by Michael Foss
‘By my faith,’ Balin protested, ‘I could not save her, for she slew herself so suddenly.’
‘Because of the death of that lady,’ Merlin told him, ‘you shall strike a stroke more dolorous than ever man struck, except the one against Our Lord. For you shall hurt the truest knight living with a wound nigh incurable, and three kingdoms shall be brought to twelve years of poverty, misery and wretchedness.’
Then Merlin took his leave and King Mark, with frowning face, looked carefully at Balin. It was best to mark well a man of such a doleful future. ‘Tell me your name,’ said Mark.
But Balan, his brother, answered, ‘See, he bears two swords. You may call him the Knight with the Two Swords.’
So King Mark departed to Camelot and the court of Arthur, while the brothers went towards King Rience. They had spoken with Merlin concerning this king and his great prowess. They had need of the wizard’s counsel. For the sake of his lord Arthur, Merlin had promised to help them.
Deep in the woods, Merlin arranged an ambush for Rience. He advised Balin and Balan to take their horses aside and let them graze. Then, at a bend in the path where the way was crooked and trees were like a tent against the sky, the brothers lay down to rest, hidden in leaves and bushes. At midnight, they heard a noise.
‘What is that?’ they whispered.
‘It is hooves on hard ground.’
‘Is it King Rience?’
‘It is the vanguard, jingling many harnesses.’
‘Why, and where to?’
‘They go to tell my lady de Vance that King Rience would lie with her tonight.’
‘And what is that, coming apace?’
‘The king is riding at ease, amid the low sounds of laughter.’
‘Now’ said Balin; ‘Quick’ said Balan. And they leapt suddenly into the way with swords naked, hacking to the right hand and to the left, till the escort fled in fear of these devils from the woods and King Rience was left alone. Balin would have killed him had not the king yielded at once.
‘Good knights, slay me not,’ he cried. ‘My death shall win you nothing, but by my life you may profit.’
‘There’s truth in that,’ said the brothers gladly. So they bound him and laid him on a horse-litter and dragged him away. In the dawn they came to Camelot and delivered King Rience to the guards of the court, and went on their way to sleep. After a time, when King Arthur had broken his fast, he summoned the prisoner.
‘Sir king,’ he said, ‘take this welcome, such as it is. By what adventure came you here?’
‘By a hard adventure indeed.’
‘Who won you?’
‘The Knight with the Two Swords and his brother, two knights of great prowess.’
Arthur knew not these names but Merlin, who was standing by, said, ‘It was Balin and his brother Balan, both good men. There lives not a better knight than Balin. Yet how sad it is for him, because he shall not endure.’
And all marvelled that this knight was a man of such misfortune. At every step he had tried to do service to Arthur, his good and gracious lord. Yet every step was his undoing.
‘Now I owe him much,’ said Arthur, ‘and I have served him ill for his kindness. But where are these brothers?’
‘Balan you shall see no more,’ replied Merlin. ‘As for Balin, he will not be long from you. He is the one that shall give the Dolorous Stroke, from which shall fall great vengeance.’
‘I would to God he would abide with me,’ said Arthur, ‘for the sake of his life.’
Within a day or two after, King Arthur fell somewhat sick. He pitched his pavilion in a meadow and lay down to sleep. The day was comfortable and the air soft, but he got no rest. For very soon there came the clatter of a horse and a knight rode by making a great wail.
‘Why this sorrow?’ said Arthur, rising from his bed.
‘You can give me no help,’ replied the knight, and abruptly passed by.
Now, the king was displeased by this uncivil fellow and called Balin to him, saying, ‘Fetch that knight again, either by goodwill or force, for I would know why he mourns so greatly.’
But the knight would not return until Balin offered to take him by force. At this, the knight gave way and went along under Balin’s safe conduct. Hardly had they reached King Arthur’s pavilion when there came one invisible and thrust a spear right through the body of the sorrowing knight.
‘Alas, I am slain under your safe conduct,’ he cried to Balin. ‘It was Garlon that struck me. Take my horse, which is faster than yours, and ride to the forest, where you shall find a maiden. Follow my quest, as she shall lead you, and avenge my death.’
