HOW SIR ARTEGALL WAS DELIVERED
While Sir Artegall lay thus in evil plight under the tyranny of Queen
Radigund, the Lady Britomart was in no small distress of mind. For now
the latest date that had been fixed for his return was long past, and
yet no tidings of him had come. Sometimes she thought that some mishap
had befallen him in his adventure, and sometimes that his false foe had
entrapped him, and sometimes—and this was the most grievous fear of
all—that he had bestowed his love upon another. She knew no ill of him,
nor ever had heard any; yet could she not forbear to think ill. Now she
blamed herself, and now she condemned him as being faithless and untrue.
Then again she would think to herself: “Surely I have miscounted the
time,” and she reckoned the days and weeks and months again; and,
indeed, the days were as weeks and the weeks were as months. Also she
considered within herself what she should do; should she send someone to
search for him, and yet who could go on such an errand but herself? She
could not rest in her dwelling, no place could please her; yet that
which displeased her least was a certain window which looked towards the
west, for it was from the west that Sir Artegall was due to come. It
chanced then that as she sat at this same window on a certain day she
saw someone approaching at full speed. No sooner did she see him, though
she could not discern his face, than she said to herself, “This is
someone from my love.” And truly, when he came nearer, she perceived
that it was Sir Artegall’s groom Talus. The sight filled her heart both
with hopes and with fears; nor could she stay in her place, but ran
forth to meet him, crying, “Where is your lord? Is he far from here? Has
he lost or has he won?”
Talus, albeit he was made of iron, and was without feeling of pain and
sorrow, yet was conscious within himself that his news was ill, and
stood silent as if he would rather that she should discern his tidings
than that he should declare them. Then she said: “Take courage, Talus;
tell me what you have to tell, be it good or be it bad.”
Then he answered: “If I must tell my evil tidings, so be it. My lord
lies in wretched bondage.”
“How came that to pass?” said Britomart; “did the tyrant, his enemy,
vanquish him?”
“Not so,” quoth Talus, “no tyrant man did vanquish him, but a tyrant
woman.” Great was the rage of Britomart when she heard these words.
“And you are not ashamed, evil newsmonger, to come here with such
tidings of your lord’s disgrace?” And she turned her back upon him,
seeking her own chamber; and there with much self-torturing she spent
many weary hours.
The next day she sought out Talus again, and being now in a milder mood,
she said: “Tell me now plainly how came Sir Artegall into this
captivity. Does he woo this tyrant lady?”
“Ah! madam!” answered Talus, “he is in no state to woo; he lies in
thraldom, weak and wan; and yet, for the truth must be told, it was by
his own doing that he came into this state.”
Then Britomart’s anger was kindled again. “Are you not leagued together
to deceive me? You say that he came into this bondage of his own accord;
is he not then false?”
Then Talus unfolded the whole story of how Sir Artegall fought, and how
he was vanquished, not by the strength of his adversary, but by his own
compassion. When Britomart heard this same story, she was, so to speak,
torn asunder by anger and grief, nor would anything content her but that
she must straightway put on her armour, mount her horse, and ride forth
to deliver Sir Artegall, Talus being her guide. After they had ridden
for a space they came upon a knight who was riding slowly across the
plain, a man well stricken in years, and of a very modest and peaceable
bearing. He saluted Britomart right courteously, and she, though in her
sad mood she would sooner have remained without speech, answered him
pleasantly. Then he began to talk of many things, and she, though wholly
occupied in her mind with one matter, to wit, the deliverance of Sir
Artegall from his prison, made such replies as were suitable. After some
converse he said: “Friend, night is about to fall, and there are tokens
of rain in the heavens; will you not lodge with me at my house?” And
Britomart, seeing that the day was far spent, consented.
They rode therefore to the knight’s dwelling, which was, indeed, hard
by. There he most hospitably entertained them, both with good cheer and
pleasant conversation. When the hour of rest came, Britomart was
conducted to the bower where she should sleep. There she found grooms
who offered to undress her, but she would not doff her arms for all her
host’s entreaties. “Nay,” she said, “I have vowed a vow that I will not
take off these arms till I have taken vengeance for a great wrong that
has been done to me.”
