Lancelot nor any of our high blood; nevertheless, this Sir Tristram is
a passing good fighter, and if by ill hap he strike me down, then he
shall slay me and so end my shame.'
'God speed you well,' said Sir Bleobaris, 'but he may not be so great a
warrior as fame saith. For fame grows false as she goes further.'
When the knights were ready, the herald of the court of Arthur stood
with his trumpet and recited the cause of the quarrel and the names of
the knights about to do battle. Then, lifting his tabard, he bade both
knights make ready; and when his tabard fell to the ground, the knights
lowered their lances in the rests, set spurs to their horses, and
thundered down the lists. With a clang and a crash they met midway, and
then men marvelled as they saw how suddenly Sir Blamor's horse reared
in mid-career, turned right round, and upsetting its rider over its
back, fell to the ground. Sir Blamor, however, was unhurt, and quickly
rising to his feet he drew out his sword, crying to Sir Tristram, as
that knight turned his horse and came towards him:
'Alight thee, Sir Tristram, for though this mare's son of mine hath
failed me, I trust my good sword shall not fail me.'
With that Sir Tristram alighted and dressed him to battle, and there
they lashed at each other with mighty strokes on both sides, cutting
and hacking, feinting and guarding, so that as time went on and still
they fought fiercely, the kings and knights marvelled that they were so
great-winded and strong.
Soon men saw that Sir Blamor was headstrong, and mad with rage, while
Sir Tristram beat not so many false blows, but each was sure, though
slower. Yet Sir Blamor would not rest, but like a wild man would ever
dash against his enemy. Where they fought the trampled sand was stained
with red from their wounds.
Suddenly men saw Sir Blamor make a heavy stroke which Sir Tristram
avoided, and ere the other could recover, Sir Tristram's sword
descended on his helm with so great a stroke that Sir Blamor fell upon
his side. Sir Tristram leaped upon him and placed the point of his
sword between the bars of Sir Blamor's vizor, bidding him yield.
When Sir Blamor got his breath he panted forth:
'Nay, nay, Sir Tristram, I will not say the word, but I require thee,
Sir Tristram de Lyones, as thou art a noble knight and the mightiest
that ever I found, that thou wilt slay me out of hand, for now I would
not live to be made lord of these lands of Britain. Liefer I would die
than live a life of shame, and therefore slay me! slay me!'
Sir Tristram started back, remembering of what noble blood was this
brave knight. Knowing that he must either make Sir Blamor say the loth
words 'I yield,' or else slay him, he went to where the judges sat, and
kneeled before them and told them what Sir Blamor had said.
'Fair lords,' Sir Tristram ended, 'it were shame and pity that this
noble knight should be slain, for ye well hear that he will not say the
words of shame, and if King Anguish, whose true knight and champion I
am, will suffer me, I will neither shame nor slay so stout-hearted a
knight.'
'By Heaven,' said King Anguish, 'I will be ruled for your sake, Sir
Tristram, as ye are the most knight of prowess that ever I saw in my
long life. Therefore I pray these kings and judges that they take the
matter into their own hands.'
The judges called Sir Bleobaris to them and required his counsel.
'My lords,' he said, 'though that my brother be beaten of body by this
valiant knight, he hath not beaten his heart, and so I thank God he
hath not been shamed in this fight. And rather than he be shamed,' said
Sir Bleobaris, white and stern, 'I require that you command Sir
Tristram to slay him out of hand!'
'That shall not be,' said the judges, 'for neither King Anguish nor Sir
Tristram desire to shame your valiant brother.'
'We do not,' said both the king and Sir Tristram.
Therewith, by the advice of the judges, Sir Tristram and Sir Bleobaris
took up Sir Blamor; and the two brothers made peace with King Anguish
and kissed each other and swore friendship with him for ever. Then Sir
Blamor and Sir Tristram kissed, and the two brothers, their hands
clasping those of Sir Tristram, swore that there should for ever be
peace and love between them; and this did Sir Tristram swear also.
Inasmuch as, of his nobleness and generosity, Sir Tristram would not
take Sir Blamor's life because he refused to yield him, Sir Lancelot
and all his kinsmen loved Sir Tristram, and were ever his friends and
spoke well and knightly of him.
Then King Anguish and Sir Tristram took their leave and sailed into
Ireland with great joy; and when they had arrived there, the king let
make a great cry throughout his dominions, of the manner in which Sir
Tristram had fought for him, and how for that deed he accounted him the
noblest knight among his friends, and that all should treat him with
friendship and no deceit.
