The animal squealed and reared, startling those behind him, and for a moment all was confusion. And then as the Queen’s knights fought to get their horses back under control, suddenly they found themselves surrounded by armed men on all sides; and out on to the track ahead of them rode Sir Meliagraunce, leather-clad but with his shield on his arm and his drawn sword in his hand.
‘Sir Meliagraunce!’ said the Queen, startled and not yet fully understanding. ‘Is this some wild jest?’
‘Jesting was never further from my heart!’ cried Sir Meliagraunce, striving to thrust his way through the milling horses to her side.
‘Then what meaning lies behind this strange and most discourteous behaviour?’
And now Sir Meliagraunce had reached her and grasped her bridle. ‘No time for courtesy. Come with me now to my castle. I will answer all the questions that you choose to ask, so that you ride with me.’
‘Traitor!’ cried the Queen, trying to pull her bridle free as he wrenched her horse round. ‘Remember that you are a knight of the Round Table! Will you shame yourself and dishonour all knighthood and the King who made you one of that brotherhood? Me you shall never shame, for I will kill myself before you touch me!’
‘Fine valiant talk, madam!’ said Sir Meliagraunce. ‘But I am beyond caring for it. I have loved you these many years, and never before found the chance to gain what my heart desires!’
The Queen’s knights had closed up around her and were seeking to drag him from her side, but they had no weapons, and from every side Sir Meliagraunce’s armed men thrust in. And though they and the squires with them fought like the bravest of the brave to protect their lady, it was not long before all of them lay wounded upon the ground – though indeed a goodly company of Sir Meliagraunce’s men lay sprawled around them.
Then seeing her knights lying so, and the men-at-arms standing over them with drawn swords, the Queen cried out in horror and pity, ‘Sir Meliagraunce, bid your men to stay their hands! Do not slay my valiant knights who have been brought to this pass through their faith to me! Promise me that, and I will go with you. Promise it not, or fail in your promise, and I will indeed kill myself!’
‘Madam,’ said Sir Meliagraunce, ‘for your sake I will spare them, and bring them with us into my castle, and see that their wounds are tended, if you will ride with me and smile upon me.’
So the wounded knights were heaved again on to horseback, some into the saddle, the more sorely wounded slung across their horses’ withers. And with Sir Meliagraunce’s hand upon the Queen’s bridle, where the little silver bells still rang as though in mockery, they headed for his castle.
But as they rode, one of the squires, less sorely hurt than his fellows, seized his chance as they were fording a stream and, wheeling his horse, struck spurs to its flanks and galloped back the way they had come. Several of the archers loosed after him, but the arrows flew wide, and though some of the men-at-arms spurred in his wake, he soon shook them off among the trees.
‘It will be not my questions, but my Lord the King’s that you will be answering before long,’ said Queen Guenever, ‘and it is in my mind that they will be pressed home with the point of a sword! Better let me free now, and my knights with me, while you may!’
But Sir Meliagraunce was beyond listening; and he left thirty of his best archers posted at the head of the valley, with orders to shoot the horse of any knight who came after them, but on no account to harm the rider – just so much sense was left to him – and still clutching the Queen’s bridle, and with the rest of his following close about him, he pressed on with desperate speed towards the castle that he held from the King.
Meanwhile, in the midst of the past night, Sir Lancelot, sleeping among the hounds beside the hearth in a forester’s hut, dreamed that Guenever was threatened by some danger and calling for him. He was gifted or maybe cursed from time to time with the power of dreaming true. And he knew the true dreams from those which were but fancy. So when he woke, still in the wolf-dark of the night, he got up, quieting the hounds as best he could, told the drowsy forester that he must be away, and armed himself while the man, grumbling, saddled his horse. Then he mounted and rode away back towards Camelot.
All the rest of the night he rode, as though the Wild Hunt were after him. Dawn paled in the east, and he rode the morning sun up the sky, thundering on through the green and white and gold of May Day morning, until, some while still short of noon, he came up through the steep streets of Camelot town to the gates of the royal castle that crested the hill.
The first person he met was Sir Gawain, who shouted with gladness to see him.
