never slept, ate or drank. At the end of ten days her ghostly father
bade her leave such grief and change her thoughts.
'Nay,' she said, 'I may not, and I would not if I could. And I do no
sin to love the most peerless knight in all the world, the most gentle
and courteous of men, and the greatest in all nobility. Therefore, as I
know I may not live, do thou shrive me, good father, for I must needs
pass out of this world.'
Then she confessed her sins and was shriven. And anon she called her
father and her brother, Sir Tirre, and begged that they would do as she
desired as to her burial, and they promised.
In a little while she died, and a letter was put into her cold hand,
and she was placed in a fair bed, with all the richest clothes she had
about her. Then they carried her on the bed in a chariot, slowly, with
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
in its stall, he suddenly heard the clank of armour, and going forth
into the courtyard saw a knight all armed, with his shield on his
shoulder and his sword naked in his hand.
Without a word the stranger darted at him, and hardly did Sir Bors have
time to dress his shield; and then they lashed mightily at each other,
and thrust and hewed sorely. Thus for half the day they fought, and so
fiercely that soon Sir Bors had many wounds, so that blood oozed from
the joints of his armour. But the other knight seemed to be unharmed,
and never seemed to breathe heavily. Then Sir Bors became extremely
wroth, and beat so fiercely upon the other that he pressed him always
backward until the stranger was nigh to the door of a chamber which
opened into the courtyard; and suddenly he dashed backwards into the
chamber and shut the door.
Nor would he come forth, for all that Sir Bors called him coward and
recreant. Nor would he answer one word, nor had he said one word since
Sir Bors had seen him.
After some time Sir Bors resolved to go back and rest himself beside
his horse, for his great wounds burned him sorely; but as he turned,
suddenly, without a sound, the stranger knight dashed forth, and struck
a felon blow at the good knight's neck. But Sir Bors was aware of him
in time and defended himself full well.
So fiercely did Sir Bors lay on, that soon the other was beaten to his
knees, and then the good knight rushed at him to hurl him headlong and
to slay him. Suddenly the other knight seemed to fall together as if
dead; but the armour sounded hollow as it fell, and Sir Bors marvelled.
Swiftly he hacked the fastenings of the helm and tore it from the neck
armour. Then a great fear seized and shook him. The armour was empty!
He knew then that he had fought with a demon. He crossed himself and
prayed, and weak with deadly fear and his wounds, he went into the
stall and sat beside his horse, and marvelled how he could win with
life from the fell power that seemed to hold him prisoner.
Suddenly, from a dark cavernous hole in the dungeons, came a great
boar, with curving tusks keen as sword-blades, and rushed at Sir Bors
full fiercely. Hardily did the knight defend himself from the strength
and the fierce rushes of the great beast. The boar with its long tusks
tore the shield from the grasp of Sir Bors, and slashed his shield arm
sorely, and then Sir Bors was wroth, and with a very fierce blow he
smote off the boar's head. Immediately thereupon, with the pain of his
many wounds and the weakness of his famine, Sir Bors fainted, and lay
upon the frozen snow as one dead. For long he stayed thus ere he
revived, and then he rose and dragged himself into the stall where lay
his horse, half dead with hunger, before an empty manger.
All that night Sir Bors lay in a sad pass, for he thought that now he
would never see dawn again in life. He prayed and commended his soul to
God, and confessed his sins and prepared himself for death as behoved a
good knight; and thereafter he slept sweetly.
At the dawn he awoke, exceeding hungry, and looking forth into the
court he had it in his mind to carve meat from the dead boar. But he
was astounded beyond measure to find that it was not there. In its
place was a great trencher of steaming hot collops of meat, and toasted
bread, with hot milk in great plenty.
Sir Bors ran towards the food, and so ravenous was his hunger that he
would have devoured it instantly. But he bethought him before he had
placed any of it to his lips, and dropping it he crossed himself and
ran back into the stall and tried not to look forth. He knew that the
food was placed there by some fell fiend or demon to tempt him, and if
he ate of that unholy food, his soul would be for ever lost.
Anon sweet voices sounded in the courtyard as if to attract him forth,
and the smell of the hot food was wafted strongly into the stable. The
fiends themselves could not enter, for there was a horse-shoe hung in
the proper way upon the lintel of the door, and, moreover, Sir Bors had
stuck his sword-point in the ground, and the holy sign of the cross
prevented the evil things from crossing the threshold.
All that day did Sir Bors lie half dying, while the fiends tempted him,
but the knight was too strong and manful of soul to yield, and would
liefer die than become the slave of the powers of the Netherworld.
Then in the twilight he commended his soul to God, for he felt near to
death. When he had finished his prayer, he heard great and horrible
cries in the court as of rage and disappointment. Then came an old man
at the door of the stable, white of hair and very reverend; and he came
and put his hand upon Sir Bors' head and spoke mildly and said:
'Good and faithful knight, sorely tried have ye been, and now you shall
have no more adventures here. Full worshipfully have ye done and better
shall ye do hereafter. And now your wounds shall be healed and ye shall
have good cheer until to-morrow.'
Therewith there was all manner of sweetness and savour in the place,
and Sir Bors saw as in a mist a shining vessel borne by a wondrous
maiden. He knew that this was the Holy Graal; and he bowed his head,
and forthwith he was whole of his wounds.
On the morrow he departed after a night's sweet sleep, and rode to
Arthur's court and told of his adventures.
The king and queen and all the fellowship of the Round Table were
passing glad to see Sir Bors whole and well, and they made much of him,
for they felt that he would do things of great renown.
Then at the feast of Pentecost went all the court to the minster to
hear their service; and when they returned to the palace the king
ordered that dinner should be prepared in the hall of the Round Table,
for this was one of the days when he was wont to assemble all his
knights at a great feast of knighthood.
