Thus Britomart, with much toil and grief, still sought the Knight whom
she had seen in the magic mirror, and in all her sad misfortunes she
found her fellow-wanderer, Amoret, a great comfort. But the gentle
Scudamour, whose heart the malicious Até had filled with jealous
discontent, was bent on revenge—on revenge against the blameless
Princess. The wicked tale told by Até pricked his jealous heart like a
thorn, and pierced his soul like a poisoned arrow. Nothing that Glaucé
could do or say would alter his feeling; the more she tried to excuse
Britomart, the worse it fretted and grieved him night and day, so that
nothing but dire revenge might abate his anger.
Thus as they travelled, night, gloomy with cloud and storm and bitter
showers, fell upon them before its usual hour. This forced them to seek
some shelter where they might hide their heads in quiet rest. Not far
away, unfitting for any guest, they spied a little cottage, like some
poor man’s dwelling. It was placed under a steep hillside, where the
mouldering earth had hollowed out the bank. A small brook of muddy
water, bad-smelling as a puddle, passed close to it, bordered by a few
crooked willows.
When Sir Scudamour and Glaucé came nearer, they heard the sound of many
iron hammers ceaselessly beating in turn, so that it seemed as though
some blacksmith dwelt in that desert place. Entering, they found the
good man himself bent busily at work. He was a wretched, worn creature,
with hollow eyes and wasted cheeks, as if he had been long pent in
prison. His face was black and grisly-looking, smeared with smoke that
nearly blinded his eyes. He had a ragged beard and shaggy hair, which he
never cut nor kept in order. His garment was rough and all torn to rags;
he had no better, nor cared for any better. His hands were blistered and
burnt from the cinders, all unwashed, with long nails fit to rend the
food on which he lived.
This creature was called _Care_. He was a blacksmith by trade, who never
ceased working, day or night, but made iron wedges of small use. (These
are unquiet thoughts, that invade anxious minds.)
He kept six servants hard at work, always standing round the anvil with
great huge hammers, who never rested from battering stroke on stroke.
All six were strong men, but each was stronger than the one before, so
they went up, as it were, in steps. So likewise the hammers which they
bore succeeded, like bells, in due order of greatness. The last servant
far exceeded the first in size; he was like some monstrous giant. So
dreadfully did he beat the anvil that it seemed as if he would soon
drive it to dust. So huge was his hammer, and so great his energy, that
it seemed as though he could break and rend asunder a rock of diamond if
he cared to try.
Sir Scudamour greatly wondered at the manner of their work and weary
labour, and having beheld it for a long time, at last inquired the cause
and end of it. But all his questions were in vain, for they would not
stop from their work for anything, nor listen to what he said. Even the
gusty bellows blew fiercely, like the north wind, so that no one could
hear. “_Sadness_” moved them, and the bellows were “_Sighs_.”
The warrior, seeing this, said no more, but lay down to rest in his
armour. To rest he lay down on the floor—in olden days the best bed for
adventurous knights—and thought to have refreshed his weary limbs. And
the aged nurse, Glaucé, his faithful squire, also laid her feeble joints
down, for her age and weakness much needed rest after so long and tiring
a journey.
There lay Sir Scudamour, long expecting the moment when gentle sleep
would close his weary eyes, turning often from side to side, and often
choosing a new place where it seemed he might repose better. And often
in wrath he again rose from there, and often in wrath lay down again.
But wherever he disposed himself, he could by no means obtain the
desired ease; every place seemed painful, and each alteration useless.
And evermore when he thought to sleep, the sound of the hammers jarred
his nerves, and evermore when he began to get drowsy, the noise of the
bellows disturbed his quiet rest. All night the dogs barked and howled
around the house, scenting the stranger-guest; and now the crowing cock,
and now the owl shrieking loudly, fretted his very soul.
[Illustration:
“=Whereto approaching nigh they heard the sound
Of many yron hammers beating ranke.=”
]
If by fortune a little drowsiness chanced to fall on his heavy eyelids,
immediately one of the villains rapped him on the head with his iron
mallet, so that he awoke at once and started up quickly, as one afraid,
or as if one had suddenly called him. Thus he was often roused, and then
he lay musing on the unhappy cause that had led him to the House of
Care.
At last his weary spirit, too tired to resist further, gave place to
rest; yet even now he was troubled with bad dreams. Then the wicked
creature, the master-smith, took a pair of red-hot iron tongs and nipped
him in the side, so that his heart quite quaked at the pain. Thereupon
he started up to be avenged on the person who had broken his quiet
slumber, but looking round about him he could see no one, yet the smart
remained, though the giver of it fled.
In such disquiet and heart-fretting pain, Sir Scudamour passed all that
long night, and now the day began to peep over the earth, sprinkling the
morning grass with pearly dew. Then up he rose, like a heavy lump of
lead, and one could plainly read in his face, as in a looking-glass,
signs of the anguish he had gone through.
He mounted his war-horse and set forth again on his former journey, and
with him also went Glaucé, the aged squire, ready to share whatever pain
and peril might be in store.
How the “Savage Knight” met the “Knight with the Ebony Spear”
The day after Sir Scudamour left the House of Care, as he rode sadly on
his way, he unexpectedly saw an armed Knight sitting in the shade on the
edge of a forest, while his steed grazed beside him. Directly this
Knight saw Scudamour, he mounted and rode eagerly towards him, as if he
intended mischief; but, as soon as he saw the arms borne by him, he
lowered his spear and turned aside. Sir Scudamour wondered at this, but
the other said, “Ah, gentle Scudamour, I submit myself to your grace,
and ask pardon of you for having this day almost done you an injury.”
