pallet in a strange room, and he leaped up and went to a narrow
arrow-slit in the wall and looked out. Before him for a great distance
was a black watery land, with the sun sinking far away on the very
edge, and the pools of the marsh were as if they were of blood.
Then he beat at the door and called, but none responded, and for wrath
he could have dashed the door down, but it was too stout, and he had no
weapon; for his arms had been taken from him.
When it was dark, suddenly it seemed to Sir Lancelot that the room
smelled foul, as if he had been carried into the midst of the quaking
marsh, and was sunk deep in the slime and weeds of a pool. Then,
through the arrow-slit, he saw many strange lights come, dim and blue
like the wild lights that dance and flit over the lonely marshes by
night; but that which made him marvel was that these lights were two
together, as if they were the eyes of evil things. And they came up to
him with a breath that was cold and dank, and they seemed to peer into
his face, but he could see naught of their bodies. The hair upon his
head rose, and his skin went cold. They pressed all about him, and to
defend himself he struck at the eyes, but his blows beat only the air.
Then suddenly Sir Lancelot felt sharp pains, as if small keen knives
had been thrust into his flesh at many places. The stabs increased in
number and in pain, and Sir Lancelot beat about himself and ran to and
fro in the narrow chamber to escape the evil eyes and the stabs, but it
was in vain, and thus all night in much misery he suffered. When for
sheer weariness he lay down and tried to close his eyes, the evil
things would not let him, but ever they tore at him and stabbed him. He
was in anguish of mind more than he could bear, and for all his thought
he could not think of any way to fight against the evil powers which
followed and tortured him wherever he ran.
But at dawn they fled, and then the door of the room opened, and a
damsel appeared, and in her hands was a manchet of sour bread, and a
beaker of water from the ditch of the moat. The damsel was evilly clad
in rags, and seemed like a scullion-maid.
'These,' she said, 'my mistresses bid me say shall be your food until
you die.'
'Damsel,' said Lancelot, 'tell me who hath brought me here and used me
so evilly.'
'It is Queen Morgan le Fay,' said the damsel, 'and the three witch
queens, the Queen of Northgales, the Queen of the Out-Isles, and the
Lady of the Marshes.'
'I doubt not, then, that they would slay me?' said Lancelot. 'But why
hate they me?'
'It is for this,' went on the damsel, 'that you did slay Sir Caradoc,
the brother of the Lady of the Marshes.'
'Alas, then,' said Sir Lancelot, 'there is no pity for me, and none of
my dear friends shall learn of my shameful death.'
'And so that you should suffer much ere you are slain,' went on the
damsel, 'they sent in the night the Coranians, the marsh fiends, to
torture you. Thus will they do until you die, unless, sir knight, you
are a knight with a stout heart, and a good fighter, and will do me
justice. If you will be ruled by me, and will give me a promise, I will
aid you.'
'Damsel, that will I grant you,' said Lancelot, 'for this would be an
evil death for a knight. And full of terror hath been this night, from
the foul things which have beset me.'
'I may not stay further now,' said the maid, 'lest they think I tarry
over-long. But by evening I will come again.'
The day passed and twilight came, and Sir Lancelot was adread for fear
of the night. But anon the damsel came secretly to him and said:
'Now must you promise me this, that you will release my father, whom
Sir Turquine, Sir Caradoc's brother, hath kept in his foul dungeons
since I was but a little child. And all his lands did Sir Turquine rob
from him, and me he gave as a kitchen slut to Morgan le Fay, and evilly
have I been treated who am a good knight's daughter. Now, will ye
promise to free my father?'
'That will I, my poor damsel,' said Lancelot, 'and I will, God aiding
me, slay this Sir Turquine as I slew Sir Caradoc his brother.'
So at the dead of night the damsel opened his door, and with the keys
that she had stolen, she opened twelve other locks that stood between
them and the postern door. Then she brought him to his armour, which
she had hidden in a bush, and she led forth his horse, and he mounted
with much joy, and took the maid with him, and she showed him the way
to a convent of white nuns, and there they had good cheer.
Then, on the morrow, she led him to a thick forest with many hills
therein, and anon they came to a fair ford, and over the ford there
grew a tree, and on it there hung many good shields, each with the
device of some knight thereon, and Sir Lancelot was astounded to see
the shields of many of King Arthur's knights hung there. And on a bole
of the tree there was a bason of copper.