While they waited for the horn to sound, warning them that the meal was
ready, one came running to the king, saying that a thing of marvel had
happened. And Arthur went to the hall of the Round Table with his
knights, and there in the seats about the great circular board they
found letters of gold written, which said, 'Here should sit Sir
Bedevere,' or 'Here should sit Sir Gawaine,' and thus was the name of a
knight written in every seat.
In the Siege, or Seat, Perilous, where twice or thrice a reckless
knight had dared to sit, but only to be struck dead by a sudden
flashing blow of mystery, there were written the words, 'In the four
hundredth and fourth and fiftieth year after the passion of our Lord,
shall he that shall fill this seat come among ye.'
All the knights marvelled and looked each at the other.
'It seemeth me,' said Lancelot, 'that this is the very day on which
this seat shall be filled by him for whom it is appointed, for this is
the four hundred and fifty-fourth winter since Christ died on the
rood.'
It was seen that on each side of the Siege Perilous was written, on the
right one, the name of Sir Perceval, and on the left one, the name of
Sir Bors.
Then the horn was sounded to dinner, and each knight took the seat
appointed for him, and young knights served them. All the sieges round
the table were filled except the Siege Perilous.
Men ate and drank soberly, for they felt that an adventure strange and
marvellous should happen that day, and so indeed it befell.
For when they had eaten, and the priest was saying in a great silence
the grace after meat, suddenly a shrill wind sounded without, and all
the doors and windows shut fast. Men looked at each other in the
twilight thus caused, and many a face was white with fear.
Then the door opened and an old and reverend man entered, white of
beard and head, and clothed also in white; and Sir Bors knew him for
the same who had come to him at the Castle of Fiends. By the right hand
the ancient man brought a young knight, clad in red armour, with a
sword at his side, but with no shield.
'Peace be with you, fair lords,' said the old man. Then turning to the
king he said:
'Sir, I bring here a young knight, the which is of king's lineage,
whereby the marvels of this court shall be accomplished, and the trial
of this thy kingdom shall be brought to a happy end, if that may be.
And the name of him is Galahad.'
'Sir,' said the king, 'ye be right welcome and the young knight with
you.'
The old man made the young knight unarm him, and he was in a coat of
red sendal, and bare a mantle that was furred with ermine. Then was the
young man led by the reverend man to the Siege Perilous, and sat him
thereon, and men marvelled to see that the death-stroke did not flash
like lightning and slay him.
[Illustration: SIR GALAHAD IS BROUGHT TO THE COURT OF KING ARTHUR]
'Sir,' said the old man to him, 'wit ye well that that is your seat.
For you are he that shall surely achieve the Holy Graal, and such of
these your fellows as are pure in heart and humble shall achieve it
with you.'
'Sir,' said the king, 'if it may be that ye know, will ye tell us what
my knights must do to achieve the Holy Vessel, and thus bring peace
into my kingdom in place of war? For many of those that are kings and
barons under me are warring with each other, and threaten to rend this
island of Britain, and some are forsaking Christ and are turning to the
evil faith and cruel worship of the pagan gods of Britain. And it goeth
to my heart to know this, and I have much dread.'
'Sir king,' said the old white man, 'none may tell you what shall be
the end of this quest of the Holy Graal, but I can tell you and these
your knights what they must do to save this land from the ruin which
doth threaten it. Ye know that the Holy Vessel was that wherein Christ
ate the lamb on the Thursday before he was hung upon the Cross. And
Joseph of Arimathea did bring it here to Britain, and here hath it been
for more than four hundred and fifty winters. And while ye and your
kingdom did love Christ and did do His word, the Sangreal stayed within
your borders. But now ye war with each other, and are evil livers and
full of pride and mastery, and if ye do not repent and stay your
dishonour, then shall the Holy Vessel pass from Britain, and ruin and
death and civil war shall stalk through the land and leave it
desolate.'
Having spoken thus, the old man went from the hall, and none stayed
him; for too many there were who knew that they had been the evil
livers at whom his words had pointed.
Then uprose Sir Gawaine, who was a faithful knight and true man to his
king, though a proud one and a hasty. He was filled with sorrow for the
ruin that threatened his fair land.
'Now I do here avow,' he said, 'that to-morrow, without fail, I shall
set forth, and I shall labour with all the strength of my body and my
soul to go in quest of the Holy Graal, so that if I be fit to see it
and to bring it hither, this dear land may be saved from woe.'
So hot were his words that many of the better knights rose also, and
raising their right hands did make a like avowal; and those that cared
not for the quest felt that they must seem to do as the others did, and
so made avowal also, though in their hearts they thought more of pride
and earthly power.
'Gawaine, Gawaine,' cried the king, and the great tears stood in his
eyes, 'I know ye do right to avow this and to cause these others to
avow also; but a great dread is upon me, for I have great doubt that
this my fellowship shall never meet again.'
'Fear not,' said Lancelot, 'for bethink ye, my lord, in no better
adventure can we find death than in this quest, and of death we are all
sure.'
On the morrow the knights armed themselves, and bade farewell to King
Arthur and his queen, and there was much weeping and great sorrow. And
as the knights rode through the streets of Camelot the crowds stood and
wept, both rich and poor. All were full of dread to see so many brave
knights depart that never more would return.
Having passed through the gates of the town, every knight took the way
that he liked best.
Now Sir Galahad was without a shield, and he rode four days without
adventure. At evensong on the fourth day he came to an abbey of white
monks, and there was given great cheer. He found two other knights of
the Round Table at that abbey, the one King Bagdemagus and the other
Sir Ulfin; and the three had supper together, and made great cheer one
of the other, and spoke of the adventures each would desire to have.