Thus was treachery done to the knight Sir Herlews by a certain Garlon, for which wrong Balin felt himself at fault. As he was a knight of chivalry, he swore revenge. He took the shaft of the spear to be a memorial for the knight’s lady, and rode with her on her quest. They had not ridden far when they met a knight out hunting who, after he had heard the sorrowful tale of the lady, offered to help them. They rode on together till they came to a hermitage by a churchyard. In this place of dread and strangeness there came all at once another invisible blow from Garlon that killed the knight who was called Perin.
Balin searched the empty air on all sides. ‘What is this traitor knight that rides invisible?’ he wondered. ‘Now he has wronged me twice.’
Around the hermitage lay only woods, and the sigh of the wind, and the distant song of birds. Balin buried the knight Perin and rode on with the maiden. Three or four days later they came to the house of a rich man who made them at ease. As they sat at supper, with many good things to eat and a great fire burning in the hall, Balin heard a grievous moan coming from a chair nearby.
‘What noise is that?’ said Balin, starting back.
‘Be not afraid,’ replied the host. ‘Lately I jousted with the brother of King Pellam and twice smote him down. But he took revenge on my son, who cried with pain, as you have just heard. He laments because he cannot be healed till he has some blood from the body of the knight that struck him. Alas, the knight rode away invisible and I do not know his name.’
‘Surely, I know that base fellow,’ said Balin. ‘He is Garlon, the same who has slain two knights that went with me. I would rather meet him now than have all the gold in the realm.’
It happened that King Pellam had ordered a great feast to be held within twenty days, that any knight could attend if he brought his wife or paramour.
‘Let us go,’ said the host, ‘for our enemy shall be there.’
‘Then I promise you,’ said Balin, ‘part of his blood to heal your son.’
They journeyed for fifteen days through a land that did not welcome them. The way was dark and rough. With relief they came to the castle, even though it was King Pellam’s castle. The feast was about to begin. The guards on the gate admitted Balin and the maiden, but the host must stay outside, for he had no lady. After Balin was bathed and dressed in clean clothes of the finest cloth, the steward of the castle would have removed his sword. But Balin stopped him, saying, ‘It is my custom to have my sword always by my side.’ So the steward let him be, and he went into the hall of the castle and sat among the worthy knights with his lady before him. And soon, after he had looked into every space and even into every crooked corner, Balin spoke in a low voice to one nearby, saying, ‘Is there not a knight here, whose name is Garlon?’
‘Yonder he goes, he with the black face. Is he not a marvel? For he may go invisible, and thus destroys many good men.’
Then Balin put his eye steadily on Garlon till Garlon noticed him. He came and smote Balin across the face with the back of his hand, saying, ‘Knight, why do you stare at me so? For shame, eat your meat and be gone.’
Balin rose up fiercely with his sword and cut Garlon’s head open to the shoulders. Then he took from his lady the shaft of the spear that she carried always in memory of her dead lover, and he drove it through the body of Garlon. ‘With that shaft,’ he cried, ‘you killed a good kn
ight, and now it sticks from your own gut.’ Therewith Balin called outside to his host, saying, ‘Here is blood enough to heal your son.’
At once, there was a riot in the hall. Men sprang up from the table and would have fallen on Balin had not King Pellam himself intervened. ‘For the love of my brother,’ the king shouted, ‘no hand but mine shall touch him. Knight, make ready, for you shall die.’
Then Pellam took in his hand a grim weapon and struck at Balin. The force of this blow shattered Balin’s sword and Balin turned and ran from chamber to chamber seeking a weapon, and always Pellam was close behind. At last, he came to a dim chamber ornamented with the richest cloths and coverings that ever man did see. There was a bed arrayed with cloth of gold, and a silent figure was shrouded within the bed. A table of gold stood on silver legs beside the bed. Upon the table was a spear, strong and sharp, all chased with wondrous work.