'Now,' said the damsel, 'I have brought you here where is Sir Turquine,
the mightiest knight that ever was found, as men say, and was never
overmatched by any. And in his dungeons are many poor knights, and my
dear father, Sir Darrel. Now strike the bason with the butt of your
spear.'
Sir Lancelot beat such strokes that the bason burst asunder, and then
he was aware of a great knight riding on a black horse. 'This is he,'
said the damsel, 'and now God aid you!'
'What needst thou, sir knight?' cried the other.
'To try my strength on thee,' cried Lancelot, 'for thou hast done great
despite and shame unto many good knights of the Round Table.'
'Art thou of that caitiff crew of ladies' knights?' sneered Sir
Turquine. 'Then I defy thee.'
'Thou hast said enough,' replied Lancelot.
They put their spears in their rests, and came like the wind against
each other, and either smote other in the middle of their shields, so
that both their horses' girths broke. Then, lightly avoiding their
beasts, they came at each other with great fierceness, and so fared for
two hours, feinting and striking, and so heavy were their blows that
each bled from many wounds as they stood. At last, for sheer
breathlessness, each leaned upon his sword.
'Now, fellow,' said Sir Turquine haughtily, 'answer me these questions
I shall put to thee.'
'Say on,' said Sir Lancelot.
'Thou art,' went on Sir Turquine, 'the biggest man that ever I met
with, and like one knight that I hate above all others, and I would
liefer be thy friend than thy foe. Now, therefore, I will give up to
thee my captive knights if thou wilt tell me thy name, and if thou art
not the knight I hate most.'
'Willingly,' said Sir Lancelot. 'But what knight hatest thou above all
other? And why?'
'It is Sir Lancelot du Lake,' cried the knight, 'for he slew my brother
Sir Caradoc of the Dolorous Tower in the Marsh, who was one of the best
knights living. And ever I have sought this Lancelot, and slain and
maimed many good knights and imprisoned others in the quest. To slay
that fellow I have made a vow, and him I would meet above all others.'
'Ha!' laughed Sir Lancelot, 'and I am the first thou hast met whose
love thou wouldst liefer have than my hatred? Well, I will have thee to
wit that I am he ye seek, Sir Lancelot du Lake, and thy brother was an
evil knight and an oppressor.'
'What sayest thou?' cried Sir Turquine. 'Thou art he I seek? Then,
Lancelot, thou art unto me most welcome as ever was any knight, for we
shall never part till the one of us be dead.'
Then they ran at each other like two wild boars, lashing and dashing
with their swords and shields, so that sometimes in their fury they
slipped together on the grass, which was wetted with blood, and fell
striking at each other. But at last Sir Turquine waxed faint and tried
to avoid Sir Lancelot's blows, and his shield sank low, for his arm was
very weary. Seeing this, Sir Lancelot leaped upon him fiercely, and got
him by the banner of his helmet, and thrust him on his knees, and slew
him at a stroke.
When he had rested a while, he went to the castle of Sir Turquine and
released all his prisoners, and was rejoiced to see the damsel find her
father alive. He caused the old knight to have his lands again, and
bade the others that they should betake themselves to the court of King
Arthur to be cheered and comforted, while their possessions, which Sir
Turquine had robbed of them, should be given back to them.
Then fared Sir Lancelot further afield, glad exceedingly that he had
escaped the foul plots of the four witch queens, and also that he had
vanquished the evil Sir Turquine.
Then he rode a great while in a deep and dark forest, and as he
followed the winding ways, suddenly he saw a black hound before him,
with its nose to the ground as if seeking a scent. He followed the
beast, and ever she looked behind her. Soon she left the forest, and
picked her way through a great marsh, and Sir Lancelot followed, until
in the wide distance he saw a little hill with trees upon it, and in
the midst a ruined manor.
The hound went towards the ruin and Sir Lancelot followed. The wall was
broken down in many places, and the path all overgrown and weedy, and
as he came to the courtyard before the house, he saw the fishponds
choked with weeds and the horseblock green with moss, and in the great
doorway grew charnel and hellebore, and the spiked hemlock waved and
spilt its seed in the wind. The windows hung by their hinges, and the
green moss crept down the wide wet cracks in the walls.
But the dog ran over the drawbridge into the house, and Sir Lancelot
gat from his horse and tethered it to the post beside the horseblock,
and so went across the bridge, which was full sodden and worm-eaten,
and bent beneath his weight.
Coming into a great hall, foul with many rotting leaves, he saw a table
in the midst thereof, and on it was a knight that was a seemly man, and
he lay as if he were dead, and the black hound licked his wound. And by
his side there was a lovely lady, who started up, weeping and wringing
her hands, and she said:
'O knight, too much evil have you brought to me!'