But Lancelot had no time to spare for the joys of friendship. ‘Where is the Queen?’ he demanded.
‘She rode a’Maying with ten of the younger knights and her bonniest maidens. They should be back soon enough now,’ said Sir Gawain, looking into the other’s haggard face.
And at that moment they heard more flying hooves coming up the street; and in through the gate, blood streaking his face from the great gash on his forehead, rode Hew, the young squire.
When he had gasped and stammered out his story, Sir Lancelot who had stood fretting with his mail gloves the while, shouted for a fresh horse, and when it was brought, flung himself into the saddle, calling to the King and his knights, who by then were gathering all about, ‘Arm quickly, and follow me. At Sir Meliagraunce’s castle you shall find me if I am still alive. And we may save the Queen!’
And he dashed out through the gate and down the steep narrow street, his horse’s hooves striking fire from the cobbles, and on across the river by the three-arched bridge, the cloud of young-summer dust rising behind him, until the sunlit green of the forest gathered him into itself.
Presently he came to a place that showed signs of fighting; undergrowth broken down and bloodstains on the trampled grass; and a while further on suddenly his way was barred by thirty archers, each with an arrow nocked to his drawn bowstring. ‘Turn back, Sir Knight,’ said one, who seemed to be their captain, ‘this way is closed to you.’
‘By what right?’ demanded Lancelot.
‘Ne’er mind for that,’ said the man, ‘you shall not pass this way, or if you do, it shall be captive and on foot, for your horse we shall slay.’
‘That shall be of small gain to you,’ said Sir Lancelot, and striking spurs to his horse, charged them forthwith. Next instant came the twanging of released bowstrings, and a deep drone as of angry hornets, and the horse neighed shrilly and plunged to the ground, a score of arrows in its breast. But Sir Lancelot sprang clear as the poor brute rolled over, and sword in hand charged upon the archers. But they broke and fled, crashing away into the forest in all directions, so that he could come up with none of them.
Then Sir Lancelot went on his way on foot. But his armour and shield weighed heavy upon him, for full knightly harness was never meant for long walking in, and bore more painfully upon him with every spear’s throw of distance that he covered. And beside this, the wound in his thigh, that he had got when he fought Sir Mador de la Porte for the Queen’s innocence, though it was long-since healed, had left him with a leg that was not yet fully serviceable, and the weight and the chafe of his armour upon it began to irk him so that he could make less and less of speed, while all the while the dark taste of last night’s dream was with him, Guenever in danger and calling to him – calling and calling. Yet with the kind of welcome he was like to meet at Sir Meliagraunce’s castle, he was loath to cast any of his harness aside.
But by and by he reached a track, and along the track towards him came a cart driven by one man, with another sitting on the side of it with his legs dangling.
A sudden flicker of hope woke in Lancelot. ‘Hi, good fellows!’ he shouted. ‘What will you take to drive me in your cart to a castle not two miles from here?’
‘Nay, you’ll not come into my cart,’ said the driver, ‘for I’m heading the other way, to fetch wood for my lord, Sir Meliagraunce.’
&n
bsp; ‘It is with Sir Meliagraunce that I have business,’ said Sir Lancelot grimly.
‘Then you can go and find him on your own two feet.’ The driver would have whipped up his bony nag and driven over the knight in his path, but Sir Lancelot sprung on to the bow of the cart, and as the man turned his whip against him fetched him such a clout on the side of the head with his mailed fist that he tumbled down from his perch like a stoned bird, and lay still.
Then the other man cried out, ‘Fair lord, spare my life, and I will drive you wheresoever you would go!’
‘You know already where I would go – and that swiftly!’ said Sir Lancelot, climbing into the cart. And the carter scrambled forward to take the reins.
‘Sir Meliagraunce. Aye, you shall be at his gate before you can count to ten,’ said the man, already heaving the horse and cart around. Then he set off up the track, rattling and lurching at such a speed as the old horse had not made for many a long year.
In the Great Chamber above the keep of Sir Meliagraunce’s castle, Queen Guenever waited with all her maidens about her, and her wounded knights and squires upon the rush-strewn floor. For she had demanded to have all her people with her, that she and her maidens might tend their wounds, and also that Sir Meliagraunce might have no chance to come upon her alone.
