The Once and Future King (#1-4)

by T. H. White

  ‘Good heavens!’ cried Sir Kay. ‘I have left my sword at home.’

  ‘Can’t joust without a sword,’ said Sir Grummore. ‘Quite irregular.’

  ‘Better go and fetch it,’ said Sir Ector. ‘You have time.’

  ‘My squire will do,’ said Sir Kay. ‘What a damned mistake to make! Here, squire, ride hard back to the inn and fetch my sword. You shall have a shilling if you fetch it in time.’

  The Wart went as pale as Sir Kay was, and looked as if he were going to strike him. Then he said, ‘It shall be done, master,’ and turned his ambling palfrey against the stream of newcomers. He began to push his way toward their hostelry as best he might.

  ‘To offer me money!’ cried the Wart to himself. ‘To look down at this beastly little donkey—affair off his great charger and to call me Squire! Oh, Merlyn, give me patience with the brute, and stop me from throwing his filthy shilling in his face.’

  When he got to the inn it was closed. Everybody had thronged to see the famous tournament, and the entire household had followed after the mob. Those were lawless days and it was not safe to leave your house – or even to go to sleep in it – unless you were certain that it was impregnable. The wooden shutters bolted over the downstairs windows were two inches thick, and the doors were double—barred.

  ‘Now what do I do,’ asked the Wart, ‘to earn my shilling?’

  He looked ruefully at the blind little inn, and began to laugh.

  ‘Poor Kay,’ he said. ‘All that shilling stuff was only because he was scared and miserable, and now he has good cause to be. Well, he shall have a sword of some sort if I have to break into the Tower of London.

  ‘How does one get hold of a sword?’ he continued. ‘Where can I steal one? Could I waylay some knight, even if I am mounted on an ambling pad, and take his weapon by force? There must be some swordsmith or armourer in a great town like this, whose shop would be still open.’

  He turned his mount and cantered off the street. There was a quiet churchyard at the end of it, with a kind of square in front of the church door. In the middle of the square there was a heavy stone with an anvil on it, and a fine new sword was stuck through the anvil.

  ‘Well,’ said the Wart, ‘I suppose it is some sort of war memorial, but it will have to do. I am sure nobody would grudge Kay a war memorial, if they knew his desperate straits.’

  He tied his reins round a post of the lych—gate, strode up the gravel path, and took hold of the sword.

  ‘Come, sword,’ he said. ‘I must cry your mercy and take you for a better cause.

  ‘This is extraordinary,’ said the Wart. ‘I feel strange when I have hold of this sword, and I notice everything much more clearly. Look at the beautiful gargoyles of the church, and of the monastery which it belongs to. See how splendidly all the famous banners in the aisle are waving. How nobly that yew holds up the red flakes of its timbers to worship God. How clean the snow is. I can smell something like fetherfew and sweet briar – and is it music that I hear?’

  It was music, whether of pan—pipes or of recorders, and the light in the churchyard was so clear, without being dazzling, that one could have picked a pin out twenty yards away.

  ‘There is something in this place,’ said the Wart. ‘There are people. Oh, people, what do you want?’

  Nobody answered him, but the music was loud and the light beautiful.

  ‘People,’ cried the Wart, ‘I must take this sword. It is not for me, but for Kay. I will bring it back.’

  There was still no answer, and Wart turned back to the anvil. He saw the golden letters, which he did not read, and the jewels on the pommel, flashing in the lovely light.

  ‘Come, sword,’ said the Wart.

  He took hold of the handles with both hands, and strained against the stone. There was a melodious consort on the recorders, but nothing moved.

  The Wart let go of the handles, when they were beginning to bite into the palms of his hands, and stepped back, seeing stars.

  ‘It is well fixed,’ he said.

  He took hold of it again and pulled with all his might. The music played more strongly, and the light all about the churchyard glowed like amethysts; but the sword still stuck.

  ‘Oh, Merlyn,’ cried the Wart, ‘help me to get this weapon.’

