‘Then ill have I repaid Him,’ said Lancelot, ‘and this He has all too clearly shown me, in the thing that befell me last night.’
‘Tell me of last night,’ said the priest.
And Sir Lancelot told him of all that had passed.
When he had finished, the priest said, ‘Now it is clear to me that you bear the weight of some mortal sin upon your soul. But the Lord God holds out His arms to all sinners who repent and make amendment. Now therefore make your confession to God, through me, and I will give you all the help and counsel that I may.’
But Lancelot knelt there silent, with bowed head. He had made his confession as often as any other man. But he had never made it fully; for the love between himself and the Queen was not his alone to confess. Yet he knew in his heart that it was the thing that was shutting him out from God. He had never known that so clearly as he knew it now, and his heart was torn two ways. And still the priest begged him to confess his sin, promising that if he did so and renounced it utterly God would let him in again. And at last it was as though something cracked within him, and he said like a man in mortal pain, ‘For more than twenty years I have loved my Lady Guenever, the Queen.’
‘And you have won her love to you?’
Lancelot bowed his head lower yet.
‘And what of King Arthur, her lord?’
‘The marriage was made between them for the good of the kingdom, after the way of marriages between kings and queens. After, she grew to love him as a most dear friend. To me also he is the best-loved friend I have ever had. We would not that any hurt should come to him.’
‘Yet you wrong him by your love for each other, every hour of every day.’
‘I am a great sinner,’ said Sir Lancelot, ‘and the weight of my sin is on my head and on my spirit. I am shut out from God.’
‘So then, your sin is confessed,’ said the priest. ‘Now swear before God, as you hope for His forgiveness, that you will turn from the Queen’s fellowship, and never be with her again, save when others are by.’
‘I swear,’ said Sir Lancelot, seeming to tear something raw and bleeding from his breast.
‘And that from now on, you will not even wish for her presence, nor be with her in your inmost thoughts,’ said the priest; and his words fell single and pitiless as axe blows.
‘I – swear,’ said Sir Lancelot. But he prayed within himself, ‘God help me! For unless You help me, I have sworn an oath which I cannot keep. I will try, with all the strength that is in me. More, I cannot do. And sweet God in Heaven, help and comfort my lady also.’ And so he was already a little foresworn.
Then the priest gave him absolution and his blessing.
And they rose from before the altar, and turned to leave the church. And seeing how the knight stumbled as though for mortal weariness, the holy man said, ‘My cell is close by; come with me and rest, and when you are rested, we will speak of what is next for you to do.’
‘I thank you; and glad would I be to rest,’ said Lancelot. ‘As to what is next for me to do, that I already know; I must find some way to come by another sword and helm and another horse, that I may ride forward again on the Quest.’
‘In that I can help you,’ said the priest, ‘for I have a brother, a knight-at-arms, rich in this world’s goods, who lives not far from here. And he will furnish all these things gladly, as soon as I send to ask for them.’
‘Then my thanks to you, and to your brother. And most surely I will stay a while.’
And now the story leaves Sir Lancelot of the Lake, and tells again of Sir Percival.
5
Sir Percival: Kings and Demons
WHEN PERCIVAL LEFT Sir Lancelot to ride on alone, he went back to the hermitage, and the holy woman who lived there gave him shelter for the night. And in the morning when they had prayed together, and she had fed him on black bread spread with golden honey from her own bees, he buckled on his armour and rode out again.
All day he rode, through a wild country of rocks and blackened heathland and dark drought-stunted trees, along the fringes of King Pelles’ Waste Land; and all day long he met never a soul. But towards evening he heard the deep tolling of a bell, a warm bronze sound, a sound with a bloom on it like the bloom on dark grapes, summoning through the trees. And he made his way towards it, hoping for shelter for that night also.
