The Once and Future King (#1-4)

by T. H. White

  ‘I dinna ken.’

  ‘How horrible it is to wait like this!’ he cried. ‘It must be worse for Gwen. Why can’t they bring her out at once, to have done with it?’

  ‘They will do so soon.’

  ‘And it is not her fault. Is it mine? Ought I to have refused to accept Mordred’s evidence and over—ridden the whole affair? Ought I to have acquitted her? I could have set my new law aside. Ought I to have done that?’

  ‘Ye might have done.’

  ‘I could have acted as I wished.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘But what would have happened to justice then? What would have been the consequence? Consequences, justice, bad deeds, babies drowned! I could see them about me, all last night.’

  Gawaine spoke quietly, in a changed voice.

  ‘Ye must forget sic things. Ye maun summon up your powers to what is difficult. Will ye do that?’

  The King held the arms of his throne.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I fear ye must come to the window. They are for bringing her out.’

  The old man made no movement, except that his fingers tightened on the wood. He sat staring in front of him. Then he pulled himself to his feet, taking his weight on the wrists, and went to his duty. Unless he was present at the execution, it would not be a legal one.

  ‘She is in a white shift.’

  They stood together quietly, watching like people who must not feel. There was a numbness in their crisis, which forced language into conversational levels.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘I dinna ken.’

  ‘Praying, I suppose.’

  ‘Aye. Yon is the bishop in front.’

  They examined the praying.

  ‘How strange they look.’

  ‘They are just ordinary.’

  ‘Do you think I could sit down,’ he asked, like a child, ‘now that I have shown myself?’

  ‘Ye maun stay.’

  ‘I don’t think I can.’

  ‘Ye must.’

  ‘But, Gawaine, if she were to glance up?’

  ‘If ye dinna stay, it willna be right at law.’

  Outside, in the foreshortened market—place under the window, they seemed to be singing a hymn. It was impossible to distinguish the words or melody. They could see the processional clerics busy about the decencies of death, and the twinkling knights standing motionless, and the people’s heads, like baskets of coco—nuts, round the outside of the square. It was not easy to see the Queen. She was too much obscured in the eddies of the ceremonial, being led in this and that direction, being converged upon by small coveys of officials or of confessors, being introduced to the executioner, being persuaded to kneel down and pray, being exhorted to stand up and make a speech, being aspersed, being given candles to hold, being forgiven and being asked to forgive, being carried patiently onward, being ushered out of life with circumstance and dignity. There was nothing dingy, at any rate, about a legal murder in the Age of Darkness.

  The King asked: ‘Can you see any rescue coming?’

  ‘Nay.’

  ‘It seems a long time.’

  Outside the window, the chanting ceased, making a distressing silence.

  ‘How much longer?’

  ‘Some minutes yet.’

  ‘They will let her pray?’

  ‘Aye, they will let her.’

  The old man suddenly asked: ‘Do you think we ought to pray?’

  ‘If ye wish it.’

  ‘Ought we to kneel down?’

  ‘I doubt it matters.’

  ‘What shall we say?’

  ‘I dinna ken.’

  ‘Shall I say the Our Father? It is all I can remember.’

  ‘That will do fine.’

  ‘Shall we say it together?’

  ‘If ye wish it.’

  ‘Gawaine, I fear I must kneel down.’

  ‘I will stand,’ said the laird of Orkney.

  ‘Now…’

  They were beginning their unprofessional petition, when the faint bugle sounded from beyond the market.

  ‘Whist, uncle!’

  The prayer fell at mid—word.

  ‘There are soldiers coming. Horses, I think!’

  Arthur was on his feet, was at the window.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The trumpet!’

  And now, clear, shrill, exultant, the song of brass was piercing the room itself. The King, shaking Gawaine by the elbow, with trembling voice began to cry: ‘My Lancelot! I knew he would!’

  Gawaine forced his heavy shoulders through the frame. They were jealous for the view.

  ‘Aye. It is Lancelot!’

  ‘Look at him. In silver.’

  ‘The argent, a bend gules!’

  ‘The bonnie rider!’

  ‘Look at them all!’