Whereupon Scudamour replied, “Small harm is it for any warrior to prove
his spear, without malice, on a venturous knight. But, sir, since you
know my name, pray tell me what is your own?”
“Truly, you must excuse me from making known my right name now, for the
time has not yet come for it,” was the reply; “but call me the _Savage
Knight_, as others do.”
“Then tell me, Sir Savage Knight,” said Scudamour, “do you dwell here,
within the forest, which would answer well with your array?—Or have you
put it on for some special occasion, as seems more likely, as you shun
known arms?”
“The other day a stranger Knight brought shame and dishonour on me,”
replied the Savage Knight. “I am waiting to revenge the disgrace
whenever he shall pass this way, by day or night.”
“Shame be his reward who purposes shame!” said Scudamour. “But what is
he by whom you were shamed?”
“A stranger Knight, unknown by name, but known by fame and by an ebony
spear, with which he bore down all who met him. He, in an open tourney
lately held, stole away from me the honour of the game, and having
felled me (already weary), reft me of the fairest lady, whom he has ever
since withheld.”
When Scudamour heard mention of the spear, he knew right well it was
Britomart, who also, as he imagined, had taken Amoret from himself. Then
his jealous heart swelled with rage, and he said sharply, “And that is
not the first unknightly act which that same knight has done to other
noble warriors, for he has lately stolen my lady from me, for which he
shall pay dearly before long; and if to the vengeance decreed by you
this hand can supply any help or succour, it shall not fail whensoever
you need it.”
So they both agreed to wreak their wrath on Britomart.
While they thus talked together, lo! far away they saw a Knight gently
riding towards them. He was attired in foreign armour and strange array,
and when he came near they saw plainly he was the same for whom they
waited.
Then said Scudamour, “Sir Savage Knight, let me beg this, that since I
was the first to be wronged, let me be the first to requite it, and if I
happen to fail, you shall recover my right.”
This being yielded, Sir Scudamour prepared his spear for battle, and ran
fiercely against Britomart. But she gave him so rude a welcome that she
smote both man and horse to the ground, from which they were in no hurry
to rise. The sight of his mischance added fresh fuel to Artegall’s
burning rage, and thrusting forward his steel-headed lance at a venture,
he rode against Britomart; but his evil intention recoiled on himself,
for unawares he suddenly left his saddle, and in great amazement found
himself on the ground.
Starting up lightly, he snatched forth his deadly blade, and assailed
Britomart with such vigour that, although she was mounted and he on
foot, she was forced to give ground. As they darted here and there, it
chanced in her wheeling round that one stroke fell on her horse and
wounded him so badly that Britomart was forced to alight.
Now she could no longer use her enchanted spear. Casting it from her,
she betook herself to her sword and shield, and fought so valiantly that
even now she was almost a match for Sir Artegall; but towards the end,
while his strength seemed to get greater, hers grew less. At last, he
raised his hand, and gathering all his force, struck such a terrible
blow that it seemed as if nothing but death could be her fate.
The stroke fell on her helmet, and with its force sheared off the visor,
and from there glanced harmlessly downwards, and did her no more injury.
With that, her angel face, unseen before, shone forth radiant as the
dawn; and round about it her yellow hair, loosed from its usual bands,
appeared like a golden border, cunningly framed in a goldsmith’s forge.
Yet goldsmith’s cunning never knew how to fashion such subtle wire, so
clear and shining; for it glistened like the golden sand which the
bright water of Pactolus throws forth on the shore around him.
As Sir Artegall again lifted up his hand, thinking to work his utmost
vengeance on her, his powerless arm, benumbed with secret fear, shrunk
back from his revengeful purpose, and his cruel sword fell from his
slack fingers to the ground; as if the steel had sense and felt some
compassion that his hand lacked, or as if both of them thought to do
obedience to such divine beauty. And Artegall himself, gazing long
thereon, at last fell humbly down upon his knee; and imagining he saw
some angelic being—for he did not know what else it could be—he besought
her to pardon his error, which had done her such infinite wrong, while
trembling horror seized him, and made every limb quake and his brave
heart quail.
Britomart, nevertheless, full of wrath for that last stroke, kept her
angry hand uplifted all the while; she stood over him, with a stern
look, threatening to strike, unless he prevented her, and bidding him
rise, or he should surely die. But die or live, nothing would make Sir
Artegall stand up. He prayed more earnestly that the warrior-maiden
would either pardon him or do with him as she chose, because of the
great wrong he had done her.
When Scudamour saw this, where he stood not far away, he was wondrously
dismayed, and, drawing near and seeing plainly this peerless image of
perfection, he too was terrified, and did homage to Britomart as to some
celestial vision.
[Illustration: An armored knight kneeling before another armored figure
holding a sword and shield, with a horse and rider visible in the
distance.]
But Glaucé, seeing all that happened, knew well how to put right their
error. Glad at such a good ending, and rejoiced to see Britomart safe
after her long toil, she advanced, and saluted her with a hearty
greeting. Then she besought her, as she was dear to her, to grant truce
for awhile to these warriors, which being yielded, they lifted their
beavers and showed themselves to her such as indeed they were.