Almost at once he came to a large abbey, ringed around with walls that looked as though they were meant to keep out the world. But when he sat his horse before the gate and shouted cheerfully, the monks came running to open it and make him welcome. They took his horse to the stables and himself to a fair guest chamber; and there he supped and slept; and when he woke, the bell was ringing again, for it was the morning hour of Prime. He got up and went quickly to the abbey church, where the brethren were already gathered, to hear Mass.
Midway up the church there was an ironwork screen, and beyond it the Mass priest was making ready. Percival went towards it, expecting to pass through and join the rest. But there seemed to be no gate in the screen. So he knelt down outside it, and looking through saw beyond the Mass priest a bed richly spread with silken coverings, all of the purest white. Someone lay on the bed, under the coverings; but in the shadows he could not make out whether it was a man or a woman. And then the thought came to him that he was not there for staring and wondering, and he set himself to listen to the Mass.
But when the priest held up the Host, the figure on the bed sat up, and Percival saw that it was an ancient man, his hair as white as the silken coverings, and on his head a golden crown. As the coverings fell away, he showed naked to the hips, and his body and face and arms were striped with wounds and gashes enough to have killed three men. When he stretched out his hands towards the Host, even the palms of his hands were wounded.
He cried out, ‘Most gracious and loving Father, be not unmindful of my dues!’ and remained sitting with his hands stretched out, until Mass was over and the priest brought him the communion bread. And after that he lay down again under the white silken coverings, and was as he had been before.
Percival was filled with compassion and curiosity. He followed the brethren when they came by some side way from behind the screen, and outside, in the cloisters, he drew the one he thought had the kindest face apart, and said, ‘If it is not unseemly of me to ask, let you tell me of the old wounded man with the gold crown upon his head who lies beside the altar.’
‘Gladly I will tell you,’ said the monk, who had told the story many times before, but still found it painful and still a marvel in the telling. ‘That is King Mordrain of the city of Sarras, over beyond the Holy Land.’ And he told Percival of Joseph of Arimathea and his son Josephus, and King Mordrain, and the great white shield with its blood-red cross, just as the White Knight had told it to Sir Galahad. And he told also, how, after the battle to free Joseph and his people from the wicked British king, when they came to unarm King Mordrain, they found him covered with wounds enough to kill three men, but he swore that he felt no pain and all was well with him.
‘Next day,’ said the monk, ‘the Christians gathered before the Holy Grail to make their prayers and thanksgivings. And King Mordrain, who since he became a Christian had longed above all things to enter into the mystery of the Grail, drew too near. Then a voice in their midst, and no man speaking, said, “King, go no closer. It is forbidden thee.” But the King’s longing was so great that still, as the service of the Grail went on, he drew by little and little nearer yet.
‘And suddenly the brightness of the Grail engulfed him; and he fell to the ground. And when he awoke, as if from a swoon, there was neither strength in his limbs nor sight in his eyes.
‘Then he prayed, “Gracious Lord Jesus Christ, I would have looked upon that which You forbade me; and this punishment is just, and I accept it willingly. Yet grant me this, that I may not die until that knight born of the line of Arimathea, he that is to enter at last into the mystery of the Grail, shall come to set me free.”
‘And the voice said, “King, Our Lord has heard thy prayer, and it is granted. When the knight Galahad comes to thee, thy sight shall be restored that thou shalt see Him clear; and thy wounds shall be healed that will not close before; and thou shalt be set free.”
‘Then King Mordrain ordered that his shield with the blazon of the blood-red cross upon it should be taken and lodged at a certain abbey where it was told him in a dream that the knight Galahad should come for it, five days after he received knighthood.
‘And for four hundred years, he has lain as you saw him but now, touching no food but that which the priest brings to him at the sacrament of the Mass, and waiting for the knight who bears his own shield to set him free.’
‘That has been a long waiting time,’ said Percival, in awe.
‘But now it seems that it is nearly over, for word has come that the shield has been claimed, and its new master has been seen carrying it in the forest.’
And Percival saw again in his memory the knight who had unhorsed both himself and Sir Lancelot, two days since; and the last level light of sunset burning on the blood-red cross of his shield. And so he knew who the knight was, and could have wept that he had not known before.