When she made this answer, it might have been perceived that her host
was somewhat troubled. Nevertheless he took his leave right courteously,
and departed. Britomart watched all the night; if sleep seemed about to
settle for a moment on her eyes, she shook it off with a right resolute
will. And Talus watched also; outside her door did he lie in no small
trouble of mind, as a dog that keeps guard over his master’s chamber. So
night passed, but about the dawn, when the cock commonly crows for the
first time, Britomart perceived that the bed in her chamber began to
sink through the floor, and that after awhile it was raised again. And
while she waited to see what this might mean, though indeed it was clear
that it meant treachery of some sort, there came two knights to her
chamber door, with a rabble rout of followers after them. But these came
on a vain errand. Talus, having his iron flail ready to his hand, laid
about him with a right goodwill. They fled before him, both knights and
the rabble also. Some he struck to the ground as they fled, and others
as they strove to hide themselves in dark corners of the house.
Now the true story of the matter is this. This knight, who seemed so
gentle and courteous, was one Dolon, a man of great cunning and of an
evil mind. He had been a knight in his youth, yet had achieved no
honour; only by his craft he had undone many men who were better than
himself. Three sons he had, of the same temper as himself, full of fraud
and guile. One of these, the eldest in birth, Guizor by name, had been
slain by Sir Artegall in battle, not without his deserving, for he had
sought to compass some treachery. And now this Dolon would have taken
vengeance for this injury. Britomart he took for Sir Artegall, chiefly
by reason of the page Talus, with the iron flail, whom he had seen in
his company. The next day, so soon as it was light, Britomart departed.
And when the two knights would have stayed her going, and this on the
bridge where Artegall had fought Pollenté, she vanquished them. And one
she caught up in her arms, and carrying him to the bridge end, cast him
into the water, where he perished miserably.
After journeying awhile, Britomart, with Talus her guide, came to the
city of Queen Radigund. The queen, when she was advised of her coming,
was greatly rejoiced, for she had not had the great joy of battle for
many days, and it always pleased her greatly to have experience of a new
adversary. She commanded that a pavilion should be set up outside the
city gate for the new-comer. There Britomart rested that night, Talus
keeping watch, as was his wont, at the door. The townsfolk also kept
watch upon the walls. At sunrise the queen caused a trumpet to be blown
to warn the stranger that the hour of battle was come. Such warning
Britomart needed not, for she had slept but ill, so troubled was she in
heart with jealousy and anger. Then the two made ready for the combat.
But first the queen would have her adversary bind herself to perpetual
service if the fortune of the day should go against her.
But Britomart cried: “I will have no such conditions, no terms will I
accept but such as are prescribed by the laws of chivalry!” Then the
trumpets sounded again, and the two ran at each other with great fury.
It seemed to them who looked on that both the one and the other had
forgotten all their skill in arms, so possessed were they with rage.
They sought not to ward off blows, but only to strike. And, indeed, none
could have said who struck the harder.
At last Radigund, thinking that she had her adversary at a disadvantage,
dealt her a blow with all her might, saying at the same time: “You love
this man; here then is a token of your love, which you may show him; for
what could be a surer proof than to die for him?”
But Britomart answered: “Have done with idle words about my love,” and
though she was sorely wounded by the stroke, for the blade, breaking
through the shoulder-plate of her armour, bit to the bone, she gave in
return even more than she had received. The sharpness of the pain gave a
new force to her arm, and she struck the queen so fierce a blow on the
head that it broke through her helmet and laid her senseless on the
ground. Nor did Britomart wait for her adversary to recover herself;
but, urged by injured love and pride, and the fresh smarting of her
wound, with one blow cleft both helmet and head. When her guards
perceived this dreadful sight, they fled headlong to the city, but did
not so escape, for Talus, taking up his flail, entered at the gate along
with the rout of fugitives, and dealt death in every direction. Small
need had they, I ween, of a physician on whom one of his strokes had
lighted. Verily he had destroyed them all, but that the heart of
Britomart was moved to see such great slaughter.