When, also, the queen and the kin of Sir Marhaus heard how Sir Tristram
had borne himself in the trial by combat, they agreed that now they
should not seek to slay him, since his great help in this matter had
wiped out his ill-doing in the slaying of Sir Marhaus.
So the queen and the knights of the court and the common people made
much of Sir Tristram wheresoever he went; but the joy that La Belle
Isoude had in her heart no tongue may tell. When Sir Tristram was led
to her and they met after so long an absence from each other, men saw
the lovely face light up with so sweet and high a look that they
marvelled at her beauty. Yet they saw how straitly Sir Tristram held
himself, and made not much of his meeting with her and did not seek her
company.
Then on a day King Anguish asked Sir Tristram what was the boon he
craved.
'But whatever it be,' said the king, 'it is yours without fail.'
Sir Tristram's face went hard and white, and after a little while he
said:
'It is this, my lord. I bear a request from my uncle, King Mark, and it
is that you give him your daughter La Belle Isoude for his wife, and ye
let me take her unto him, for so I have promised him.'
'Alas,' said the king, and looked full heavily into the eyes of Sir
Tristram, 'I had liefer than all the land that I have that ye should
wed her yourself.'
Sir Tristram turned away, and made this reply:
'I have given my promise, and I were ashamed for ever in the world if I
did aught else. I require you to hold to your promise, and to let your
daughter depart with me to be wedded to my uncle, King Mark.'
'As I have promised, so will I do,' said the king. 'But I let you know
'tis with a heavy heart.'
Nor would the king say more, knowing that he might make bad worse. But
the surprise and grief of La Belle Isoude, when she knew that Sir
Tristram was to take her to be wife not unto himself but to a stranger,
what tongue may tell and what words may say? Nightly, on the days when
she was being prepared to depart, she wept full sorely in the arms of
her mother or of Bragwine her faithful gentlewoman; but in hall or
abroad she was ever calm and cold, though pale.
The queen, her mother, feared much of this marriage, and so sent a
swift message to a great witch who dwelled in a dark wet valley in the
midst of the Purple Hills, and for much gold a potent philtre was
prepared. Then, on the day when, with much weeping and many sad
farewells, La Belle Isoude with her gentlewomen and many noble ladies
and knights were to go into the ship, the queen called Bragwine aside,
and giving her a little golden flasket, said to her:
'Take this with thee, Bragwine, for I misdoubt this marriage overmuch,
and I charge thee do this. On the day that King Mark shall wed my
daughter, do thou mix this drink in their wine in equal parts, and then
I undertake that each shall love the other alone all the days of their
lives.'
Anon Sir Tristram and La Belle Isoude took ship and got to sea. During
the voyage Sir Tristram kept himself much with the other knights and
rarely sat with Isoude; for in his heart was much grief, and he hated
the fair wind that drove the ship more quickly to the time when he must
give up La Belle Isoude to his uncle. He knew now that he loved none
other woman in the world but her, and never would so long as he should
live.
Bragwine the maid, seeing the pensive looks of her mistress, and
knowing the wretchedness of her heart, determined to give her mistress
what she most desired. By the aid of Governale, the squire of Sir
Tristram, they poured the philtre into the wine of Isoude and Sir
Tristram as they were about to sit at dinner.
They thought that the philtre being so potent, it would cause Sir
Tristram to do as King Anguish wished that he would do, and take La
Belle Isoude into his own home at Lyones and wed her himself.
Sir Tristram and La Belle Isoude sat at dinner and drank the wine. In a
little while Sir Tristram looked at the wine that was in his silver cup
and smelled at it.
'Sure this is the best wine that ever I drank,' said he, and smiled at
her.
'It is truly a most sweet and noble drink,' said Isoude, and her heart
was glad to see him smile, who hitherto had kept his face so stern.
Sir Tristram called his squire.
'Governale,' said he, 'what wine is this thou hast given us this day?
Let us have another flask of the same.'
Governale was ever ill at a deception, and began to stammer.
'My lord,' he said, 'I fear me there is none other.'
'Ah,' said his master, 'and where got you that?'
'The gentlewoman of my Lady Isoude,' said he, 'brought it and bade me
mix it in your lordship's wine.'
'What?' cried Sir Tristram, rising angrily. 'What means this? What
trickery is this?'
'Oh, my lord, forgive me,' cried Governale. 'But we saw the sorrow of
both your hearts, and we gave you the philtre that was meant for my
lady and King Mark, and--and--my lord, you will break my lady's heart
and your own if ye suffer this.' But Sir Tristram would hear no
further, and fiercely sent his squire from his presence.
