Arthur Rex

by Thomas Berger

  And Kay was flung into another cell of the same dungeon where Guinevere was being held, and when Sir Meliagrant was awakened and told these news, he went to Sir Kay and taunted him vilely, but Kay though in his smallclothes and sopping wet did nobly disregard this abuse.

  Then Sir Meliagrant went to the cell of Guinevere and spake as follows. “Well, my lady, your champion hath been captured and humiliated and at this moment doth cringe and whimper in his durance. What say you now?”

  “That thou art a liar,” said Guinevere. “A knight of the Round Table doth cringe before God only.”

  And Meliagrant did writhe in hatred and gnash his teeth, and then he abused the royal Guinevere with loathsome epithets, such as Wench and Trull, and he threatened to go and heat his pincers, for to apply them red-hot to her proud paps. And lest it be thought that Meliagrant was but a vain braggart, be assured that bad as his bark was, his bite was worse, and if he had not yet put Guinevere to the torture, it was only that he could not decide which amongst his many instruments would produce the greatest pain for the longest time without rendering her insensible.

  For his specialty was in maltreating ladies and now he had as helpless captive the most beautiful and gracious lady who was ever born, and therefore her agony must exceed all that he had ever brought to any female.

  BOOK VIII

  How Sir Launcelot rescued Guinevere; and of their criminal friendship.

  NOW WE WILL GO awhile with Sir Launcelot, who reaching the bridge that was a sword said to himself, Well, if God will let me go across, I shall do it, and if no, then not, but I shall not submit my faithful horse to this test.

  Therefore he dismounted and taking off his hauberk and the mail that armored his horse, with these he covered the keen edge of the blade, which he then walked across like unto a monkey using all his four limbs, two of which were gauntleted in steel and the other two wore iron boots, and so he went over the stream.

  Now on the other side, having no steed, he began to walk, and before he had gained a league, he came upon a cart which waited at the side of the road. Until he came quite close to it he could see only the horse between the shafts and no person, and he believed it abandoned. But when he drew near, he at last saw that its driver was a dwarf, who had stopped and got down for to void his piss on the verge.

  “Ho, dwarf,” cried Sir Launcelot. But to be so disturbed at his pissing put the tiny man into a foul humor, he who like all dwarfs was naturally peevish, and in reply he said some surly word and returned to his painstaking urination, the which he directed with his left hand while with his right he did scratch his poll through his pointed cap, and his little figure was dressed all in motley. When he had done, and closed his breech with a varicolored codpiece, he leaped like a frog onto the cart, took up the reins, and would have driven away without further notice of Launcelot had not that knight detained his horse.

  “I do not punish dwarfs unless they are rude,” said Launcelot, “for there is no honor in it.”

  “Know you that I am attached to the court of King Bademagu,” said the dwarf, “being his Fool, and I am under no obligation to strangers.”

  “Dost not observe the laws of hospitality?” asked Launcelot. “O barbarous little man!”

  “What want you of me, then?” asked the dwarf.

  “A ride in thy cart, for as thou canst see I have me no horse,” said Sir Launcelot.

  Now the dwarf did smile to himself, for it was a great shame for a knight to ride in a cart, the which was used for hauling dung, the corses of churls who died from the plague and other maladies of the common folk (whereas knights did perish only in battles and ladies from love), and other such rubbish, and he granted Launcelot’s request willingly, for the purpose of degrading him.

  Therefore he drove at a slow pace along the road and into the town below the castle, so that the populace could see the knight in the cart and jeer at him, supposing he was a felon en route to the block, for these carts were often used as such tumbrels as well, and the rascal many did take pleasure in taunting those transported in such wise. And quite a crowd collected and followed this cart, expecting to watch Launcelot be decapitated and to see his severed head mounted upon a pike.

  But finally they arrived at the castle and the dwarf leapt down and went within and found Sir Meliagrant, for though he was indeed a Fool his first fealty was to the evil prince, and he did much wickedness in his service, of which King Bademagu knew nothing, being distracted by the dwarf’s drolleries and cavortings. And now the dwarf told Meliagrant that he had brought one of King Arthur’s knights in his cart.