  There was a kind of rushing noise, and a long chord played along with it. All round the churchyard there were hundreds of old friends. They rose over the church wall all together, like the Punch and Judy ghosts of remembered days, and there were badgers and nightingales and vulgar crows and hares and wild geese and falcons and fishes and dogs and dainty unicorns and solitary wasps and corkindrills and hedgehogs and griffins and the thousand other animals he had met. They loomed round the church wall, the lovers and helpers of the Wart, and they all spoke solemnly in turn. Some of them had come from the banners in the church, where they were painted in heraldry, some from the waters and the sky and the fields about – but all, down to the smallest shrew mouse, had come to help on account of love. Wart felt his power grow.

  ‘Put your back into it,’ said a Luce (or pike) off one of the heraldic banners, ‘as you once did when I was going to snap you up. Remember that power springs from the nape of the neck.’

  ‘What about those forearms,’ asked a badger gravely, ‘that are held together by a chest? Come along, my dear embryo, and find your tool.’

  A Merlin sitting at the top of the yew tree cried out, ‘Now then, Captain Wart, what is the first law of the foot? I thought I once heard something about never letting go?’

  ‘Don’t work like a stalling woodpecker,’ urged a Tawny Owl affectionately. ‘Keep up a steady effort, my duck, and you will have it yet.’

  A white—front said, ‘Now, Wart, if you were once able to fly the great North Sea, surely you can co—ordinate a few little wing—muscles here and there? Fold your powers together, with the spirit of your mind, and it will come out like butter. Come along, Homo sapiens, for all we humble friends of yours are waiting here to cheer.’

  The Wart walked up to the great sword for the third time. He put out his right hand softly and drew it out as gently as from a scabbard.

  There was a lot of cheering, a noise like a hurdy—gurdy which went on and on. In the middle of this noise, after a long time, he saw Kay and gave him the sword. The people at the tournament were making a frightful row.

  ‘But this is not my sword,’ said Sir Kay.

  ‘It was the only one I could get,’ said the Wart. ‘The inn was locked.’

  ‘It is a nice—looking sword. Where did you get it?’

  ‘I found it stuck in a stone, outside a church.’

  Sir Kay had been watching the tilting nervously, waiting for his turn. He had not paid much attention to his squire.

  ‘That is a funny place to find one,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it was stuck through an anvil.’

  ‘What?’ cried Sir Kay suddenly rounding upon him. ‘Did you just say this sword was stuck in a stone?’

  ‘It was,’ said the Wart. ‘It was a sort of war memorial.’

  Sir Kay stared at him for several seconds in amazement, opened his mouth, shut it again, licked his lips, then turned his back and plunged through the crowd. He was looking for Sir Ector, and the Wart followed after him.

  ‘Father,’ cried Sir Kay, ‘come here a moment.’

  ‘Yes, my boy,’ said Sir Ector. ‘Splendid falls these professional chaps do manage. Why, what’s the matter, Kay? You look as white as a sheet.’

  ‘Do you remember that sword which the King of England would pull out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, here it is. I have it. It is in my hand. I pulled it out.’

  Sir Ector did not say anything silly. He looked at Kay and he looked at the Wart. Then he stared at Kay again, long and lovingly, and said, ‘We will go back to the church.’

  ‘Now then, Kay,’ he said, when they were at the church door. He looked at his first—born kindly, but straight be
tween the eyes. ‘Here is the stone, and you have the sword. It will make you the King of England. You are my son that I am proud of, and always will be, whatever you do. Will you promise me that you took it out by your own might?’

  Kay looked at his father. He also looked at the Wart and at the sword.

  Then he handed the sword to the Wart quite quietly.

  He said, ‘I am a liar. Wart pulled it out.’

  As far as the Wart was concerned, there was a time after this in which Sir Ector kept telling him to put the sword back into the stone – which he did – and in which Sir Ector and Kay then vainly tried to take it out. The Wart took it out for them, and stuck it back again once or twice. After this, there was another time which was more painful.

  He saw that his dear guardian was looking quite old and powerless, and that he was kneeling down with difficulty on a gouty knee.

  ‘Sir,’ said Sir Ector, without looking up, although he was speaking to his own boy.