“Hold your hand,” she cried; “it is enough!” Then she commanded that
someone should lead her to the prison where Sir Artegall was kept in
bonds. Much was she moved to see these knights in their womanish attire,
plying distaff and spindle. But when she espied Sir Artegall himself,
and saw how pale and wan and wasted he was, her heart was well-nigh
broken in her breast. Bitterly did she repent of her unkind suspicions:
this was no lover of women whom she saw before her in so sad a plight!
Then she bade take him to a chamber where he might put off these
uncomely garments, and put on the apparel that belonged to a knight, and
take again his arms and armour, of which there was a great store in the
place. Not a little rejoiced was she when she saw how he became again
like to the knight whom she had seen long since in the magic mirror.
For a while they tarried in the city, for he needed to rest, and she had
wounds which it was well to heal. And she, being now queen of the land
in the place of the dead Radigund, wholly changed the form of the
commonwealth. She did away with this same monstrous rule of women, and
ordered all things according to the ordering of nature, and showed such
justice and wisdom that the people gladly made submission to her
government. The knights whom she found in the prison-house she set free,
and made them rulers in the city, having first caused them to take an
oath to be loyal to Sir Artegall. There was but one thing that troubled
her: to wit, that her lover must now proceed on the errand to which he
was bound.
This he did in not many days’ time, Talus travelling with him as before.
After a while they saw a damsel on a palfrey, flying as fast as she
could, and two knights pursuing her also at their utmost speed; they saw
also how another knight was riding after these two. Each was intent on
his own business, the two knights on chasing the damsel, the single
knight on chasing the two, the damsel seeking if, by any means, she
could escape. But when she saw Sir Artegall, being at her wits’ end, she
turned her course towards him, hoping that he might give her help. The
foremost of her pursuers—pagan knights both of them—continued his
course, and with his spear in rest charged Sir Artegall. But there he
had met more than his match; the Christian was both stronger and more
skilful in arms, and drove him out of the saddle full two spears’
length, and it so chanced that in falling he lighted on his head, and so
was killed outright.
Meanwhile his companion had fared as ill, for the single knight
overtaking him, had compelled him to stand and do battle, in which
battle he was defeated and slain. This done, he still followed, and
taking Sir Artegall for the other pagan, charged him at full tilt. They
met with a great crash, and both their spears were broken, and though
neither was driven from his saddle, yet they tottered as two towers
which an earthquake makes to rock. But when they drew their swords to
renew the combat, the damsel, seeing that her two friends were like to
come to as ill an end as had her two foes, ran up, crying out: “Oh,
sirs, stay your hands till I shall tell you how the matter stands. ’Tis
I that have been wronged, and you have brought me help, slaying these
two pagans who were pursuing me. These lie dead upon the ground; what
quarrel have you against each other? If there be still any wrongdoer or
cause of trouble, truly it is I.”
When the two heard these words, they held their hands, and, lifting up
the visors of their helmets, looked each in the other’s face. And when
Sir Artegall saw the last comer, who was no other than Prince Arthur, he
was sure that he was a very noble knight, and said: “Pardon me, fair
sir, that I have erred in lifting my hand against you. I will make what
amends you will.”
“Talk not of amends,” answered the prince; “I was in equal error, taking
you for this dead pagan.” So they swore friendship, and made a covenant
of mutual help.
Then said Sir Artegall, “Tell me, sir, who were these knights that have
come by this bad end?”
“That I know not,” answered the prince, “but know that this damsel was
in distress, and that I sought to succour her. But doubtless she herself
will unfold the whole matter to us.”
Then the damsel told her story. “Know, sirs,” she said, “that I serve a
maiden queen of these parts, Mercilla by name, a lady known far and
wide, and envied also, for her prosperity and her goodness. Enemies she
has, and chief among these is a pagan prince, who is bent on
overthrowing her kingdom, yea, verily, and on slaying her sacred self.
To this wickedness he is stirred up by his evil wife, Adikia[2] by name.
’Tis she who, trusting in her power, moves him to all kinds of wrong.
