The Once and Future King

Chapter VII

Guenever waited for Lancelot in the candle-light of her splendid bedroom, brushing her grey hair. She looked singularly lovely, not like a film star, but like a woman who had grown a soul. She was singing by herself. It was a hymn – of all things – the beautiful, Veni, Sancte Spiritus which is supposed to have been written by a Pope.

The candle flames, rising up stilly on the night air, were reflected from the golden lioncels which studded the deep blue canopy of the bed. The combs and brushes sparkled with ornaments in cut paste. A large chest of polished latoun had saints and angels enamelled in the panels. The brocaded hangings beamed on the walls in soft folds – and, on the floor, a desperate and reprehensible luxury, there was a genuine carpet. It made people shy when they walked on it, since carpets were not originally intended for mere floors. Arthur used to walk round it.

Guenever was singing and brushing, her low voice fitting the stillness of the candles, when the door opened softly. The commander-in-chief dropped his black cloak on the chest and stepped across to stand behind her. She saw him in the mirror without surprise.

‘May I do it for you?’

‘If you like.’

He took the brush, and began sweeping it through the silver avalanche with fingers which were deft from practice, while the Queen closed her eyes.

After a time, he spoke.

‘It is like … I don’t know what. Not like silk. It is more like pouring water, only there is something cloudy about it too. The clouds are made of water, aren’t they? Is it a pale mist, or a winter sea, or a waterfall, or a hayrick in the frost? Yes, it is a hayrick, deep and soft and full of scent.’

‘It is a nuisance,’ she said.

‘It is the sea,’ he said solemnly, ‘in which I was born.’

The Queen opened her eyes and asked: ‘Did you come safely?’

‘Nobody saw.’

‘Arthur said he was coming back tomorrow.’

‘Did he? Here is a white hair.’

‘Pull it out.’

‘Poor hair,’ he said. ‘It is a thin one. Why is your hair so beautiful, Jenny? I should have to plait about six of them together, to be as thick as one of mine. Shall I pull?’

‘Yes, pull.’

‘Did it hurt?’

‘No.’

‘Why didn’t it? When I was small, I used to pull my sisters’ hair, and they used to pull mine, and it hurt like fury. Do we lose our faculties as we get older, so that we can’t feel our pains and joys?’

‘No,’ she explained. ‘It is because you only pulled one of them. When you pull a whole lock together, then it hurts. Look.’

He held down his head so that she could reach, and she, stretching up backwards with a white arm, twisted his forelock round her finger. She tugged until he made a face.

‘Yes, it still hurts. What a relief!’

‘Was that how your sisters pulled it?’

‘Yes, but I pulled theirs much harder. Whenever I came near one of my sisters she used to hold her pigtails in both hands, and glare at me.’

She laughed.

‘I’m glad I wasn’t one of your sisters.’

‘Oh, but I should never have pulled yours. Yours is too beautiful. I should have wanted to do something else with it.’

‘What would you have done?’

‘I should … well, I think I should have curled up inside it like a dormouse, and gone to sleep. I should like to do that now.’

‘Not until it is finished.’

‘Jenny,’ he asked suddenly, ‘do you think this will last?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Gareth came to me just now, to warn us that Arthur had gone away on purpose to set a trap, and that Agravaine or Mordred was going to catch us out.’

‘Arthur would never do a thing like that.’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘Unless he was made to,’ she reflected.

‘I don’t see how they could make him.’

She went off at a tangent.

‘It was nice of Gareth to go against his brothers.’

‘Do you know, I think he is one of the nicest people at court. Gawaine is decent, but he is quick-tempered and rather unforgiving.’

‘He is loyal.’

‘Yes, Arthur used to say that if you were not an Orkney, they were frightful: but, if you were, you were a lucky man. They fight like cats, but they adore each other really. It is a clan.’

The Queen’s tanget had somehow brought her back to the circle.

‘Lance,’ she asked in a startled voice, ‘do you think they could have forced the King’s hand?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Arthur has a terrific sense of justice.’

‘I wonder.’

‘There was that conversation last week. I thought he was trying to warn us. Listen! Did you hear something?’

‘No.’

‘I thought I heard somebody at the door.’

‘I’ll go and see.’

He went to the door and opened it, but there was nobody there.

‘A false alarm.’

‘Bolt it then.’