'Ah, my lord,' said La Belle Isoude, 'have those two poor souls done
more evil than we are doing by hiding our hearts from each other? I
would have you know that no ease shall you have all the days of your
life, for I know that you love me, and as to that, there is no living
man in all this world that I love as I love you. If ye think it
unmaidenly in me to say that--then my own wretched heart forgives me.'
The gentle sorrow in her voice caused Sir Tristram's heart to swell
with rage because he had promised to take her to wed King Mark.
'Lady,' he said, and his face was full pitiful and pale, 'Heaven knows
that ye say right, and that nevermore shall I have ease after this. But
no more should I have ease, but rather more shame and remorse, if I
should do what my heart bids me do. I gave my promise to mine uncle,
madman that I was, and I must perform it, and suffer. But I could slay
myself to think that you will suffer also.'
She saw the rage and sorrow in his eyes, and her heart was full of
pity.
'Do thyself no harm, O noble knight and friend,' said Isoude, 'for thou
art right, and I wrong. But I would have you promise to be my knight
and champion in things both ill and good, while you shall have life.'
'Lady,' he replied, 'I will be all the days of my life your knight, in
weal and in woe, to come to your aid and battle for your dear name,
when you shall send for me.'
Sir Tristram gave her a ring, and she gave him another, and quickly
they parted, lest they should repent them of their duty.
That evening they got to shore, and landed at the foot of Tintagel, and
Sir Tristram led up La Belle Isoude and gave her into the hands of King
Mark, whose looks, for all that he tried to appear satisfied, were sour
as he dwelt on the noble figure of Sir Tristram. Men noticed how pale
and stern the young knight seemed, and that he said few words.
In a little while, after the wedding of his uncle to La Belle Isoude,
Sir Tristram said farewell to all the court, 'for,' said he, 'he would
go fight the pagans who were ravening in the north,' and so departed,
with Governale his squire.
Afterwards, seeing the pale queen seated in hall beside King Mark, and
remembering the heaviness of Sir Tristram, some guessed how full of woe
was their parting, but for love and sorrow of Sir Tristram they said
naught of what they thought.
VI
THE DEEDS OF SIR GERAINT
King Arthur was spending Whitsuntide at Caerleon-upon-Usk, and one day
he hunted the stag in the forests that lay thereby. As he had given
permission for his queen to go and see the hunting, she set out with
one handmaiden, and rode in the misty dawning down to the river, and
across the ford.
They climbed up the other bank, following the track of the men and
horses which had formed the king's hunting party, until they stood on
the edge of the dark forest, where the young leaves were fresh and
sweetly green. The sun burst forth, and sucked up the mists along the
meadow flats beside the river below them, and the water flashed and the
birds sang.
'Here will we stay,' said the queen, who felt happy with the sunlight
upon her, and the smell of the forest blowing out from the trees, 'and
though we shall not see the killing, we shall hear the horns when they
sound, and we shall hear the dogs when they are let loose and begin to
cry so eagerly.'
Suddenly they heard a rushing sound and the thud of hoofs behind them,
and, turning, they saw a young man upon a hunter foal of mighty size.
The rider was a fair-haired handsome youth, of princely mien, yet
withal kindly of look and smile. A riding-robe and surcoat of satin
were upon him, low-cut shoes of soft leather were on his feet, and in
his girdle was a golden-hilted sword. A fillet of gold bound his curly
hair, and a collar of gold, with a blue enamel swastika pendant, hung
about his neck.
He checked his horse as he neared the queen, and it came towards her
with step stately, swift and proud, and the rider bowed full low to
Gwenevere.
'Heaven prosper thee, Sir Geraint,' she said. 'And its welcome be unto
thee.'
'Heaven accord you long life and happiness, O queen,' replied Geraint.
'Why didst thou not go with my lord to hunt?' asked the queen.
'Because I knew not when he went,' said Geraint. 'But men told me in
hall that you had gone out alone, and I came to crave permission to
accompany and guard you.'
'Gramercy,' said the queen. 'Thy protection is very agreeable to me.'
As they stood talking, they heard the clatter of steel armour, and
looking between the trees, they beheld a proud knight upon a war-horse
of great size, wearing a heavy chain-mail jesseraunt, with coif and
vizored helm, and his horse was also clothed in harness of chain mail.