  “Well,” said Sir Meliagrant, “what kind of knight would ride in this way? Dwarf, I am beginning to think these men of the Round Table are of no worship whatever. And that is a pity, for I must have virtue to shame and degrade, else what service can I render to evil?”

  Then Sir Meliagrant went without, where Sir Launcelot was yet waiting in the cart, and he greeted him in this wise: “Welcome, Sir Knight of the Cart.” And the people gathered there all bowed to Meliagrant and took off their caps, for he was their prince.

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Launcelot. “I come here in search of my queen.”

  “Well,” said Sir Meliagrant, pretending to great cheer, “you have come to the right place, for your queen is indeed our guest here. Now come down from that dreadful cart, my dear man, and why if you lost your horse did you not send to me for another?” And this false knight did proceed to help Launcelot to the ground and to embrace him, and Sir Launcelot saw no reason to suspect him of evil. But while he was in Meliagrant’s embrace, two men came with fetters and made them fast about him, and then he was led helplessly to a tower that stood by itself in a field and he was cast within, and it was a dark miserable place, with but one window, high above at the very top.

  Now Meliagrant lost no time in telling Guinevere that he had captured another of the knights sent by King Arthur to deliver her.

  “Thou hast taken these knights unfairly,” said Guinevere.

  “Indeed I have,” boasted Sir Meliagrant in his wicked pride. “That is just my pleasure, for it is injustice that prospers in the world. If God disapproves of what I do, why doth He not allow you to be delivered from my infamous captivity? And do not speak of my subsequent punishment in Hell, for I believe only in what I can see at the moment.”

  “But,” said Guinevere, “thou dost believe that the past has gone and that the future will come? And neither of them is at this moment. Therefore thou dost believe in two fundamental things that can not be seen.”

  Now Sir Meliagrant was confounded, not because of what the queen had said (which he did not think about), but that she had said it, for never had he previously met a metaphysical lady. But then he gathered himself and said, “Words, words, but the reality is that I have mastery over you. That is the truth and all of it.”

  “Nay,” said Guinevere, “it is rather but a fact and, like all such, merely transitory.”

  And Meliagrant went away to ponder on a puzzling matter, which was, that if he killed or mutilated Guinevere, she would not be in a suitable condition to become his mistress, for indeed he had quite fallen in love with her.

  And this was very chagrining to him, for he did not know how to go about winning her love in return. Which was to say, if he were kind and let her go, he would not have access to her. But if he kept her in captivity, she would hate him. Now thinking on this paradox he decided finally that there was nothing for it but that he become a man of virtue, so that she would stay with him willingly.

  Now this was difficult for him because he had never his life long done anything decent, and he did not know where to begin, for he had done so much wickedness that he could properly atone for it only by emasculating himself and going to take residence in a monastery, but then there would be no point in thinking about Guinevere.

  And while it was satisfying to bring pain, which was a thing of great variation and complexity, for each victim responded t
o it individually, there was a great sameness to the doing of kind deeds.

  But finally he gave off his pondering and went down to the village below the castle in search of something virtuous to do, and he found a beggar who had no legs and who was seated at the corner of a wall and held his bowl out to passers-by. Now ordinarily Sir Meliagrant would have kicked this man in the stumps and then taken his bowl and thrown it away, for to amuse himself. But now he gave this beggar a bag of gold sovereigns, and the man opened the bag and took out one coin and tried to eat it but he could not chew the gold.

  And this stupidity infuriated Sir Meliagrant, who drew his sword and was about to cut off the man’s hands when he remembered Guinevere’s beauty. Therefore he said, “This gold can not itself be eaten, but with it thou canst buy what thou needst.”

  The beggar thought on the matter awhile and then he dragged himself into the nearest shop, and again Meliagrant was sorely tempted to despatch him for his foolishness, but taking a strong hold on himself forbore. And soon the beggar reappeared, and he had bought himself a crossbow, into which he inserted a bolt, and then rising onto his stumps of legs, which ended not far below his belly, he took aim at Sir Meliagrant, saying, “Now I’ll just take the rest of your treasure.”

