Then Sir Percival sheathed his sword and flung aside his scorched shield, and pulled off his helmet to feel the cool wind on his head. And the lioness, when she had made sure that all was well with her cub, came and fawned on him like a great dog, bending her proud neck against his knee, her tail sweeping behind her in gratitude and delight. And Percival fell to stroking her head and shoulders.
‘The Lord does not mean that I should be lonely in this place, for he has sent you to keep me company.’
All day the lioness stayed with him, until, when dusk came, she took the cub by the scruff of its neck, and bounded away down the steep slopes to her lair in some place unknown to him among the rocks. Then the young knight was very desolate, thinking that she had deserted him, and feeling himself now quite alone. But before the dusk had deepened into the dark, having seen the cub safely lodged and fed, she returned to him, friendly-wise as before, and lay down beside him. And Percival put his arm round her neck and fondled behind her ears as he would have done to a favourite hound, while she rubbed her head against him. And at last he propped himself against her, his head on her flank for a pillow, more glad of her company than almost ever he had been of company before. And so he fell asleep.
When he woke in the morning, the lioness was gone; but looking out to sea, he beheld a ship with sails spread like dark wings, flying straight as an arrow towards the island.
Hope leapt in Percival, for surely a ship must mean the promise of rescue, and he caught up helm and sword and shield, and went scrambling and leaping down through the rocks towards the shore.
Even as he went, he kept his gaze on the ship winging in towards him. And surely she was the strangest vessel that ever man saw, for she came as though all the four winds of heaven were in her sails, and ahead of her raced a whirlwind that parted the waters and beat up great waves curling back from her on either side. And as she drew close in to the land, he saw that she was clad from stem to stern with draperies that formed a pavilion of fine black silk. She slackened speed as the wind dropped from her sails, and settled lightly as a bird against the shore where the rocks rose straight from deep water. And Percival, reaching the shore at the same moment, saw that seated in the black-draped entrance amidships was the most beautiful maiden he had ever beheld, with a mouth as silken red as harvest poppies, and eyes and hair as dark as midnight.
Just for a moment he thought that he had seen such blackness somewhere not long ago; but he could not think where. And the maiden was holding out her hands to him, saying in a voice as sweet as wild-wood honey, ‘Sir knight, how come you to be here on this island, so far from the haunts of men that but for the chance wind that has brought me to your aid, you must surely have died of hunger or been slain by wild beasts before any help could find you?’
‘That is a long story that I scarcely know myself,’ said Percival, ‘but I think that whatever happens to me, it is God’s will.’
The lady made a movement with her hands, as though to brush something aside, and she laughed a little. ‘Then it must be by God’s will that the winds blew me here, Sir Percival of Wales.’
‘You know my name!’ said Percival, surprised.
‘I know it well, I know you better than you think.’
‘Then if you know so much of me, grant that I may know something of you.’
‘Know then,’ said she, ‘that I am one who would have been the greatest lady in my land, if I had not been wrongfully driven from it.’
Instantly pity and indignation rose in Percival, and he said, ‘Damsel in exile, tell me who has used you so cruelly.’
‘A great lord,’ she said, ‘a mighty king who chose me for my beauty and placed me in his household. For I was beautiful; more beautiful than you see me now with my sorrows come upon me. And being so fair, alas, I grew a little vain and spoiled, and spoke to my lord one day foolishly and light-heartedly in a manner that he took amiss, though indeed there was little harm in it. Then his wrath flared out against me as though I had done some monstrous ill, and he drove me forth with a few who were loyal to me, into exile. And now that by the wind’s chance I have found you, who I know to be a valiant and honourable knight, I beg you to help me against this cruel lord who has so misused me. Indeed, you cannot refuse me, for you are of the Round Table, and so bound by your oath, sworn there at King Arthur’s bidding, to be the champion of all distressed ladies who ask your aid.’
‘Indeed I am bound by that oath, but even if I were not, still would I give you all the help in my power,’ said Percival.