'Why say ye so?' said Sir Lancelot; 'I never did harm to this knight,
for hither did this hound lead me, and therefore, fair lady, be not
displeased with me, for grief is upon me for your sorrow and your
sadness.'
'Truly, sir,' said the lady, and she laid her face in her hands and
sobbed full sorely, so that Sir Lancelot was much stirred thereat, 'I
trow, as ye say it, that you are not the knight that hath near slain my
love and my husband. And never may he be healed of his deadly wound
except some good knight aid me. But he must be so bold and valiant a
man, that never, I think, may I find such a one in the little time I
have before my dear lord shall die!'
'Now on the honour of my knighthood,' replied Sir Lancelot, 'I do not
presume that I am such a one as you desire; but if I may aid you and
ease your sorrow, that would I do most willingly. What is it I should
do?'
'Oh, sir knight!' cried the lady, and her lovely eyes looked full
thankfully at Sir Lancelot, 'if ye would, it were the greatest deed you
have ever done, however bold a knight ye may be. For this my lord is
sore wounded by a knight whom he met in the forest this day, and by one
thing only may he be made whole. For there is a lady, a sorceress, that
dwelleth in a castle here beside, and she hath told me that my
husband's wounds may never be whole till I may find a knight that would
go at midnight into the Chapel Perilous beside the Mere, and that
therein he should find before the high altar a sword, and the shroud in
which the dead wizard-knight is lapped, and with that sword my
husband's wounds should be searched, and a piece of the shroud should
bind them.'
'This is a marvellous thing,' said Sir Lancelot, 'and I will essay it.
But what is your husband's name?'
'Sir,' she said, 'his name is Sir Meliot de Logres.'
'That me repenteth,' said Sir Lancelot, 'for he is a fellow of the
Round Table, and for him will I do all in my power.'
Going to the table, he looked upon the ashen face of the wounded man,
and it was Sir Meliot, even as the lady said.
'Now, sir,' said the lady, when Sir Lancelot had mounted his horse, 'do
ye follow that hard way across the marsh, and it will lead ye by
midnight to the Chapel Perilous, and may ye speed well.'
Right so, Sir Lancelot departed, and the sun was near its setting.
For some hours Sir Lancelot fared across the marsh, until it was deep
night, save for the stars; then he came upon a broad road, grass-grown
and banked high, where the night wind piped in the long grass. This he
knew was a road which the great Roman necromancers had wrought, and he
thought he had missed his way, for there was no other path.
As he stood marvelling, the figure of a man, tall and gaunt and but
half clad, came down the broad road towards him, and cried in a hollow
voice:
'For the love of charity, sir knight, give to a poor man who is
outcast.'
Sir Lancelot pitied the sunken eyes of the poor man, and gave him alms.
'God give thee comfort, poor soul,' said the knight, 'and get thee a
roof, for the night wind blows chill.'
'God bless thee, sir knight,' said the man, in awful tones, 'for
courtesy and pity such as thine are rare. Whither goest thou this
night?'
'I seek the Chapel Perilous,' said Sir Lancelot.
At which the shape threw back its head and cried out as if with great
sorrow.
'God fend thee, sir knight,' he said, 'and bring thee safe alive. What
thou gettest there, keep thou in thy hands until the dawn, or thy soul
shall suffer death.'
Then he vanished, and Sir Lancelot knew it had been a phantom.
Then as he crossed himself, he looked up, and through some thin and
withered trees a little way off upon a slope he saw the shimmer of
light, as if a chapel was lit up. He went towards it, and he saw a high
wall that was broken down in many places, and an old grey chapel
beyond, and the windows were shimmering with a ghostly light. As he
came through the trees he saw they were all dead, with neither leaf nor
twig upon them, their roots were crooked out of the ground as if they
would throw his horse, and their limbs were stretched as if they
strained to clutch him.
Coming to the gate in the wall, his horse trembled and plunged, and
would go no further; whereat Sir Lancelot alighted, and tied it to a
thorn-tree, and went through the gate. By the ghostly light that came
from the windows of the ruined chapel he saw that under the eaves were
hung fair shields, with rich devices, and all were turned upside down.
Many of them were those of knights he had known or heard of, long since
dead or lost. When he had made a few steps on the grass-grown pathway
towards the door, of a sudden he saw, coming from the church, thirty
tall knights, each a foot higher than he, each in black armour, and
each with sword uplifted, as they rushed towards him.