  Meliagrant was not wearing his armor, and he did not want to be pierced, so while he was not carrying any more gold, he gave to the beggar his sword and clothes and horse. And after he had taken these, the beggar shot him anyway.

  But the bolt did not kill Sir Meliagrant, going as it did through the fleshy part of his left arm, and with his right hand he plucked up a cobblestone from the road and with it he bashed out the beggar’s brains before the rogue could swing his own sword at him, and then Meliagrant took up the sword and going into the shop, he cut off the merchant’s head.

  Therefore nothing was accomplished by his first effort to become virtuous. Yet he was fascinated by Guinevere’s disdain for him, which he did not understand was his very reason for loving her, and he did not realize that she would never love him even if he became a man of virtue, that in fact he could be no more than totally inconsequential to her, however lovable or hateful he might be.

  Meanwhile Sir Launcelot sat passively in his imprisoning tower, for he was again in a condition in which his will was benumbed. And if the truth be known, it was not horrible for him to be in this isolated captivity, into which he had been cast by trickery, for Launcelot despised deviousness and when it was used against him his tendency was to think, So much the worse for the cowardly trickster, who hath thereby won no honor and much shame!

  Therefore the only person who was writhing in captivity was Sir Kay, who had been humiliated in the ladies’ dining hall and even more so when he had reached this vile little realm. And he burned with the need to avenge the wrongs done against him.

  Now it happened that Sir Meliagrant, still endeavoring to win the favor of Guinevere, decided to put Sir Kay at liberty. And he came to his cell and offered to do this, saying, “In return you shall commend me to your lady the queen.”

  Kay had never heard the like of this effrontery his life long, but he saw here a means of deliverance from his imprisonment, and therefore he agreed to do what Meliagrant asked.

  “On your word of honor as knight of the Round Table,” said Sir Meliagrant, and Sir Kay did so pledge. But so soon as Kay was let out of the cell he snatched Meliagrant’s sword and smote him with it.

  “O villainy!” cried Meliagrant, falling. But Kay wasted no sympathy on this evil knight, and he went to Guinevere’s cell and took her from it.

  Now of all knights Guinevere did least expect to see the seneschal as her deliverer, and she made him much praise, saying, “My dear Kay, thou art a knight of great prowess.”

  But Sir Kay was an honest man, and he confessed that it was rather guile which had freed him so that he could liberate her, and he said, “I have not yet proved myself in a passage at arms.”

  “Well,” said Guinevere, “I was much pleased to be set free, but methinks that the means by which thou hast accomplished this were not proper, violating as they did thy word of honor. Therefore I must remain here.” And she went within the cell again.

  And Sir Kay was exasperated, saying, “Lady, lady, this is the most wickedest felon who hath ever drawn breath! Can anything be evil which defeats evil?”

  “Thou art not evil,” said Guinevere, who was even more beautiful in this damp dark cell than when at Camelot, for she was here the only source of light, and her golden hair and white skin did illuminate the gloom as if the sun did shine therein. “But ’tis a matter of style: there is much grace to the keeping of one’s word, as breaking it doth seem inelegant.”

  And Sir Kay was abashed, for he abhorred the disorderly above all things. Therefore he said, “Forgive me, my lady. ’Twas well meant. Perhaps I should never leave the dining halls, for to be a good seneschal is as fine a thing as any, God wot. Yet I do know a yearning to achieve glory.”

  “And thou art no less a man for that,” said Guinevere. “Thou hast most bravely come to the rescue of thy queen.” And she honored him with her white hand, for him to kneel and kiss, and when he had done that he rose and he said, “I shall go to Sir Meliagrant, and unless he is dead, I shall try to cure him, and when he is well, I shall challenge him to fair combat.”

  So Kay left her in the dungeon and went to find Meliagrant, and he was a knight of greater worth for what his queen had told him.

