The Once and Future King

Chapter XX

After Sir Bliant had ridden away, King Pelles stumped upstairs to do some biblical genealogy. He was puzzled about the Lancelot affair, and interested in it on account of his grandson Galahad. All of us have been driven nearly mad by our wives and sweethearts, but King Pelles was aware that there is a tough streak in human nature which generally prevents us from being quite driven. He thought it eccentric of Lancelot, to say the least, to lose his reason over a lover’s tiff – and he wanted to find out, by looking up the Ban genealogy, whether there had been a streak of lunacy in the family which could account for it. If there were, it might descend on Galahad. The child might have to be sent to the hospital of Bethlehem, which later ages were to call Bedlam. There had been enough trouble without that.

‘Ban’s father,’ said King Pelles to himself, polishing his spectacles and blowing dust off numerous works of Heraldry, Genealogy, Nigromancy, and Mystical Mathematics, ‘was King Lancelot of Benwick, who married the King of Ireland’s daughter. King Lancelot’s father, in his turn, was Jonas, who married the daughter of Manuel of Gaul. Now who was the father of Jonas?’

When one comes to think of it, there may have been a weak link in Lancelot’s mind. This may have been the cupboard skeleton we noticed, ten years ago, at the back of the small boy’s head as he turned the kettle-hat to and fro, in the Armoury of Benwick Castle.

‘Nacien,’ said King Pelles. ‘Drat this Nacien. There seem to be two of him.’

He had got back, through Lisais, Hellias le Grose, Nacien the Hermit – from whom Lancelot probably inherited his visionary tendency – and Nappus, to a second Nacien who, if he existed, would quite upset the King’s theory that Lancelot was but the eighth degree from Our Lord. As a matter of fact, nearly all hermits seemed to be called Nacien in those days.

‘Drat him,’ repeated the King, and he glanced out of the window to see what the noise was about in the street outside the castle.

A Wild Man – there seemed to be a lot of them about this morning – was being run through Corbin by the villagers who had once gone out to welcome Lancelot. He was naked, as thin as a ghost, and he ran along with his hands over his head, to protect it. The small boys running all round him were throwing turfs at him. He stopped every now and then, and caught one of the boys and threw him over the hedge. This only made the boys throw stones. King Pelles could clearly see the blood running over his high cheek-bones, and the sunken cheeks, and the hunted eyes, and the blue shadows between his ribs. He could also see that the man was making for the castle.

In the castle yard, when King Pelles had gone dot-and-carry downstairs, there was quite a crowd of castle folk standing around the Wild Man in admiration. They had lowered the portcullis, to keep the village boys out, and they were disposed to treat the fugitive with kindness.

‘Look at his wounds,’ said one of the squires. ‘Look at that great scar there. Perhaps he was a knight errant before he went mad, and so we ought to give him courtesy.’

The Wild Man stood in the middle of the ring, while the ladies giggled and the pages pointed. He hung his head and stood motionless, without speaking, waiting for what was to be done to him next.

‘Perhaps he is Sir Lancelot.’

There was a great laugh at this.

‘No, but seriously. It was never exactly proved that Lancelot is dead.’

King Pelles went right up to the Wild Man and looked into his face. He had to stoop sideways to do this.

‘Are you Sir Lancelot?’ he asked.

The emaciated, dirty, bearded face: its eyes never even blinked.

‘Are you?’ repeated the King.

But there was no answer from the dummy.

‘He is deaf and dumb,’ said the King, ‘We will keep him as a jester. He looks funny enough, I must say. Somebody get the man some clothes – you know, comic clothes – and put him to sleep in the pigeon house. Give him some clean straw.’

The dummy suddenly lifted both its hands and let out a roar, which made everybody start back. The King dropped his spectacles. Then it lowered its hands again and stood sheepishly, so that the people gave a nervous giggle.

‘Better lock him in,’ said the King wisely. ‘Safety first. And do not hand him his food – throw it to him. Can’t be too careful.’

So Sir Lancelot was led away to the pigeon house, to be King Pelles’ fool – and there he was locked in, and fed by throwing, and lodged on clean straw.

When the King’s nephew, a boy called Castor, came to be knighted on the following Saturday – this was the ceremony which Elaine was coming home to attend – there was gaiety in the castle. The King, who was addicted to festivals and ceremonials of all sorts, celebrated the occasion royally, by presenting a new gown to every man on the estate. He also celebrated it, regrettably, by making too generous a use of the cellars over which Dame Brisen’s husband presided.

‘Wossle,’ cried the King.

‘Drink hail,’ replied Sir Castor, who was on his best behaviour.

‘Everybody gotter gown?’ shouted the King.

‘Yes, thank you, Your Majesty,’ replied the attendants.

‘Sure?’

‘Quite sure, Your Majesty.’

‘Thas alri, then. Goo’ ole gown!’

And the King wrapped himself in his own gown with great affection. He was a different man on occasions like this.

‘Everybody wants to thank Your Majesty very much for his generous present.’

‘Notter tall.’

‘Three cheers for King Pelles!’

‘Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!’

‘Warrabout the fool?’ inquired the King suddenly. ‘Fool gotter gown? Where’s the pore fool?’

There was a silence at this, for nobody had remembered to put a gown aside for Sir Lancelot.

‘Notter gown? Nottergotter gown?’ cried the King. ‘Fesha fool at once.’

Sir Lancelot was fetched from the pigeon house, for the royal favour. He stood still in the torchlight with some straws in his beard, a pitiful figure in his jester’s patch-work.

‘Pore fool,’ said the King sadly. ‘Pore fool. Here, have mine.’

And, in spite of all remonstrances and advices to the contrary, King Pelles struggled out of his costly robe, which he popped over Lancelot’s head.

‘Lettim loose,’ cried the King. ‘Givim holly-holly day. Karnkeepamanlocktupforever.’

Sir Lancelot, standing upright in the grand dress, looked strangely stately in the Great Hall. If only his beard had been trimmed – our clean-shaven generation has forgotten what a difference the trimming of a beard can make – if only he had not starved away to a skeleton in the cell of the poor hermit after the boar hunt – if only he had not been rumoured to be dead – but, even as it was, a sort of awe came into the Hall. The King did not notice it. With measured tread Sir Lancelot walked back to his pigeon loft, and the house carls made an avenue for him as he went.