  Indeed, it was worth looking. The market—place was an avalanche, like a scene from the Wild West. The baskets of fruit were broken, so that the coco—nuts poured down. The knights of the guard were mounting, hopping beside their chargers with one foot in the stirrup, while each horse revolved about the axis of its rider. The acolytes were throwing away their censers. The priests were butting their way through the crowd. The bishop, who wanted to stay, was being bundled away towards the church, while his crosier came after him like a standard, carried high above the tumult by some faithful deacon. A canopy, which had been carried on four poles over somebody or something, was sinking with the poles askew, like a liner floundering in the Atlantic. The onrushing tide, of flashing cavalry with clanking arms and brassy music, poured into the square with feathers tossing as if they were the heads of Indians, their swords rising and falling like a strange machinery. Abandoned by the cluster of ministrants who had obscured her as the last rites were being offered, Guenever stood like a beacon. In her white shift, tied to the high stake, she remained motionless in the movement. She rode above them. The battle closed about her feet.

  ‘What spurring and plucking up of horses!’

  ‘Nae other body ever charged like yon.’

  ‘Oh, the poor guard!’

  Arthur was wringing his hands.

  ‘Some man is down.’

  ‘It is Segwarides.’

  ‘What a mêlée!’

  ‘His charges,’ stated the King vehemently, ‘were always irresistible, always. Ah, what a thrust!’

  ‘There goes Sir Pertilope.’

  ‘No. It is Perimones. It is his brother.’

  ‘Look at the braw swords in the sun. Look at the colours. Well struck, Sir Gillimer, well struck!’

  ‘No, no! Look at Lancelot. Look how he thrangs and rashes. There is Aglovale unhorsed. Look, he is coming to the Queen.’

  ‘Priamus will stop him.’

  ‘Priamus – nonsense! We shall win, Gawaine – we shall win!’

  The big fellow twisted round, grinning with enthusiasm.

  ‘Wha is We?’

  ‘Very well – “they” then, you chucklehead. Sir Lancelot, of course. He will win. There goes Sir Priamus.’

  ‘Sir Bors is down.’

  ‘No matter. They will horse Bors again in a minute. Here he is, coming to the Queen. Oh, look! He has brought her a kirtle and a gown.’

  ‘Aye, has he!’

  ‘My Lancelot would not let my Guenever be seen in her shift.’

  ‘He wouldna.’

  ‘He is putting them on her.’

  ‘She is smiling.’

  ‘Bless them both, the creatures. But oh, the foot—people!’

  ‘It is finished, ye might say.’

  ‘He won’t do more execution than he need. We can trust him for that?’

  ‘We can trust the man for that.’

  ‘Is that Damas under the horse?’

  ‘Aye. Damas had ever a red panache. I think they are for drawing off. How quick they have been!’

  ‘Guenever is up.’

  The bugle music touched the room again, a different call.<
br />
  ‘They must be away. That is the retreat. Lord, lord, will ye look at the confusion!’

  ‘I hope there are not many hurt. Can you see? Ought we to have gone to their help?’

  ‘There will be many stiff from this,’ said Gawaine.

  ‘The faithful guard.’

  ‘Above the dozen.’

  ‘My brave men! And it is my fault!’

  ‘I dinna see that it was the fault of any man particular: unless it was my brother’s, and he now dead. Aye, there gangs the last of them. Ye can see the Queen’s white gown above the press.’

  ‘Shall I wave to her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It would not be right?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, then, I suppose I must not. Still, it would have been nice to do something, as she is going.’

  Gawaine turned upon him with a swirl of affection.

  ‘Uncle Arthur,’ he said, ‘ye’re a grand man. I telled ye it would come to right.’

  ‘And you are a grand man, too, Gawaine, a good man and a kind one.’

  They kissed in the ancient way, joyfully, on both cheeks. ‘There,’ they said. ‘There.’

  ‘And now what is to be done?’

  ‘That is for you to say.’

  The old King looked about him as if he were searching for the thing to do. His age, the suggestion of infirmity, had lifted from him. He looked straighter. His cheeks were rosy. The crow’s feet round his eyes were beaming.