  ‘Please do not do this, father,’ said the Wart, kneeling down also. ‘Let me help you up, Sir Ector, because you are making me unhappy.’

  ‘Nay, nay, my lord,’ said Sir Ector, with some very feeble old tears. ‘I was never your father nor of your blood, but I wote well ye are of an higher blood than I wend ye were.’

  ‘Plenty of people have told me you are not my father,’ said the Wart, ‘but it does not matter a bit.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Sir Ector humbly, ‘will ye be my good and gracious lord when ye are King?’

  ‘Don’t!’ said the Wart.

  ‘Sir,’ said Sir Ector, ‘I will ask no more of you but that you will make my son, your foster—brother, Sir Kay, seneschal of all your lands?’

  Kay was kneeling down too, and it was more than the Wart could bear.

  ‘Oh, do stop,’ he cried. ‘Of course he can be seneschal, if I have got to be this King, and, oh, father, don’t kneel down like that, because it breaks my heart. Please get up, Sir Ector, and don’t make everything so horrible. Oh, dear, oh, dear, I wish I had never seen that filthy sword at all.’

  And the Wart also burst into tears.

  Chapter XXIV

  Perhaps there ought to be a chapter about the coronation. The barons naturally kicked up a fuss, but, as the Wart was prepared to go on putting the sword into the stone and pulling it out again till Doomsday, and as there was nobody else who could do the thing at all, in the end they had to give in. A few Gaelic ones revolted, who were quelled later, but in the main the people of England and the partisans like Robin were glad to settle down. They were sick of the anarchy which had been their portion under Uther Pendragon: sick of overlords and feudal giants, of knights who did what they pleased, of racial discrimination, and of the rule of Might as Right.

  The coronation was a splendid ceremony. What was still more splendid, it was like a birthday or Christmas Day. Everybody sent presents to the Wart, for his prowess in having learned to pull swords out of stones, and several burghers of the City of London asked him to help them in taking stoppers out of unruly bottles, unscrewing taps which had got stuck, and in other household emergencies which had got beyond their control. The Dog Boy and Wat clubbed together and sent him a mixture for the distemper, which contained quinine and was absolutely priceless. Lyó—lyok sent him some arrows made with her own feathers. Cavall came simply, and gave him his heart and soul. The Nurse of the Forest Sauvage sent a cough mixture, thirty dozen handkerchiefs all marked, and a pair of combinations with a double chest. The sergeant sent him his crusading medals, to be preserved by the nation. Hob lay awake in agony all night, and sent off Cully with brand—new white leather jesses, silver varvels and silver bell. Robin and Marian went on an expedition which took them six weeks, and sent a whole gown made out of the skins of pine martens. Little John added a yew bow, seven feet long, which he was quite unable to draw. An anonymous hedgehog sent four or five dirty leaves with fleas on them. The Questing Beast and King Pellinore put their heads together and sent some of their most perfect fewmets, wrapped up in the green leaves of spring, in a golden horn with a red velvet baldrick. Sir Grummore sent a gross of spears, with the old school crest on all of them. The cooks, tenants, villeins and retainers of The Castle of the Forest Sauvage, who were given an angel each and sent up for the ceremony in an oxdrawn char—à—banc at Sir Ector’s charge, brought an enormous silver model of cow Crumbocke, who had won the championship for the third time, and Ralph Passelewe to sing at the coronation banquet. Archimedes sent his own great—great—grandson, so that he could sit on the back of the King’s throne at dinner, and make messes on the floor. The Lord Mayor and Aldermen of the City of London subscribed for a spacious aquarium—mews—cum—menagerie at the Tower in which all the creatures were starved one day a week for the good of their stomachs – and here, for the fresh food, good bedding, constant attention, and every modern convenience, the Wart’s friends resorted in their old age on wing and foot and fin, for the sunset of their happy lives. The citizens of London sent fifty million pounds, to keep the menagerie up, and the Ladies of Britain constructed a pair of black velvet carpet slippers with the Wart’s initials embroidered in gold. Kay sent his own record griffin, with honest love. There were many other tasteful presents, from various barons, archbishops, princes, land—graves, tributary kings, corporations, popes, sultans, royal commissions, urban district councils, czars, beys, mahatmas, and so forth, but the nicest present of all was sent most affectionately by his own guardian, old Sir Ector. This present was a dunce’s cap, rather like a pharaoh’s serpent, which you lit at the top end. The Wart lit it, and watched it grow. When the flame had quite gone out, Merlyn was standing before him in his magic hat.