He slid the wooden beam across – a great bar of oak five inches thick, which slid into a channel deep in the thickness of the wall. Coming back to the candle-light, he separated the shining hair into convenient strands and began to plait them swiftly. His hands moved like shuttles.

‘It is silly to be nervous,’ he observed.

She was still speculating, however, and replied with a question.

‘Do you remember Tristram and Iseult?’

‘Of course.’

‘Tristram used to sleep with King Mark’s wife, and the King murdered him for it.’

‘Tristram was a lout.’

‘I thought he was nice.’

‘That was what he wanted you to think. But he was a Cornish knight, like the rest of them.’

‘He was said to be the second-best knight in the world. Sir Lancelot, Sir Tristram, Sir Lamorak …’

‘That was tittle-tattle.’

‘Why did you think he was a lout?’ she asked.

‘Well, it’s a long story. You don’t remember what chivalry used to be before your Arthur started the Table, so you don’t know what a genius you have married. You don’t see what a difference there is between Tristram, and, well, Gareth for instance.’

‘What difference?’

‘In the old days it was a case of every knight for himself. The old stagers, people like Sir Bruce Saunce Pitié, were pirates. They knew they were impregnable in armour, and they did as they pleased. It was open manslaughter and bold bawdry. When Arthur came to the throne, they were furious. You see, he believed in Right and Wrong.’

‘He still does.’

‘Fortunately he had a tenacious character as well as this idea of his. It took him about five years to set it on foot, but it was that people ought to be gentle. I must have been one of the first knights to catch the idea of gentleness from him, and I caught it young, and he made it part of my inside. Everybody is always saying what a parfait, gentle knight I am, but it has nothing to do with me. It is Arthur’s idea. It is what he has wished on all the younger generation, like Gareth, and now it is fashionable. It led to the Quest for the Grail.’

‘And why was Tristram a lout?’

‘Well, he just was. Arthur says he was a buffoon. He lived in Cornwall; he had never been educated by Arthur; but he had got wind of the fashion. He had got some garbled notion into his head that famous knights ought to be gentle, and he was always rushing about trying to live up to the fashion, without properly understanding it or feeling it in himself. He was a sort of copy-cat. Inside, he was not a bit gentle. He was foul to his wife, he was always bullying poor old Palomides for being a nigger, and he treated King Mark most shamefully. The knights from Cornwall are Old Ones and have always been hostile to Arthur’s idea, inside themselves, even if they do get hold of a part of it.’

‘Like Agravaine.’

‘Yes. Agravaine’s mother was from Cornwall. The reason why Agravaine hates me is because I stand for the idea. It is a funny thing, but all three of us that the common people used to call the three best knights – I mean Lamorak, Tristram and myself – have been hated by the Old Ones. They were delighted when Tristram was murdered because he copied the idea, and, of course, it was the Gawaine family who actually killed Sir Lamorak by treachery.’

‘I think,’ she said, ‘that the reason why Agravaine hates you is the old story of sour grapes. I don’t think he cares a bit about the idea, but he naturally envies anybody who is a better fighter than himself. He loathed Tristram because of the thrashing he got from him on the way to Joyous Gard, and he helped to murder Lamorak because the boy had beaten him at the Priory Jousts, and – how many times have you upset him?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Lance, do you realize that the two other people he hated are dead?’

‘Everybody dies, sooner or later.’

Suddenly the Queen had swept her plaits out of his fingers. She had twisted round in the chair, and, with one hand holding a pigtail, she was staring at him with round eyes.

‘I believe it is true, what Gareth said! I believe they are coming to catch us tonight!’

She jumped out of the chair and began pushing him to the door.

‘Go away. Go while there is time.’

‘But, Jenny …’

‘No. No buts. I know it is true. I can feel it. Here is your cloak. Oh, Lance, please go quickly. They stabbed Sir Lamorak in the back.’

‘Come, Jenny, don’t get excited about nothing. It is only a fancy …’

‘It is not a fancy. Listen. Listen.’

‘I can’t hear anything.’

‘Look at the door.’

The handle which lifted the latch of the door, a piece of wrought iron shaped like a horse-shoe, was moving softly to the left. It moved like a crab, uncertainly.

‘What is the matter with the door?’

‘Look at the handle!’

They stood watching it in fascination, as it moved blindly, in jerks, a sly, hesitating exploration.