And she thanked him very sweetly; and they sat talking for a while, she on the deck of her ship and he on the rocks alongside.
Noon came and the sun beat down, and the rocks gave back their heat in shimmering waves; and Percival felt like to fry inside his armour, but was too courteous to tell the lady so.
But at last, of her own accord, she turned behind her into the ship, and spoke to someone out of sight, and two servants brought out a tent of black silk lined with crimson, and set it up on a small patch of shore-grass, very pretty to see, with every silken edge of canopy and curtains dagged like black flower petals, and little gay pennants that fluttered overall. And when all was ready, and the curtains looped back to let every movement of air pass through, she called to Percival, ‘Come now, and sit here with me in the shade, for it is too hot out there on the bare rocks.’
So Percival came; and in the blissful coolth of the shade under the awning, she helped him to unharness, and bathed his hurts, crying out softly at sight of them, and he lay down on soft cushions and slept.
When he woke, a low table had been set up beside him, and the servants were bringing food from the ship; the most choice and delicate of food in bowls and dishes of such intricate beauty that he could scarce believe they had been made by human hands.
‘Eat with me,’ said the lady. And Sir Percival sat up and thanked her, and began to eat, he on one side of the table and she on the other, their eyes often meeting. Then the servants brought cool wine clouding in crystal goblets; and it was such wine as Percival had never drunk before, and went to his head like no wine that he had ever drunk before; so that soon he began to see everything through a golden haze. And the lady seemed kinder and more beautiful with every moment that went by. And when he stretched his hand to meet hers across the table, it was the softest thing that he had ever touched, and her fingers curled round his so that his heart turned over in his breast for the sweetness of the moment.
‘Love me,’ said the lady. ‘It is so long since any loved me, and I am sorely alone.’
‘I will be the truest lover to you that ever lady had,’ said Percival.
And the table was no longer between them, but she was beside him on the couch of soft cushions. But even as he put his arms round her to draw her close, it happened that Sir Percival’s eye fell upon the hilt of his sword, where he had laid it down beside him, and as with all knightly swords, it formed a cross.
Instantly the golden haze turned grey, and a cold and shuddering fear seized upon him. Desperately he fumbled one hand to his forehead and crossed himself; and as he did so, a great howling and shrieking broke out all around; and he was choked by a filthy stench that had caught him by the throat. The tent collapsed into bat-wing tatters, and all things seemed whirling away into nothingness. And he cried out like one drowning, ‘Lord Jesus Christ, help me or I am lost!’
He found that his eyes were clenched shut, and when he opened them, he was lying among the baking rocks, and of the tent and the soft cushions, the food and the servants, there was no sign. But looking seaward, he saw the black-draped ship putting off from the shore; and in the entrance where he had seen her first stood the lady. But now all her beauty and sweetness were gone, and she screamed at him, ‘Percival, you have betrayed me!’
Then the ship was racing out to sea, with such a storm springing up in her wake that it seemed at any moment she must founder, and the whole sea aflame to engulf her. But before the flames and the temp
est the black ship sped on her way faster than any wind could blow.
Percival watched until ship and storm were out of sight, then sank down on his knees, weeping most bitterly, and thanking God for his deliverance and praying for forgiveness, and then weeping again for shame and misery and near despair.
All that night he passed on the rocky shore, not even caring now if the wild beasts of the island came and killed him. But none came near. Nor did his lioness come to comfort him, and he supposed that he was no longer worthy of her. It seemed the longest and darkest night that ever he had known.
But dawn came at last, and with the dawn he saw another ship making into land; a very different vessel, with sails of white samite, gliding in among the rocks as quietly as a swan on calm water. And when he got up and went to look closer, there was no one on board. But as he stood marvelling at this, a voice spoke to him out of nowhere.