Now he is two days ahead of me, he thought. And he was in such desperate haste to be gone that he would not even wait to eat with the brethren, but begged for his horse and armour, and giving them courteous but hurried thanks and farewell, mounted and rode away, his morning shadow out ahead of him like an eager hound in leash.
About noon, the track that he was following led down into a wooded valley; and there he saw coming towards him a score of armed men.
And as they drew towards each other, the foremost of the band called out to him to know his name and fealty.
‘I am called Percival of Wales, and my fealty is to King Arthur.’
As soon as they heard this, they shouted, ‘Have at him!’ one taking up the cry from another, and, ripping out their swords, thrust their horses forward against him.
Percival’s own sword seemed to leap from its sheath into his hand, as he made ready to meet them. But they were twenty to his one, for all the skill and swiftness of his swordplay. His horse was killed under him, and as he sprang clear, he was beaten to his knees, and the blows crashed in on him from all sides, gashing through his helm and shoulder mail. A few more panting breaths of time, and it would have been all over with him. But as the struggle began to darken before his eyes, suddenly, as an ill dream flies at waking, the yelling press about him broke and crumbled; and above him, high on his great horse, he saw a knight whose sword seemed kin for swiftness to the summer lightning, and whose white shield blazed with the blood-red cross it bore.
The enemy knights were scattered and galloping for the shelter of the forest. And as young Percival, sobbing for breath, his head swimming inside his hacked and battered helmet, struggled to his feet and turned to thank his rescuer, the knight of the red-cross shield struck spurs to his horse and was gone also, making in the opposite direction, as one who has done what he came to do, and has nothing more to stay for.
Percival shouted after him, desperately, ‘Sir knight! For God’s sweet sake let you stay and speak with me!’
But the other showed no sign of having heard. Only a flicker of red and white showed for an instant through the stunted trees, and then was gone into the brown glooms of the forest. The beat of horse-hooves died away. Somewhere a jay gave its alarm call, and then all was still.
Percival stood where he was, his moment of incredulous joy chilling to despair. Blood from the wound in his head trickled into his eyes, and his heart felt as though it must burst his breast-cage. Then, having no horse, he began to run, like a child running desperately after his heart’s desire.
For a long time he ran, blundering against trees, falling into the hollows where the old and rotten forest floor gave way beneath him, sobbing as he ran, long after he knew that it was no use to run any further. Until at last he fell headlong over a hidden root, and pitching down onto the wound in his head, knocked himself dizzy. There he lay still, and heard the silence of the forest all about him, save for the mocking laughter of a green woodpecker somewhere among the trees.
Then he tore off the wreck of his helmet, and flung aside sword and shield, and fell to the sorest weeping that ever he had known, until at last, forsaken and desperate and with an aching head, he wept himself to sleep.
When he awoke, it was far into the night, and the moon was riding high and cold and uncaring above the tangled branches. And a woman was bending over him.
‘Percival.’ Her voice was soft and warm on the lonely places of his mind. ‘Percival, what are you doing here?’
He was too confused and miserable even to wonder how she knew his name. He was grateful that she sounded kind, and that was all. ‘Alas, I do nothing,’ he said, sitting up and getting slowly to his feet. ‘And truth to tell, lady, if I had not lost my horse, I would not be here at all.’
‘If you would promise to do my bidding whenever I call on you,’ said the lady, ‘I could find you a horse; one that has no equal for fire or beauty or speed of foot.’
Hope leapt in Percival. ‘As to that, I am a knight, and one of Arthur’s court, and so sworn to be the true and faithful servant of all women who need my help.’
‘Wait for me, then, and in a little I will return.’
And suddenly, she was not there any more.