‘Oh, God,’ she whispered. ‘And now it is too late!’

The handle fell back into place and there was a loud, iron knocking on the wood of the door. It was a good door of double ply, one grain running vertically and the other horizontally, and it was being beaten from the other side with a gauntlet. Agravaine’s voice, echoing in the cavern of his helmet, cried: ‘Open the door, in the King’s name!’

‘We are undone,’ she said.

‘Traitor Knight,’ cried the neighing voice, as the wood thundered under the metal. ‘Sir Lancelot, now art thou taken.’

Many more voices joined the outcry. Many joints of harness, no longer under the necessity of precaution, clanked on the stone stair. The door butted against its beam.

Lancelot dropped unconsciously into the language of chivalry also.

‘Is there any armour in the chamber,’ he asked, ‘that I might cover my body withal?’

‘There is nothing. Not even a sword.’

He stood, facing the door with a puzzled, business-like expression, biting his fingers. Several fists were hammering it, so that it shook, and the voices were like a pack of hounds.

‘Oh, Lancelot,’ she said, ‘there is nothing to fight with, and you are almost naked. They are armed and many. You will be killed, and I shall be burned, and our love has come to a bitter end.’

He was cross at not being able to solve the problem.

‘If only I had my armour,’ he said with irritation, ‘it seems ridiculous to be caught like a rat in a trap.’

He looked round the room, cursing himself for having forgotten his weapon.

‘Traitor Knight,’ boomed the voice, ‘come out of the Queen’s chamber!’

Another voice, musical and self-possessed, cried pleasantly: ‘Wit thou well, here are fourteen armed, and thou canst not escape.’ It was Mordred, and the hammering was growing louder.

‘Well, damn them then,’ he said. ‘We can’t have this noise. I shall have to go, or they will wake the castle.’

He turned to the Queen and took her in his arms.

‘Jenny, I am going to call you my most noble Christian Queen. Will you be strong?’

‘My dear.’

‘My sweet old Jenny. Let us have a kiss. Now, you have always been my special good lady, and we have never failed before. Do not be frightened this time. If they kill me, remember Sir Bors. All my brothers and nephews will look after you. Send a message to Bors or Demaris, and they will rescue you if necessary. They will take you safe to Joyous Gard, and you can live there on my own land, like the Queen you are. Do you understand?’

‘If you are killed, I shall not want to be rescued.’

‘You will,’ he said firmly. ‘It is important that somebody should be alive to explain about us decently. That is the hard work which you will have to do. Besides, I should want you to pray.’

‘No. The prayers will have to be done by somebody else. If they kill you, they can burn me. I shall take my death as meekly as any Christian queen.’

He kissed her tenderly and set her in the chair.

‘Too late to argue,’ he said. ‘I know you will be Jenny whatever happens, and I must e’en be Lancelot.’ Then, still glancing round the room with a preoccupied look, he added absent-mindedly: ‘It makes no odds about my quarrel, but they did ill to force it on you.’

She watched him, trying not to cry.

‘I would give my foot,’ he said, ‘to have a little armour – even just a sword, so that they could remember.’

‘Lance, if they would kill me, and save you, I should be happy.’

‘And I should be extremely miserable,’ he answered, suddenly finding himself in intense good humour. ‘Well, well, we shall have to do the best we can. Bother my very old bones, but I believe I am going to enjoy it!’

He put the candles on the lid of the Limoges chest, so that they would be behind his back when he opened the door. He picked up his black cloak and folded it carefully lengthwise into four, after which he wound it round his left hand and forearm as a protection. He picked up the footstool from beside the bed, balanced it in his right hand, and took a last look round the room. All the time the noise was getting louder outside, and two men were evidently trying to cut through the wood with their battle-axes, an attempt which was frustrated by the cross grains of the double ply. He went to the door and raised his voice, at which there was immediate silence.

‘Fair Lords,’ he said, ‘leave your noise and your rashing. I shall set open this door, and then ye may do with me what it liketh you.’

‘Come off then,’ they cried confusedly. ‘Do it.’ ‘It availeth thee not to strive against us all.’ ‘Let us into the chamber.’ ‘We shall save thy life if you come to King Arthur.’