Now my liege lady, being desirous of peace, and willing for sake of it
to give up something of her just right, sent me to make a treaty with
this same Adikia, so that there might be quietness in the land. Now, as
you know, it has been a custom of all time that such messengers have
liberty to come and go without hindrance or harm. But this evil woman,
without any offence given on my part, broke forth in railing upon me,
and not only this, but thrust me from her door as if I were a dog. Yea,
and when I had departed, she sent these two knights after me to take me
prisoner. To you, therefore, for myself and for the queen, whose
messenger I am, I render you most hearty thanks.”
When they had heard the damsel’s story, the two knights, Sir Artegall
and Prince Arthur, counselled together what should be done in this
matter. Of which consultation the conclusion was that they should punish
those who were guilty of this wrongdoing, that is to say the sultan and
his wife and the knights who lent themselves to do their evil will.
Further, they concluded to carry out this purpose in the way now to be
described. Sir Artegall should disguise himself in the accoutrements of
one of the dead pagan knights, and should take with him the damsel to
the sultan’s court, making as though she was his prisoner.
Sir Artegall therefore having donned the armour of one of the two
knights, took the damsel with him, as being a prisoner, and so came to
the sultan’s court. And the sultan’s wife, who chanced to be looking
from the window, saw them, and did not doubt but that her errand had
been performed, and sent a page who would show the knight what he should
do. The page therefore brought them to the place appointed, but when he
would have eased Sir Artegall of his armour, the knight refused, for he
feared to be discovered.
Meanwhile Prince Arthur, coming to the gate of the city, sent to the
sultan this message: “I demand that there be delivered to me the Lady
Samient”—this was the damsel’s name—“being the ambassador of Queen
Mercilla, whom you wrongfully detain in custody.”
When the sultan heard this message, he was filled with anger, and
commanded that his armour should be brought. This he straightway put on,
and mounted his chariot. This same was armed in dreadful fashion with
iron hooks and scythes, and was drawn by savage horses, whom he was wont
to feed on the flesh of men. The poor wretches whom in his cruelty he
slew, he was wont to give when they were but half dead to these beasts.
In this guise he came forth from the city gates, where he found Prince
Arthur awaiting him, mounted on his steed, with Talus standing at his
stirrup.
The sultan drove straight at his adversary, thinking to overthrow him by
the rush of his chariot, and that his horses would trample him in the
dust. But the prince perceiving his design, withdrew himself a pace, and
so escaped the danger. Nor was he hurt by the dart which the sultan cast
at him as he passed; this also he avoided, and it was well that he did
so, else of a certainty it had pierced either him or his horse from side
to side. But when Prince Arthur sought to approach the sultan, the
horses carried the chariot out of his reach, so swift of foot were they.
On the other hand, the sultan, having a store of darts ready to his hand
in the chariot, cast them at the prince, and with one of them pierced
the prince’s cuirass, and made a grievous wound in his side. So did the
combat rage between these two, the prince being at this disadvantage
also, that his horse could not endure the look of the sultan’s horses,
so fierce and fiery of aspect were they. At the last, finding that all
other means were of no avail, he drew the covering from his shield—a
thing which he was not wont to do save in the last extremity—and held it
so that the light shining from it fell full on the eyes of the sultan’s
horses. As a flash of lightning did it fall upon them, and they
straightway turned and fled. Nor could the sultan stay their flight. The
reins were of no avail; they heeded them not; and when he called to
them, they would not hear. Over hill and dale they carried him, he
vainly dragging at the reins, and cursing aloud; while the chariot,
swaying from side to side, tossed him to and fro. Still the prince
followed close behind, but still found no opportunity to strike. Nor,
indeed, had he need, for coming to some rocky ground, the horses overset
the chariot, and the sultan was torn in pieces by his own contrivance of
scythes and hooks. Then the prince took up his shield and armour from
where they lay, sorely bent and broken, upon the ground. These he
carried back to the city, and hanged them on a tree before the palace
door. When the wicked wife saw what had happened, she ran down from her
chamber like to one mad, saying to herself, “I will be avenged on that
damsel who has brought upon me all this trouble.” And she ran, knife in
hand, to the place where she had been put. But Sir Artegall stayed her
hand. And she, being made yet more furious, ran forth into the woods,
and there abode, in the form—so some men said—of a tigress. Sir Artegall
meanwhile vanquished the sultan’s knights, and established a new order
in the city.