Balin snatched up the spear, then turned and let King Pellam run onto the weapon. The blood burst forth like a spring freshet, and the king swooned to the floor. The roof and walls crumbled and fell, and stones tumbled upon Balin so that he could not move hand or foot. The castle became nothing but a hill of stones, brought down by the Dolorous Stroke, and lay upon Pellam and Balin for three days.
After three days Merlin found Balin and took him from the ruins. He got him a good horse, for his was dead, and bade him ride out of that country.
‘Where is my maiden?’ said Balin. But Merlin answered him, saying, ‘Lo, see where she lies dead.’
Then Balin departed from Merlin with these words: ‘In this world we shall never meet more.’ So he rode through fair countries and towns, and found people dead, slain on every side. Those left alive cried in their pain, ‘O Balin, what damage you have caused! The Dolorous Stroke that you gave to King Pellam destroyed three countries. Do not doubt that vengeance will fall on you at last.’
Balin was glad to be past those lands. He rode eight days before he saw a tower in a forest, and beside it was a great warhorse tied to a tree. Nearby a knight sat on the ground, mourning. Loath to disturb him, Balin turned aside to admire the horse. But still he heard the knight’s lament. ‘Ah, lady,’ he groaned, ‘you promised to meet me here at noon. I curse the day that ever you gave me this sword, for with it I shall kill myself.’ At this, Balin ran forwards and held him fast.
‘Let go my hand,’ cried the knight, ‘or else I slay you.’
‘There is no need. I promise my help to find you your lady.’
‘What is your name?’
‘It is Balin le Savage.’
‘Ah, sir, I know you well enough. You are the Knight with the Two Swords. I am Garnish of the Mount, a poor man’s son, but by my hardiness Duke Hermel has made me a knight and given me lands. It is his daughter that I love, and she me, as I think.’
Then the two knights went together to her castle and searched for her from chamber to chamber. After a while Balin was weary of this and went outside to take the air. He went into a fair little garden and saw the lady under a laurel tree, lying on a quilt of green silk with a knight in her arms, in a fast embrace and kissing each other, with grass and herb under their heads. He was a foul knight, and she a fair lady. And when Garnish came and saw them, he went mad for sorrow and his mouth and nose burst with blood. Of a sudden he drew his sword and struck off both their heads. Then he turned on Balin, saying, ‘O Balin, you have brought me much sorrow, showing me this sight that I would have passed by.’
Balin protested. ‘I did it so that you should see and know her falsehood. God knows, I would have you do the same for me.’
But Garnish could not endure it. With no further word, he pulled his sword and thrust himself onto the blade up to the hilt.
‘Men suffer,’ cried Balin, ‘while I stand by.’ And with heart cast down he hurried away, lest folk should think he had slain all three. Where could he run to? Death was not so much. A good knight faced it willingly. But to keep it with you, like baggage in your train. So he went where his horse’s feet took him, and after three days he came to a cross set in the road, stamped with letters of gold that said: ‘No knight may ride alone towards this castle.’
He saw an aged man walking on the path, who stopped Balin with a thin hand. ‘Balin le Savage,’ he said, ‘turn back. You pass your bounds if you come this way.’
At this the man vanished. Then Balin heard a faint horn blow, as it would sound for the death of a beast. ‘That blast,’ he said, ‘is blown for me, for I am the prize and yet I am not dead.’
Then a crowd of ladies and many knights came with light steps to welcome him into the castle, where there was dancing and minstrelsy and all manner of joy. In the small hours the lady of the castle came to him and took him by the hand. ‘Knight with the Two Swords’ she said, smiling, ‘you must joust with the keeper of the island nearby. No man may pass here without a joust.’
‘This is an unhappy custom,’ replied Balin. ‘Travelling men are oft weary and their horses too. But though my horse be tired, my heart is ready. I am content that my death be here.’
‘Take my shield,’ said a knight beside Balin. ‘Yours is not good. I pray you, take this one that is bigger.’
He took the unknown shield and rode out to the shore of the lake.
