeat.
Thereupon King Arthur knighted Perceval, and they made him great cheer
and welcome; and the king knew in his heart that this was one of the
three good knights whom St. David had spoken of, and he wondered who
were the other two.
It chanced that seven nights before, the good Sir Bors had fared forth
from the court of Arthur to seek knightly adventures. And his spirit
was joyful as he rode, for he felt that some great adventure was to
come to him, howbeit he knew not why he felt this was to be.
Northward he fared through the land, and the snow had not yet fallen,
but so mild was the season that men's thoughts had stirred towards
spring. For many days he journeyed and the ways were more lonely, the
country more desolate, the rocky hills more bare. He wondered why it
was that the land seemed so forsaken, as if the folk had long since
left the fields to become solitary wastes.
At length it befell that one evening he could find no place wherein to
shelter for the night; there was no hermit's cell nor castle nor
knight's hold through all the way by which he had come that day.
Towards twilight he came upon a wide moor, and the cold moon peered at
him over the distant mountains. Far in the midst of the waste he saw a
great pile, as of a castle, and pricked his horse towards it.
It was indeed a castle, but its walls were broken and mossy, as if long
years had passed since it housed fire and gay company. He rode over the
drawbridge into the great courtyard, and the echo of his horse's
hoofbeats was the only sound that greeted him.
He sought the upper chambers, and found in one a rough bed of fern
leaves, and, having supped from the scrip he carried with him, he
composed himself to sleep, glad that at least a roof and thick walls
shielded him from the freezing cold which now swept over the land.
Forthwith he slept; but at midnight he awoke and found it was deeply
dark, and looking to the arrow slit in the wall he sought some friendly
star. As he looked, a great red light burst through, and with that
there came, thrusting fiercely, a great spear like a long flame, which
darted at him, and then stayed just before him. The point of it burned
blue and dazzling.
As he lay marvelling, the spear went back a space; then he grasped his
sword that lay beside him, but before he could defend himself the
flaming spear dashed forward again and smote him in the shoulder.
Then the spear went back and the chamber was deep dark again, and for
very pain Sir Bors lay and groaned. Nor could he sleep more that night.
When it was dawn he arose, thinking to ride forth, but when he went
down into the courtyard to saddle his horse in the stable, he marvelled
to see that where there had been an open ruined gateway the night
before, was now a great black oaken door, spiked and bolted.
For a long time he essayed by every means to get himself out of that
castle, but he could not find a way. Yet never did he hear or see aught
that showed that any one lived there. Many times he went throughout the
place, but never found aught but ruin and emptiness, and the dust and
darkness of long neglect everywhere.
When three days had gone, Sir Bors was faint with the pain of his wound
and the hunger with which he suffered. Then, as he sat beside his horse