  ‘I think we ought to have a monstrous drink to begin with.’

  ‘Verra guid. Call the page.’

  ‘Page, page!’ he cried at the door. ‘Where the devil have you gone? Page! Here, you varmint, bring us some drink. What have you been doing? Watching your mistress being burned? And a very good sell for you!’

  The delighted child gave a squeak and rattled down the stairs again, which he was half—way up.

  ‘And then, after the drink?’ asked Gawaine.

  Arthur came back cheerfully, rubbing his hands.

  ‘I have not thought. Something will happen. Perhaps we can make Lancelot apologize, or some arrangement like that – and then he can come back. We could get him to explain that he was in the Queen’s bedroom because she had sent for him to pay the Meliagrance fee, as she had briefed him, and she didn’t want to have any talk about the payment. And then, of course, he had to rescue her, because he knew she was innocent. Yes, I think we could manage something like that. But they would have to behave themselves in future.’

  Gawaine’s enthusiasm had evaporated before his uncle’s. He spoke slowly, with his eyes on the floor.

  ‘I doubt…’ he began.

  The King looked at him.

  ‘I doubt ye will ever patch it up in full, while Mordred is on life.’

  Lifting the tapestry of the doorway with a pale hand, the ghostly creature in half—armour, its unarmed elbow in a sling, stood on the threshold.

  ‘Never,’ it said with the bitter drama of a perfect cue, ‘while Mordred is alive.’

  Arthur turned round in surprise. He surveyed the feverish eyes, then went to his son with a movement of concern.

  ‘Why, Mordred!’

  ‘Why, Arthur.’

  ‘Dinna speak to the King like yon. How dare ye?’

  ‘Do not speak to me at all.’

  Its toneless voice had stopped the King half—way. Now he pulled himself together.

  ‘Come,’ he said kindly. ‘It has been a terrible carnage, we know. We saw it from the window. But surely it is better that your aunt should be safe, and all the forms of justice satisfied…’

  ‘It has been a terrible carnage.’

  The voice was that of an automaton, but deep with meaning.

  ‘The foot—people…’

  ‘Trash.’

  Gawaine was turning on his half—brother like a mechanism. His whole body turned.

  ‘Mordred,’ he asked with a cumbrous accent. ‘Mordred, wha’ have ye left Sir Gareth?’

  ‘Where have I left them both?’

  The red man began to ejaculate, making his words fast.

  ‘Dinna ape me,’ he shouted. ‘Dinna cry like a parrot. Speak where they are.’

  ‘Go and look for them, Gawaine, among the people on the square.’

  Arthur began: ‘Gareth and Gaheris…’

  ‘Are lying in the market—place. It was difficult to recognize them, because of the blood.’

  ‘They are not hurt, surely? They were unarmed. They are not wounded?’

  ‘They are dead.’

  ‘Havers, Mordred.’

  ‘Havers, Gawaine.’

  ‘But they had no armour,’ protested the King.

  ‘They had no armour.’

  Gawaine said, with frightful emphasis: ‘Mordred, if ye are telling a lie…’

  ‘…the righteous Gawaine will slay the last of his kin.’

  ‘Mordred!’

  ‘Arthur,’ he replied. He turned on him a face of stone, insanely mixed between venom, blandness and misery.

  ‘If it is true, it is terrible. Who could have wanted to kill Gareth, and him unarmed?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘They were not even going to fight. They were going to stand by, because I told them to. Besides, Lancelot is Gareth’s best friend. The boy was friendly with the Ban family. It seems impossible. Are you sure you are not making a mistake?’

  Gawaine’s voice suddenly filled the room: ‘Mordred, wha killed my brothers?’

  ‘Who indeed?’

  He rushed upon the crooked man, towering with passion.

  ‘Who but Sir Lancelot, my husky friend.’

  ‘Liar! I must away to see.’

  He stumbled out of the room, still rushing, in the same charge which had taken him towards his brother.

  ‘But, Mordred, are you sure they are dead?’

  ‘The top of Gareth’s head was off,’ he said with indifference, ‘and he had a surprised expression. Gaheris had no expression, because his head was split in half.’