The day was just breaking and the sun sat fair on the still water. The mountains lifted their heads into the sky, and the forest was as green as my lady’s silk gown. Balin put himself and his horse in a large boat for the island. When he came to the other side, a maiden saw him and cried, ‘O knight Balin, is that you I see? Why have you left your own shield? Your device was known, that men might see whom they fought. But now?’
‘I repent,’ Balin replied, ‘that ever I came to this country. But, for shame, I may not retreat. It is an honourable matter to take what adventure may come to me, be it life or death.’
Then he looked over his armour with great care, and he saw that he was well armed. He made the sign of the cross and mounted, and was ready.
He saw a knight riding towards him dressed all in red, and he himself was in the same colour. At a short distance, the red knight of the island stopped. He thought that this stranger might be his brother Balin, because of his two swords, but he knew not the device on the shield. Any knight might wear two swords. No matter: there was nothing to be done but to fight.
First one horse, and then the other, stirred into a gallop. The first clash was so fierce it sent both knights swooning to the ground. Balin rose slowly. He was weary of travel and bruised. At once Balan was upon him, and smote him again and again till Balin, reeling, made a hard reply with that unhappy sword. And so they fought till they staggered and their breaths failed. Then they sat apart a little and rested.
While he was panting for breath, Balin looked up to a tower nearby and saw that it was full of ladies. They waved their hands, making their long sleeves flutter, and flew ribbons, red and green, into the wind, and shouted good cheer unto the hurt men below.
‘Is it for them we fight?’ Balin wondered. ‘I do not know.’
They set to again and wounded each other sorely, and the earth about was all flecked with red. Their hauberks of mail were undone and gaping, and the naked flesh beneath gashed with seven wounds, to the least, and each wound was enough to kill the greatest giant.
At last, the younger brother, Balan, withdrew a little and sank onto the ground. Scarce able to kneel, his brother looked on him and marvelled. ‘What knight are you? Never before did I find a man that matched me.’
‘I am Balan, brother to the good knight Balin.’
Balin’s face blanched beneath the spent blood. ‘Alas,’ he cried, ‘that ever I should see this day.’ And he fell forwards to the grass as if he were dead.
Crawling on hands and feet, Balan went to his brother and pulled off the helm, but he hardly knew that face, so hacked and hewn and bleeding. ‘O Balin, my brother,’ he cried, ‘we have slain each other, and all the wide world will grieve for us. Alas, I knew y
ou not. I saw the two swords, but you bore another’s shield.’
When she saw that the knights were near to death, the lady of the tower brought helpers to bear them away. ‘We came both from one womb,’ said the brothers to her, ‘that is to say our mother’s belly. Let us lie at last both in one pit.’ And the lady, weeping, granted them their wish.
Balan soon died, but Balin lasted till the midnight hour. In the black night, with no noise, he gave up the ghost. And so they were buried both, and in the morn Merlin came and wrote on the tomb in golden letters:
Here lies Balin le Savage, the Knight with the Two Swords, he that gave the Dolorous Stroke.
The Fellowship of the Round Table
In the beginning of Arthur, after he was chosen king by fortune and by grace, many of the barons did not believe that he was Uther Pendragon’s son, and for this cause kings and lords made war against him.
‘Alas, I have had no rest,’ said Arthur, ‘not even for one month, since I was crowned king of this land. And I shall never rest until I have met all my enemies in a fair field. This I shall do in good time. For I swear that my true liege people shall not be destroyed through my default. Who shall help me? Go with me those of you that will, and abide with me to the end.’
The knights of his court and many others from the far parts of the land spoke to one another, saying, ‘You know well that Sir Arthur has the flower of the chivalry of the world with him. He is so courageous of himself that he comes to the field with few people, and still he triumphs, as he proved in the great battle with the eleven kings. Therefore let us hurry to join him, riding night and day.’
So many worthy knights came to his court.
Now, King Arthur for most of his days was ruled by the counsel of Merlin, and by this means he overcame many. He would not move, in war or peace, but by the advice of Merlin. So it happened one time that Arthur said to Merlin, ‘Though the barons give me no rest, it would ease my heart if I took a wife. Then I should have comfort. What say you?’