  But though morally mean, Sir Meliagrant was one of the fiercest knights on earth, and though he might with every foul device avoid a fair fight, if he took the field he was more formidable than anybody then alive but Launcelot and Tristram, and with Sir Gawaine he would have fought to a draw. (For God allows the force of Evil to be all but as powerful as that of Good, so that Heaven will be worth fighting for.) And there was little hope that Sir Kay would long survive the encounter which he now sought.

  But Kay did not know that (and if he had he would have done the same), and he went to look for Meliagrant, but he could not find ought of him now but a few drops of blood on the stones of the floor. For evil made Meliagrant nearly invulnerable, and he had never been wounded at all until he endeavored to be kind to the beggar and then to Sir Kay, and he was not yet so virtuous that he could be hurt much. Thus he had got up soon after Kay had gone away, and the wound in his side quickly knitted and only itched like the bite of a bug.

  Now Meliagrant was sorely tempted to make no further attempts to be decent for the purpose of winning Guinevere’s esteem, for he believed he had proved that the entire world would resist his efforts to reform himself. And whereas he had been fearsome when vile, he was but a booby when he did other than ill.

  However, such was his yearning for the fair Guinevere that he decided to make the supreme effort, and therefore he went to the tower where Sir Launcelot was imprisoned and he spake to him as follows.

  “Sir knight, are you a man of honor?”

  “Sir,” said Launcelot, “that is not a question that a man may answer as to himself. Nor methinks would it be asked except by a mean fellow.”

  “Sir,” said Meliagrant, “I find you lot from Arthur’s court to be most exasperating. You are damnable smug about your own virtue, but you rebuff the poor devil who aspires to it.”

  “Surely,” said Sir Launcelot, “you are not speaking of yourself?”

  “I am indeed,” said Meliagrant. “I would fight you fairly, but I fear the kind of treachery recently worked on me by Sir Kay.”

  “Well, I know nothing of that,” Launcelot said. “But certes, it is the pot to the kettle, if true, for were you not as false as a knight could be when you embraced me only so that I could be put into fetters?”

  “But to be wicked is my métier!” indignantly cried Sir Meliagrant. “Whereas Sir Kay did break his vow.”

  And Launcelot saw that he had reason in his speech. “Very well, then,” said he. “Honor is most itself when granted to the dishonorable. I shall fight
you. But I shall not seal this pact with an embrace.”

  “Have no fear,” said Meliagrant. “I shall have a horse and armor and weapons brought without this tower and left here, after which my man shall withdraw. Then I shall meet you on the field, and we shall fight until one of us is overcome.”

  Then he went to Guinevere and told her of what he was doing.

  “Now,” said he, “when I win this fight you can no longer despise me, and therefore there remaineth no reason why we should not become lovers.”

  And Guinevere wondered at this statement. “Can it be?” she asked, and then, “Was this thine intent from the outset?”

  “My purpose was to humble you,” said Sir Meliagrant, “but I found I could not manage that.”

  And the queen asked, “Therefore thou hast fallen in love with me?”

  “I fear that I have,” said Meliagrant, “and thus far it is rather I who have been humiliated, and this love hath brought me nothing but two wounds.” And he told her of his encounters with the crippled beggar and Sir Kay.

  “Of the latter I have been apprised,” said Guinevere, “and Kay would make amends and fight thee.”

  “This honor,” said Meliagrant, “can be a taxing thing. Is it not remarkable enough that I fight fairly even once?”

  “Then who is thine opponent?” asked Guinevere.

  “A knight who is named Launcelot,” said Meliagrant.

  “My poor Sir Meliagrant,” said Guinevere, “then thou shalt fight but once.”

  Now Meliagrant without knowing it at this point did indeed become virtuous, for he was doomed, and that is finally the sole means by which evil knights ever became converted to the good, for otherwise there was too much precedent for them to overcome. For example, in his heart Sir Meliagrant would always despise a crippled beggar and a man he had captured by deceit, whilst at the same time being indignant if the former perversely armed himself, and if the latter himself employed trickery.