Their feet and their armour made no sound as they pressed forwards, and
a thin blue flame licked about each naked sword.
They came upon him, but Sir Lancelot, with a prayer to God, dressed his
shield and sword and stood firm, though his flesh quaked and his tongue
clave to the roof of his mouth. They mowed and gnashed at him, and
heaved their swords about him; then suddenly their vizors went up and
he looked into their faces. And at that he was sore adread, for he knew
they were dead men.
But he would not be overcome, and said in a loud voice:
'In the name of God, avaunt ye!'
He made a step forward, and they scattered before him, but followed
closely behind. Then he went into the chapel, where he saw no light but
a dim lamp burning upon the altar. It was an old, old chapel, with dust
upon its floor like a thick carpet, the walls and windows were holed
and broken, and the timber of the seats was rotten.
He went up to the high altar, and saw before it a trestle, and upon it
was a dead man, all covered with a cloth of silk. Sir Lancelot stooped
down, and with his sword cut a piece of that cloth away.
With that his blood seemed turned to water, and his feet seemed eager
to run towards the door, for with a mighty roar the earth shook beneath
him, and the walls of the chapel rocked. But he looked for the sword
which he must take, and saw it under the trestle, and picked it up and
went out of the chapel.
The ghosts of the knights pressed about him as he walked, and strove to
tear the sword from his grasp. But he would not suffer them to take it,
and when he reached the gate they could no further go, and so left him.
At the gate there came running up to him a fair damsel, crying to him:
'O brave knight, give me the sword and the cloth, that I may take them
at once to my mistress, the lady of Sir Meliot, for he is at the point
of death, and she is waiting in sorrow and tears beside him.'
But Sir Lancelot remembered the words of the phantom beggar, and made
reply:
'Fair damsel, I shall take them myself to the lady of Sir Meliot, for
these things I may not give to any until the dawning.'
The damsel would have torn the sword and the cloth full hastily from
his hands, but he was aware of her intent, and hindered her, and bade
her in the name of God to withdraw.
Whereat, with a great shriek, she vanished.
'Now,' said Sir Lancelot, 'may God, who has brought me through these
evil adventures, shield me from any further subtle crafts of these foul
things.'
Straightway he mounted his horse, and took his way towards the marsh,
so that he should give the sword and the cloth into the hands of the
lady of Sir Meliot, for the healing of her lord.
But at the dawn Merlin met him.
'Sir Lancelot,' said the old white wizard, 'ye have no need to go to
the ruined manor, except ye would have the proof of what I tell you.'
'And what is that?' asked Sir Lancelot.
'That all that hath befallen thee hath been done by evil magic,'
replied Merlin. 'The black dog that led thee to the manor was a fiend,
the fair lady that entreated ye was an evil witch, and she and the
damsel at the chapel were the same, and all was caused by the witch
queens who had you in their tower; and the likeness of the wounded
knight to Sir Meliot was formed by wizardry. They that craved your
death did hope that ye would fail at the terrors of the Chapel
Perilous, and that your soul would be lost as have the souls of those
evil or weak knights whose ghosts assailed ye. But by your courage and
great heart ye won through all.'
'This is a great marvel,' said Sir Lancelot, 'and I thank God that He
hath shielded me of His mercy.'
When Sir Lancelot was returned to Camelot, and Merlin had told King
Arthur of the knight's adventures, the king made him one of the knights
of the Round Table.
'Ye do well,' said Merlin privily unto the king, 'for he shall prove
the most man of worship that is in the world, and all your court and
all your Round Table shall be by him made more famous than by any
knight now living. Yet shall he not be one of those three that shall
achieve the Holy Graal.'
IV
THE KNIGHT OF THE KITCHEN
It was the feast of Pentecost, and King Arthur was holding his court of
the Round Table at the city of Kin-Kenadon, hard by the sea in Wales.
In the high hall the tables were set for dinner, and the floor was
freshly strewn with rushes, flowers and fennel, so that the place
smelled as sweet as a field. The cook and his scullions came to and fro
through the door of the kitchen with anxious faces, for they feared
lest the meats should be overdone, but as yet King Arthur would not sit
to dinner. For it was his custom never to go to meat on that day until
he had heard or seen some great marvel or adventure.
Sir Gawaine stood looking from a window in the bower where the king sat
with the queen, and suddenly he turned with a laugh, and said:
'Sir, go to your meat, for here, I think, cometh a strange adventure.'