Percival did think it a little odd that he had not seen her go; but it was very dark under the trees; and before he had had time to do much thinking, she was back. And she was leading a great warhorse, black as sin itself from proud crest to sweeping tail. Its round hooves trampled the forest floor as though it scorned the earth beneath it, and there was a fire in its eye that Percival had never seen in even the most mettlesome horse before. For as long as he could remember, all horses and all hounds had been his friends, and he had never known what it was to fear even the wildest of them. But at sight of this one, something shot through him that he thought was fear, though in truth it was a shaft of warning. Still, it was a horse, and a fine fleet one, and the thing he most needed in all the world, just then. So he sheathed his sword and laced on his battered helm again and, catching up his shield, swung into the high saddle and settled his feet in the stirrups with a reckless joy.
‘Go now,’ said the lady, ‘but remember what you have promised me.’
‘I will remember,’ said Sir Percival, not at all sure what he had promised. ‘My thanks to you, lady.’
And he struck spurs to the horse’s flanks, and felt the surge of pride and power beneath him as the great beast bounded forward.
Then began the wildest ride that ever was ridden by mortal knight.
They were off and away at full gallop, crashing through the trees, faster and faster. Low, hanging branches tried to sweep Sir Percival from the saddle, the ground was a dark blur that fled backwards beneath the pounding hooves; and when he would have reined in something of their headlong pace, the black horse snorted and leapt forward against the bit. And then it seemed to the young knight that they were no longer galloping at all but borne upon the air. On and on over hills and valleys, the night rushing past on either hand. The forest was behind them now, and it seemed to Percival that they must have covered many days of distance in that wild midnight ride. On and on, the foam flying back like spindrift from the black muzzle, the wind of their going screaming by. And then ahead of them was a wide and rushing river; and the black horse neighed in triumph, making straight towards it. Now indeed Percival thought the moment of his death was upon him, and desperately put his hand to his forehead and made the sign of the cross.
And in that instant, feeling the weight of the cross upon it, the thing that wore the shape of a black horse gave itself a violent shake, and flung its rider from the saddle; and so plunged into the flood, howling and shrieking as it went; and instead of spray, bright sheaves of flame shot up on either side of it, as though the
river itself were on fire.
And sprawling on the bank where he had fallen, Percival gave thanks to God, who had saved his soul from damnation.
When morning broke, and he could look about him, there was no sign of the river at all; no sign of the country of his wild night ride. He was on a rocky island, girt about on all sides by sea; and the sea stretching away to the sky’s edge with no other sight of land. There was no trace anywhere of men and women, no dwelling places nor cultivated land; but the island was not empty of life, for wherever he looked among the tawny rocks prowled the striped and speckled shapes of wild beasts; lions and leopards and strange winged serpents.
Now I am in deadly peril of another kind, thought Percival, and felt for his sword, and then he saw that in the very middle of the island a great crag thrust heavenward. If he could reach the crest of it, the sheer rock-faces below might be some protection against attack from the wild animals. So, at the best speed he could make, he set off towards it.
But as he began the climb, the most terrible uproar broke upon his ears, and a vast shadow swept between him and the sun; and looking up, he saw one of the great winged serpents with a lion cub in its jaws, making for the rocky summit like an eagle carrying home its kill. But the cub was still alive, and crying out in terror, and hard behind came a lioness, tearing the day apart with her roaring, and striving to leap into the air after the winged horror, desperate to save her young.
Percival began to run, drawing his sword as he went, but the lioness passed him and was first to gain the crest; and when he also reached it, lioness and serpent were locked in battle, she tearing at the monster’s throat, the scaly tail tightening about her body. Percival ran in among the lashing coils and caught the creature a glancing blade-blow on the head, at which it rounded on him, spewing out great gobbets of flame. He sprang aside, then thrust in again. The struggle was long and desperate; but at last his sword found a second time the place on its head where the first blow had landed. There the scaly hide was laid open and the bone cracked, and the second blow broke the slim, savage head apart, and the great coils ceased to lash, and the fire sank away, as the monster dropped dead at his feet.
The King Arthur Trilogy Page 30