And one of her maidens, watching from the window, called suddenly, ‘Madam, come and see – there is a cart coming up the track, and a knight standing in it. Poor knight, he must be going to his hanging!’ (For no man of armour-bearing rank would ride in a cart unless on his shameful way to the gallows.)
‘Where?’ said the Queen, and looking from the window she beheld the wood-cart, and the knight riding in it; and she knew with a knowledge of the heart, even before she could make out the device on his shield, that it was Sir Lancelot. ‘Nay, that is no knight riding to a felon’s death,’ she said, ‘though indeed he must be hard put to it, that he comes to my rescue in such a manner.’ And to herself she said, ‘Yet I knew that he would come – despite all things, I knew that he would come.’
And as she watched, the cart drew up before the castle gateway, and Sir Lancelot sprang down and shouted in a voice that set the hollow gate-arch ringing: ‘Open the gates, Sir Meliagraunce, false knight of the Round Table and traitor to your liege lord Arthur. The High King and his company are not far behind me, but first stand I, Sir Lancelot of the Lake, ready to do battle with you and all your following!’
And he hurled himself at the little wicket within the great main gate, which in haste and panic had not been made properly secure, and burst it open and came charging through the knot of gate-guards inside, striking out right and left as he came, like a boar that breaks loose and charges with the hounds snapping about his flanks.
When Sir Meliagraunce knew that Sir Lancelot was within his gates, panic rose in him, and he bolted up to the Great Chamber and cast himself down at the Queen’s feet, crying, ‘Mercy, madam! Pray you have mercy on me, for I was driven to this madness by my love for you!’
‘It is not for me to have mercy,’ said the Queen, ‘but for the knight who comes to rescue me, and for my lord the High King, who I doubt not follows hard after.’
‘You can speak for me!’ howled Sir Meliagraunce. ‘Tell them I have done you no harm, but used you with all courtesy –’ And he tried to cling to the hem of her green skirts.
‘Certainly you have used me with more courtesy than you have used my poor knights,’ said the Queen, and drew back her skirts from his clinging hands.
‘I was mad!’ wailed Sir Meliagraunce. ‘Only speak to Sir Lancelot and the High King for me, and I will serve you humbly in whatever way you choose!’
‘Cease this outcry, and get up,’ said the Queen at last, ‘and I will speak to them for you, that they spare your life; for truly peace is better than war.’
And she went to meet Sir Lancelot as he came storming in search of her. And when they met they went for an instant straight into each other’s arms. ‘I knew that you would come,’ said the Queen against his shoulder. ‘Despite all, I knew that you would come to save me!’
And Sir Lancelot said, ‘I dreamed you were in danger. I heard you calling me, and so I came.’
And then he pulled away from her, demanding, ‘Where is Sir Meliagraunce?’
‘In the Great Chamber,’ said the Queen, suddenly mid-way between tears and laughter, ‘and very sore afraid!’
‘He has cause to be,’ said Sir Lancelot, ‘for now his death is upon him.’
‘Nay! I have promised him that I will cry your mercy for him, since what he did, he did for love of me!’
And they moved further apart from each other, touching only with their eyes.
But after, Guenever took Sir Lancelot by the hand and led him up to the Great Chamber where were her maidens and the wounded knights and squires; and Sir Meliagraunce still kneeling, who looked at her with eyes like a beaten dog. So, slowly and with much labour and persuasion, she made a kind of peace between Sir Lancelot and Sir Meliagraunce, though even then it was agreed that they should fight the matter out in single combat that day week, before King Arthur in the jousting meadow below Camelot.
And hardly was that settled before the High King himself and his knights were in the castle courtyard.
And Guenever made peace also between them and Sir Meliagraunce on the same condition of single combat, for the King upheld Sir Lancelot, agreeing that no vengeance should be taken upon Sir Meliagraunce nor upon any of his people, but that day week should end the matter. ‘But if either fails to keep his tryst,’ said the King with a stern eye upon Sir Meliagraunce, ‘then shall he be called craven ever after, and the shame of all Logres.’