He put his shoulder against the leaping door and softly pushed the beam back, into the wall. Then, still holding the door shut with his shoulder – the people on the other side had desisted from their hewing, feeling that something was about to happen – he settled his right foot firmly on the ground, about two feet from the door jamb, and let the door swing open. It stopped with a jerk at his foot, leaving a narrow opening so that it was more ajar than open, and a single knight in full armour blundered through the gap with the obedience of a puppet on strings. Lancelot slammed the door behind him, shot the bar, took the figure’s sword by the pommel in his padded left hand, jerked him forward, tripped him up, bashed him on the head with the stool as he was falling, and was sitting on his chest in a trice – as limber as he had ever been. All was done with what seemed to be ease and leisure, as if it were the armed man who was powerless. The great turret of a fellow, who had entered in the height and breadth of armour, and who had stood for a second looking for his adversary through the slit of his helmet, this man had given an impression of docility – he seemed to have come in, and to have handed his sword to Lancelot, and to have thrown himself upon the ground. Now the iron hulk lay, as obediently as ever, while the bare-legged man pressed its own swordpoint through the ventail of the visor. It made a few protesting shudders as he pressed down with both hands on the pommel of the sword.

Lancelot stood up, rubbing his hands on the dressing-gown.

‘I am sorry I had to kill him.’

He opened the visor and looked. ‘Agravaine of Orkney!’

There was a terrific outcry from beyond the door, with hammering, hewing and cursing, as Lancelot turned to the Queen. ‘Help with the armour,’ he said briefly. She came at once, without repugnance, and they kneeled together beside the body, stripping it of the vital pieces.

‘Listen,’ he said as they worked. ‘This gives us a fair chance. If I can drive them off I shall turn back for you, and you will come to Joyous Gard.’

‘No, Lance. We have done enough harm. If you do fight your way out, you must keep away till it blows over. I shall stay here. If Arthur forgives me, and if it can be hushed up, then you can come back later. If he does not forgive me, you can come to the rescue. Where does this go?’

‘Give it to me.’

‘Here is the other one.’

‘You were far better to come,’ he urged, struggling into the habergeon like a footballer putting on his jersey.

‘No. If I come, everything is broken for ever. If I stay, we may be able to patch it up. You can always rescue me if necessary.’

‘I don’t like to leave you.’

‘If I am condemned, and you rescue me, I promise I will come to Joyous Gard.’

‘And if not?’

‘Wipe the helmet with your cloak,’ she said. ‘If not, then you can come back later, and everything will be as it was.’

‘Very well. There. I can do without the rest.’

He straightened himself, holding the bloody sword, and looked at the dead body which had killed its mother.

‘Gareth’s brother,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps he was drunk. God rest him – though it seems absurd to say it.’

The old lady turned him to face the candles.

‘It means Good-bye,’ she whispered, ‘for a little.’

‘It means Good-bye.’

‘Give me a kiss?’ she asked.

He kissed her hand, because he was armed and dirty with blood and covered with metal. They thought simultaneously of the thirteen men outside.

‘I should like you to take something of mine, Lance, and to leave me something of yours. Will you change rings?’

They changed them.

‘God be with my ring,’ she said, ‘as I am with it.’

Lancelot turned away and went to the door. They were calling out: ‘Come out of the Queen’s chamber!’ ‘Traitor to the King!’ ‘Open the door!’ They were making as much noise as possible, to aid the scandal. He stood facing the tumult, with legs apart, and answered them in the language of honour.

‘Leave your noise, Sir Mordred, and take my counsel. Go ye all from this chamber door, and make not such crying and such manner of slander as ye do. An ye will depart, and make no more noise, I shall tomorn appear before the King: and then it will be seen which of you all, outher else you all, will accuse me of treason. There I shall answer you as a knight should, that hither I came for no manner of malengin; and I will prove that there, and make it good upon you with my hands.’

‘Fie on thee, traitor,’ cried the voice of Mordred. ‘We will have thee maugre thy head, and slay thee if we list.’

Another voice shouted: ‘Let thee wit we have the choice of King Arthur, to save thee or to slay thee.’

Lancelot dropped the visor over his shadowed face and pushed the door-bar sideways with his point. The stout wood, crashing open, showed a lintel crammed with iron men and tossing torches.

‘Ah sirs,’ he said with a grimness, ‘is there none other grace with you? Then keep yourselves.’