And even as the king took his seat on the high dais in the hall, and
his knights sat at the Round Table, through the great door of the hall
came two men, well beseen and richly dressed, and, leaning on their
shoulders, was a tall, fair, young man, as goodly to strength and
breadth as ever was seen, with hands large and fair. But he was either
lazy or ill-conditioned, for he leaned upon his fellows as if he were
unable to stand upright. And the three of them marched through the
hall, speaking no word, and they came to the foot of the dais, while
men sat silent and marvelling. Then the young man raised himself
upright, and it was seen that he was a foot and a half taller than
those beside him.
'God bless you, O king!' said the young man, 'and all your fair
fellowship, and in especial the fellowship of the Round Table. I come
to crave of your kindness three gifts, and they are such as ye may
worshipfully and honourably grant unto me. And the first I will ask
now, and the others will I ask at the same day twelvemonths,
wheresoever ye hold your feast of Pentecost.'
'Ask,' said the king, 'and ye shall be granted your petition.'
'The first is this,' said he, 'that ye give me meat and drink and
lodging here for a year.'
'Willingly,' said the king, 'but what is your name and whence come you?
Ye have the bearing of good lineage.'
'That is as may be,' was the reply, 'but I may tell you naught, if it
please you, lord.'
Then King Arthur called Sir Kay, his steward, and bade him tend the
young man for a year as if he were a lord's son.
'There is no need that he should have such care,' sneered Sir Kay, who
was a man of a sour mind. 'I dare swear that he is but a villein born.
If he were of good blood he would have craved a horse and harness. And
since he hath no name I will dub him Beaumains, or Fair Hands, for see
how soft are his hands! And he shall live in the kitchen, and become as
fat as any pig!'
But Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawaine reproached Sir Kay for his mocking of
the young man, 'for,' said Sir Lancelot, 'I dare lay my head he hath
the making of a man of great worship.'
'That cannot be,' said Sir Kay; 'he has asked as his nature prompted
him. He will make naught but fat, for he desires only meat and drink.
On my life I would swear he is only some lazy fellow from an abbey,
where food hath failed, and so he has come hither for sustenance.'
So Kay sat down to his meat laughing, and Beaumains went to the door of
the hall, where the varlets and boys ate the leavings from the table;
but he fared badly there, for they jeered at him as Sir Kay had done.
Afterwards Sir Lancelot, of his great gentleness and courtesy, bade him
come to his chamber, to be better fed and clothed; and Sir Gawaine,
because of a liking he felt in his heart for the young man, proffered
him good meat and drink and a soft bed. But then, and at all other
times, Beaumains refused, and would do nothing but what Sir Kay
commanded.
Thus he lived in the kitchen, eating broken scraps, and lying at night
where the scullions lay, except that he was given the chilliest spot
furthest from the fire. But he did what he was bidden to do with a
cheerful air and was ever willing to work. And if there was any
jousting of knights or any other sights of prowess, these would he see
with the greatest delight. In any sports or trials of strength or skill
among the serving-men, he was ever foremost, and none could overcome
him in wrestling or at quarterstaff, nor could any throw the bar or
cast the stone so far as he could, no, not by two yards.
Whenever Sir Kay met him about the hall or the kitchen he would laugh
mockingly, and to those about him he would say, 'Well, how like you my
huge boy of the kitchen?'
But to such sneers, and to all the scorns and insults of the varlets of
the kitchen, Beaumains would answer naught, and was ever quiet and mild
whatever he endured. And to all was he ever gentle, both man and child,
and he never put forth his great strength in anger.
Thus a year passed, until again it was the feast of Pentecost, and at
that time the king held it at his chief city in Wales, Caerleon-upon-Usk.
And again the feast was royally prepared in the great hall of the
court, but the king would not give the signal to sit to meat until he
should have heard or seen some strange adventure.
But about noon a squire came to where the king waited, and said, 'Lord,
I am bidden to say ye may go to your meat, for there cometh a damsel
with some strange adventure.'
Quickly the king sat on the high seat, and the cooks brought in the
smoking collops of meat and the dishes of savoury stews. And as they
began to eat, there came a maiden of a plain sharp visage, who made her
way to the step of the dais, and there kneeling, cried:
'Succour and help I crave of you, O king!'
'For whom?' said the king, 'and for what reason?'
'Sir,' said the maiden, 'my lady sister is of great beauty and renown,
and is besieged in her castle by a tyrant-knight, who will not let her
go forth from her castle; and because it is said that here in your
court are the noblest knights in all the world, I come to you praying
for aid.'