‘Percival, go now aboard this ship, and follow wherever adventure leads thee. And have no fear of anything, for wherever thou goest, God is with thee. Thou hast been near to disaster, but thou hast prevailed, and, therefore, one day thou shalt meet again with Galahad, for whose company thou longest, and with Bors also, for ye are the chosen three.’
The voice died into the light shore wind. And Percival took up his arms and went aboard the waiting ship, and pushed off from the rocks; and the wind filled the sails and carried him swiftly out to sea.
But now the story leaves Sir Percival, and tells for a while of Sir Bors.
6
Sir Bors Fights for a Lady
FOR THREE DAYS after parting from his companions of the Round Table, Sir Bors rode through the forest ways alone. And at evening on the third day he came to a tall, strong-built tower rising dark against the sunset, in the midst of a clearing. He beat upon the deep arched gate, to ask for a night’s lodging, and was welcomed in. His horse was led to the stables and himself up to the Great Chamber high in the tower, full of honey-golden sunset light from its western windows that looked away over the treetops. There he was greeted by the lady of the place, who was fair and sweet to look upon, but poorly clad in a patched gown of faded leaf-green silk.
She bade him to sit by her at supper; and when the food was brought in, he saw that it was as poor as her gown, and was sorry for her sake, though for his own it made little difference, for he had taken a vow at the outset, that he would eat no meat and drink no wine while he followed the Quest of the Holy Grail; and so he touched nothing but the bread set before his place, and asked one of the table squires for a cup of water. And seeing this, the lady said, ‘Ah, sir knight, I know well that the food is poor and rough, but do not disdain it, it is the best we have.’
‘Lady, forgive me,’ said Bors, and flushed to the roots of his russet hair, ‘it is because your food is too good and your wine too rich that I eat bread and drink water, for I have vowed to touch nothing else, while I am on the quest that I follow.’
‘And what quest is that?’
‘The Quest of the Holy Grail.’
‘I have heard of this quest, and I know you, therefore, for one of King Arthur’s knights, the greatest champions in the world,’ said the lady; and it seemed as though she might have said more, but at that moment a squire came hurrying into the room.
‘Madam, it goes ill with us – your sister has taken two more of your castles, and sends you word that she will leave you not one square foot of land, if by tomorrow’s noon you have not found a knight to fight for you against her lord!’
Then the lady pressed her hands over her face and wept, until Sir Bors said to her, ‘Pray you, lady, tell me the meaning of this.’
‘I will tell you,’ said the lady. ‘The lord of these parts once loved my elder sister, never knowing what like she was – what like she is – and by little and little, while they were together, he gave over to her all his power, so that in truth she became the ruler. And her rule was a harsh one, causing the death and maiming and imprisonment of many of his people. Learning wisdom on his deathbed, and listening at last to the distress of his folk, he drove her out and made me his successor in her place, that I might undo what could be undone of the harm. But no sooner was he dead than my sister took a new lord, Priadan the Black, and made alliance with him to wage war on me.’ She spread her hands. ‘Good sir, the rest you must know.’
‘Who and what is this Priadan the Black?’ said Bors.
‘The greatest champion and the cruellest and most dreaded tyrant in these parts.’
‘Then send word to your sister, that you have found a knight to fight for you at tomorrow’s noon.’
Then the lady wept again, for joy. ‘God give you strength tomorrow,’ she said, ‘for it is surely by His sending that you are come here today!’
Next morning, Sir Bors heard Mass in the chapel of the tower, and then went out to the courtyard, where the lady had summoned all the knights yet remaining to her, that they might witness the coming conflict. She would have had him eat before he armed, but he refused, saying that he would fight fasting, and eat after he had fought; and so the squires helped him to buckle on his harness; and he mounted and rode out through the gate, the lady riding a grey palfrey at his side to guide him to the meeting place, and all her people, even to the castle scullions, following after.
They had not ridden far when they came to a level meadow at the head of a valley, and saw a great crowd of people waiting for them, with a fine striped pavilion pitched in their midst. And as they rode out from the long morning shadows of the trees, out from the shadow of the pavilion appeared a damsel in a gown of rose-scarlet damask mounted on a fine bay mare.