That night they remained in the castle that Sir Meliagraunce held from the King; and next morning, with the Queen in their midst, and those of the wounded knights who were too sick to sit their horses borne in litters, they set out to return to Camelot. But when Sir Lancelot would have departed with the rest, Sir Meliagraunce came to him, smiling, and making great show of friendliness, and said, ‘Gentle sir, the Queen has made peace between you and me, until the day comes that we settle this matter by weapon-skill for the honour of us both. But pray you tell me of your own accord that you feel no ill will towards me in the meantime.’
‘None in the world,’ said Sir Lancelot, shortly.
‘Then do you prove it, by remaining here as my honoured guest until the day of combat comes.’
Sir Lancelot looked at the man’s humbly smiling face, and scorn rose in him, and he felt sick. He would have liked to strike him; but Sir Meliagraunce was so small inside himself, and seemed now so contemptibly and pitifully eager to please, and Sir Lancelot was ashamed of his own contempt. So he said as warmly as he could manage, ‘I thank you for your courtesy, and most gladly I will stay here with you until we ride for Camelot together.’
And so, after the rest had set out, he remained behind with Sir Meliagraunce.
Later that day his host asked Sir Lancelot would it please him to see the hawks in his mews, especially a very fine jerfalcon that he had lately had brought to him from the islands of the North. And Sir Lancelot, who loved falconry and always trained his own birds, said that it would pleasure him greatly. But as they went down to the inner courtyard which contained the mews, Sir Meliagraunce stood aside at a doorway for Sir Lancelot to pass through ahead of him. And Sir Lancelot, passing through, trod on the springboard of a trap cunningly concealed in the floor; and the trap opened beneath his feet and he fell twice the height of a man into a vault deeply floored with straw.
And Sir Meliagraunce made the trap secure again, and went on his way, heedless of the muffled shouting beneath his feet.
In Camelot time went by towards the appointed day of combat. And on the last day of all, there came to Arthur’s court a certain young knight out of Hungary, called Sir Urre. A most potent knight he had been with his heart ever set on adventure; but he came in sore need of help, lying weak and forespent in a horse
litter, and his mother and sister riding with him.
They were brought in and made welcome as honoured guests. But the King spoke to Sir Urre’s mother apart. ‘Most welcome are you and your son and the damosel your daughter to my court; but tell me, lady, why you have brought him so far from his own place to mine. Sick and weak as he is, so long a journey must have been grievous hard for him to bear.’
‘Hard indeed; and long indeed the journey,’ said the lady, and he saw that she must have been fair to look upon before sorrow came to her; but now she was haggard and weary, and there was a wild and seeking look in her eyes. ‘Seven long years ago my son, who sought adventure and high deeds even more than most young men, was in Spain, and there in a great tournament he fought with one, Sir Alphegus, and slew him, but received from him first seven wounds, three in the head and three in the body and one in his sword-hand. It was a fair fight, but the mother of Sir Alphegus cursed him for her son’s death; and she was one who had power from the Devil in her. And by her black powers she so wrought that my son’s wounds should bleed and fester without healing and he should never be whole again until his wounds were searched by the best knight in the world. And so for seven long years we have travelled through all the lands of Christendom, seeking the best knight in all the world; but to no avail; and if we do not find him here, I fear me that my son will never be whole again.’
‘Take heart, lady,’ the King said kindly, ‘for here in Britain – in Logres which is the brightness at the heart of Britain – your son must surely be healed of his wounds, for there are no better knights in Christendom than are gathered about my Round Table.’
But as he spoke, he wondered. Once, he would have known that that was true; he prayed that it was true still, but he could no longer be sure.
But now, with the wounded knight lying there in his pain and weakness, and the lady’s anguished and beseeching gaze fixed upon his face, was no time to be listening to such doubts in his heart. ‘I myself will be the first to lay hands upon your son,’ he said. ‘Well I know that I am not worthy to work this miracle; yet I am the High King, and if I go first, that shall give courage to my knights to follow me. For you must know well, madam, that this is no light thing that you ask of us.’
The King Arthur Trilogy Page 40