Following him was a lady upon a beautiful white horse, which went with
stately and proud steps along the forest way. The lady was clothed in a
great robe of gold brocade, and her headcloth, of fine cambric, was
turned so that her face was hidden. Behind them rode a little dark man,
hairy and fierce of face, dressed as a page; and he sat on a great
horse, strong and spirited, yet the dwarf held it well in hand. Hung to
his saddle-bow was the knight's shield, but the device was hidden by a
cloth, and two lances were fixed to the girdle of the dwarf. In his
right fist the page carried a whip, long and heavy and knotted.
'Sir Geraint,' said Gwenevere, 'knowest thou the name of that tall
knight?'
'I know him not, lady,' said Geraint, 'and his helm conceals his face,
and his shield is also hidden. But I will go and ask the page, that you
may learn his name.'
And Sir Geraint rode up to the dwarfish page.
'Who is yonder knight?' said Sir Geraint.
'I will not tell thee,' replied the dwarf, and scowled.
'Then I will ask him himself,' said Sir Geraint.
'That thou wilt not, by my head,' said the dwarf angrily, 'for thou art
not of honour enough to speak to my lord.'
Geraint turned his horse's head to go towards the knight, whereupon the
dwarf spurred forward and overtook him and lashed towards him with the
long and knotted whip. The lash struck the mouth of Sir Geraint, and
blood flowed, and dropped upon the silken scarf that he wore.
Instantly Sir Geraint turned, with sword half drawn, and the dwarf
cowed and pulled back. But Sir Geraint thought it would be no vengeance
to carve the dwarf's head from his shoulders, and to be attacked
unarmed by the mail-clad knight.
He thrust his sword back with a clang into its scabbard, and rode
towards the queen.
'Thou hast acted wisely and nobly, Sir Geraint,' said the queen, 'and I
sorrow for the insult the craven knave hath placed upon thee.'
'Lady, I fear he was but copying his master,' said Geraint, whose eyes
flashed with anger. 'But if your ladyship will permit me, I will follow
this knight, and at last he will come to some town where I may get arms
either as a loan or from a friend, and then will I avenge the insult
which this stranger knight hath given to you, my queen and lady.'
'Go,' said Gwenevere, 'but I beg of thee, do not encounter with the
knight until thou hast good arms, for he is a man almost as big as Sir
Lancelot du Lake. And I shall be anxious concerning thee until thou
dost return, or send tidings.'
'If I be alive,' said Sir Geraint, 'you shall hear tidings of me by
to-morrow at evensong.'
Thus he departed. All that day Sir Geraint followed the knight and the
lady and the page, keeping them in sight, though at a distance. Through
the forest they went first, and thereafter the road ran along a ridge
of high ground, with the great downs and combes falling and heaving
below their feet, the sun flashing back from lakes and streams, the
bees humming at the flowers in the grass, and the larks rising with
thrilling song in the warm sweet air of the spring.
Sir Geraint loved it all, but he kept his eyes ever on the knight, who
flashed as he moved far before him. At length he saw the towers of a
high castle, and beneath it the red roofs of a little town nestling at
the foot of the grey walls. They rode into the town, and as the haughty
knight passed through it the people in the booths and cabins and those
beside the way saluted him. He did not acknowledge any of their
greetings, but looked before him proudly, as he had done when he rode
through the solitary paths of the wilderness.
Sir Geraint looked about him as he rode behind, to see if there was any
armourer or knightly person whom he knew, but there was none. When he
saw the knight and the lady and the dwarf enter the castle, and was
sure that they would sojourn there, he rode about the little town, and
found it full of knights and squires, with armourers and others
cleaning arms, sharpening swords and repairing harness. But no one did
he know of whom to beg a suit of armour and a lance.
Then he took his way to a little stream beneath the wall of the town,
and on the other side he saw a manor-house, old and ruinous, standing
amidst tall weeds. And thinking he might get lodging there for that
night, he forded the river and went towards the manor. He saw that the
hall-door yawned open, and that a marble bridge led up to it, over a
wide ditch full of stagnant water and thick with green weeds and
rushes.
On the bridge sat an old and reverend man in clothes that once had been
rich, but now were thin and tattered. And Geraint thought it was not
possible that so poor a place could help him in what he desired. He
looked steadfastly at the old man.
'Young sir,' said the latter, 'why art thou so thoughtful?'
'I was thinking, fair sir,' said Geraint, 'whether thou couldst give me
lodging here for this night.'
'Of a surety,' said the old man, rising. 'It is poor we are, but such
as can be given shall be of our best.'
He led Sir Geraint into the hall, which was bleak and desolate, and the
hearthstone in the centre was thick with last year's leaves, as if it
had been long since fire had flickered upon it. On the wall there hung
rusty weapons and helms, and through the cracks there crept the ivy
from the outer wall. The horse was tethered in the hall by the old man.