‘That is my sister,’ said the lady, ‘and beside her, look, Priadan, her lord and champion.’
The sisters pricked forward to meet each other in the centre of the meadow; and beside the damsel of the pavilion rode a huge knight in armour as black as his tall warhorse; and beside the lady of the tower rode Sir Bors, feeling the balance of his lance.
‘Sister,’ said Sir Bors’s lady, ‘as I sent you word last evening, I have found a champion to fight for my rights, in the matter between us.’
‘Rights!’ cried the elder sister. ‘You played upon my lord when he was in his dotage, until you had wheedled out of him what is truly mine. These are your rights!’
‘Damsel,’ said Sir Bors, ‘your sister has told me the other side of that story. It is she whom I believe, and it is she whom I will fight for this day.’
And the two champions looked at each other, each searching out the eye-flicker behind the dark slits of his opponent’s helmet.
‘Let us waste no more time in talking,’ said Priadan the Black, ‘for it was not to talk that we came here.’
So the onlookers fell back, leaving a clear space down the midst of the meadow, and the two champions drew apart to opposite ends of it, then wheeled their horses and with levelled lances spurred towards each other. Faster and faster, from canter to full gallop, the spur clods flying from beneath their hooves, until at last they clashed together like two stags battling for the lordship of the herd. Both lances ran true to target, and splintered into kindling wood, and both knights were swept backward over their horses’ cruppers to the ground.
With the roar of the crowd like a stormy sea in his ears, Sir Bors was up again on the instant, the Black Knight also. And drawing their swords they fell upon each other with such mighty blows that their shields were soon hacked to rags of painted wood, and the sparks flew from their blades as they rang together and slashed through the mail on flanks and shoulders to set the red blood running. They were so evenly matched that it came to Bors that he must use his head as well as his sword arm, if he was going to carry off the victory. And he began to fight on the defensive, saving his strength and letting his opponent use up his own powers in pressing on to make an end.
The crowd yelled, and the lady he fought for hid her face in her hands. And Sir Bors gave ground a little, and then gave ground again, Priadan pressing after hi
m, until at last he felt the Black Knight beginning to tire, his feet becoming slower, his sword strokes less sure. Then, as though fresh life was suddenly flowing into him, Bors began to press forward in his turn, raining his blows upon the other man, beating him this way and that, until Sir Priadan stumbled like a drunk man, and in the end went over backwards on the trampled turf.
Then Sir Bors bestrode him, and dragged off his helmet and flung it aside, and upswung his sword as though he would have struck Sir Priadan’s head from his shoulders and flung it after his helmet.
When Sir Priadan saw the bright arc of the blade above him, he seemed to grow small and grovelling inside his champion’s armour, and cried out shrilly, ‘Quarter! You cannot kill me, I am crying quarter!’ And then as Sir Bors still stood over him with menacing sword, ‘Oh, for God’s sweet sake have mercy on me and let me live! I will swear never again to wage war on the lady you serve! I will promise anything you ask, if only you will let me live!’
And Sir Bors lowered his blade, feeling sick, and said, ‘Remember that oath. And now get out of my sight!’
And the Black Knight scrambled to his feet and made off, running low like a beaten cur.
And the elder sister gave a shrill, furious cry, and set her horse at the onlookers who jostled back to let her by; and so dashed through them and away, rowelling her mare’s flanks until the blood on them ran bright as her rose-scarlet gown.
When all those who had come with her and Sir Priadan her lord saw what manner of champion they had followed, they came and swore allegiance to the lady of the tower. And so, with great rejoicing, she and her household rode back the way they had come. And in the Great Chamber of the tower, Sir Bors sat down and ate and drank at last, though still only bread and water; and the lady herself bathed and salved his wounds.
The King Arthur Trilogy Page 31