  ‘Well, Wart,’ said Merlyn, ‘here we are – or were – again. How nice you look in your crown. I was not allowed to tell you before, or since, but your father was, or will be, King Uther Pendragon, and it was I myself, disguised as a beggar, who first carried you to Sir Ector’s castle, in your golden swaddling bands. I know all about your birth and parentage and who gave you your real name. I know the sorrows before you, and the joys, and how there will never again be anybody who dares to call you by the friendly name of Wart. In future it will be your glorious doom to take up the burden and to enjoy the nobility of your proper title: so now I shall crave the privilege of being the very first of your subjects to address you with it – as my dear liege lord, King Arthur.’

  ‘Will you stay with me for a long time?’ asked the Wart, not understanding much of this.

  ‘Yes, Wart,’ said Merlyn. ‘Or rather, as I should say (or is it have said?), Yes, King Arthur.’

  EXPLICIT LIBER PRIMUS

  INCIPIT LIBER SECUNDUS

  THE WITCH IN THE WOOD

  When shall I be dead and rid

  Of the wrong my father did?

  How long, how long, till spade and hearse

  Put to sleep my mother’s curse?

  Chapter I

  There was a round tower with a weather—cock on it. The weather—cock was a carrion crow, with an arrow in its beak to point to the wind.

  There was a circular room at the top of the tower, curiously uncomfortable. It was draughty. There was a closet on the east side which had a hole in the floor. The hole commanded the outer doors of the tower, of which there were two, and people could drop stones through it when they were besieged. Unfortunately the wind used to come up through the hole and go pouring out of the unglazed shot—windows or up the chimney – unless it happened to be blowing the other way, in which case it went downward. It was like a wind tunnel. A second nuisance was that the room was full of peat smoke, not from its own fire but from the fire in the room below. The complicated system of draughts sucked the smoke down the chimney. The stone walls sweated in damp weather. The furniture itself was uncomfortable. It consisted solely of heaps of stones – which were handy for throwing down the hole – together with a few rusty Genoese cross—bows with their bolts and a pile of turfs for the unlit fire. The four chi
ldren had no bed. If it had been a square room, they might have had a cupboard bed, but, as it was they had to sleep on the floor – where they covered themselves with straw and plaids as best they could.

  The children had erected an amateur tent over their heads, out of the plaids, and under this they were lying close together, telling a story. They could hear their mother stoking the fire in the room below, which made them whisper for fear that she could hear. It was not exactly that they were afraid of being beaten if she came up. They adored her dumbly and uncritically, because her character was stronger than theirs. Nor had they been forbidden to talk after bedtime. It was more as if she had brought them up – perhaps through indifference or through laziness or even through some kind of possessive cruelty – with an imperfect sense of right and wrong. It was as if they could never know when they were being good or when they were being bad.

  They were whispering in Gaelic. Or rather, they were whispering in a strange mixture of Gaelic and of the Old Language of chivalry – which had been taught to them because they would need it when they were grown. They had little English. In later years, when they became famous knights at the court of the great king, they were to speak English perfectly – all of them except Gawaine, who, as the head of the clan, was to cling to a Scots accent on purpose, to show that he was not ashamed of his birth.

  Gawaine was telling the story, because he was the eldest. They lay together, like thin, strange, secret frogs, their bodies well—boned and ready to fill out into toughness as soon as they might be given decent nourishment. They were fair—haired. Gawaine’s was bright red and Gareth’s whiter than hay. They ranged from ten years old to fourteen, and Gareth was the youngest of the four. Gaheris was a stolid child. Agravaine, the next after Gawaine, was the bully of the family – he was shifty, inclined to cry, and frightened of pain. It was because he had a good imagination and used his head more than the others.