Then he led Sir Geraint to a door upon the dais, and ushered him into
the bower, and there he saw an old decrepit woman, sweet of look though
thin and peaked. She rose from the cushion on which she sat, greeting
him kindly, and he saw that the satin garments upon her were also old
and tattered. Yet Sir Geraint thought she must have been a lovely woman
in her happy youth.
Beside her was a maiden, upon whom was a vest and robe poor and thin,
and the veil of her headcloth was old though clean. Yet truly, thought
Geraint, he had never seen a lovelier maiden, nor one with more
sweetness and grace in her smile or gentleness in her voice. And the
heart of him stirred with pity to see her so pale and wan, as if she
fared but poorly.
'Welcome, fair sir,' said the old dame. 'This is my daughter Enid, who
will gladly prepare food for you.'
When food had been prepared they sat down, and Geraint was placed
between the white-haired man and his wife, and the maiden served them.
Afterwards, as they drank weak mead from cups of earthenware, they
spoke together; and Geraint asked whose was the manor in which they
sat.
'Mine,' said the old man, 'for I built it. And the castle up there and
the town were also mine.'
'Alas!' said Geraint, 'how is it you and yours have lost them?'
'For my sins and my greed,' said the old man sadly, 'and bitterly have
I repented me of my wrong. I am Earl Inewl, but I have lost the lands
that made my earldom. For I have a nephew, whom his father, on his
deathbed, gave into my keeping, with all his lands. And I added his
possessions to my own, and when the boy was a man he demanded them of
me, and I would not give them up. So he made war upon me, and took
everything from me except this ruined hall and one poor farm.'
'Since you are sorry for the greed that hath ruined you,' replied
Geraint, 'I will do what I may to regain your possessions, if God gives
me life. But first I would ask, why went that knight and the lady and
the dwarf just now into the town, and why is there so much furbishing
of arms there?'
'The preparations are for the jousting that is to be held to-morrow's
morn in the level meadow beside the ford,' responded the old earl. 'And
the prize is to be a falcon of pure gold. The knight thou sawest has
won the falcon two years running, and if he wins it this time he will
have it for his own, and will win the title of the Knight of the Golden
Falcon. And to gain it from him all those knights in the town will
essay. And with each will go the lady that he loveth best, and if a man
takes not his lady with him he may not enter the lists.'
'Sir,' said Sir Geraint, 'I would willingly have to do with that
knight, for he hath, by the hands of his dwarf page, most evilly
insulted the queen of my dear lord, King Arthur; but I have no armour.'
'As for that,' said the old man, 'I have arms here that will fit thee;
but if thou hast no maiden with thee, thou canst not do battle.'
'If, sir,' replied Sir Geraint, 'you and this maiden, your daughter,
will permit me to challenge for her, I will engage, if I escape alive
from the tournament, to be the maiden's knight while I shall live.'
'What say you, daughter?' said the old earl.
'Indeed, sir,' replied the maiden, gently flushing, 'I am in your
hands. And if this fair knight will have it so, he may challenge for
me.'
This said Enid to hide her true thoughts; for indeed she felt that she
had never before seen as noble a youth as Geraint, or one for whom her
thoughts were so kind.
'Then so shall it be,' said Earl Inewl.
On the morrow, ere it was dawn, they arose and arrayed themselves; and
at break of day they were in the meadow. Before the seat of the young
earl, who was Inewl's nephew, there was set up a post, and on it was
the figure of a gyr-falcon, of pure gold, and marvellously wrought,
with wings outspread and talons astretch, as if it were about to strike
its prey.
Then the knight whom Geraint had followed entered the field with his
lady, and when he had made proclamation, he bade her go and fetch the
falcon from its place, 'for,' said he, 'thou art the fairest of women,
and, if any deny it, by force will I defend the fame of thy beauty and
thy gentleness and nobleness.'
'Touch not the falcon!' cried Geraint, 'for here is a maiden who is
fairer, and more noble, and more gentle, and who has a better claim to
it than any.'
The stranger knight looked keenly at Geraint, and in a haughty voice
cried:
'I know not who thou art; but if thou art worthy to bear arms against
me, come forward.'
Geraint mounted his horse, and when he rode to the end of the meadow
laughter rippled and rang from the people watching him. For he bore an
old and rusty suit of armour that was of an ancient pattern, and the
joints of which gaped here and there. And none knew who he was, for his
shield was bare.