  The King was more puzzled than horrified. He said with wondering sorrow: ‘Lance could not have done it. He knew them…He loved them. They had no helmets on, so that he could recognize them. He knighted Gareth. He would never have done such a thing.’

  ‘No, of course.’

  ‘But you say he did.’

  ‘I say he did.’

  ‘It must have been a mistake.’

  ‘It must have been a mistake.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that the pure and fearless Knight of the Lake, whom you have allowed to cuckold you and carry off your wife, amused himself before he left by murdering my two brothers – both unarmed, and both his loving friends.’

  Arthur sat down on the bench. The little page, coming back with the ordered drink, bowed himself double.

  ‘Your drink, sir.’

  ‘Take it away.’

  ‘Sir Lucan the Butler says, sir, can he have some help to bring the wounded men in, sir, and is there any bandage linen?’

  ‘Ask Sir Bedivere.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Page,’ he cried, as the child went.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘How many casualties?’

  ‘They say twenty knights dead, sir. Sir Belliance the Orgulous, Sir Segwarides, Sir Griflet, Sir Brandiles, Sir Aglovale, Sir Tor, Sir Gauter, Sir Gillimer, Sir Reynold’s three brothers, Sir Damas, Sir Priamus, Sir Kay the Stranger, Sir Driant, Sir Lambegus, Sir Herminde, Sir Pertilope.’

  ‘But Gareth and Gaheris?’

  ‘I heard nothing of them, sir.’

  Blubbering and still running, the red, mountainous man was in the room once more. He was running to Arthur like a child. He was sobbing: ‘It is true! It is true! I found a man wha’ saw it done. Poor Gaheris and our wee brother Gareth – he has killed them both, unarmed.’

  He fell on his knees. He buried his sand—white head in the old King’s mantle.

  Chapter IX
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br />   On a bright winter day, six months later, Joyous Gard was invested. The sun shone at right—angles to the north wind, leaving the east side of the furrows white with frost. Outside the castle, the starlings and green plover searched anxiously in the stiff grass. The deciduous trees stood up in skeleton, like maps of the veins or of the nervous system. The cow—droppings, if you hit them, rang like wood. Everything had the colour of winter, the faded lichen green, like a green velvet cushion which has been left in the sun for years. The vein—trees, like the cushion, had a nap on their trunks. The conifers had it all over their funeral draperies. The ice crackled in the puddles and on the gellid moat. Joyous Gard itself stood up, a beautiful picture in the powerless sunshine.

  Lancelot’s castle was not forbidding. The old—fashioned keeps of Arthur’s accession had given place to a gaiety of defence, now difficult to imagine. You must not picture it like the ruined strongholds, with mortar crumbling between the stones, which you see today. It was plastered. They had put chrome in the plaster, so that it was faintly gold. Its slated turrets, conical in the French fashion, crowded from complicated battlements in a hundred unexpected aspirations. There were little fantastic bridges, covered like the Bridge of Sighs, from this chapel to that tower. There were outside staircases, going heaven knows where – perhaps to heaven. Chimneys suddenly soared out of machicolations. Real stained—glass windows, high up and out of danger, gleamed where once there had been blank walls. Bannerettes, crucifixes, gargoyles, water—spouts, weather—cocks, spires and belfries crowded the angled roofs – roofs going this way and that, sometimes of red tile, sometimes of mossy stone, sometimes of slate. The place was a town, not a castle. It was light pastry, not the dour unleavened bread of old Dunlothian.

  Round the joyful castle there was the camp of its besiegers. Kings, in those days, took their household tapestries with them on campaign, which was a measure of the kind of camps they had. The tents were red, green, checkered, striped. Some of them were of silk. In a maze of colour and guy—ropes, of tent—pegs and tall spears, of chess—players and sutlers, of tapestried interiors and of gold plate, Arthur of England had sat down to starve his friend.

  Lancelot and Guenever were standing by a log fire in the hall. Fires were no longer lit in the middle of the rooms, leaving the smoke to escape as best it could through lanterns. Here there was a proper fireplace, richly carved with the arms and supporters of Benwick, and half a tree smouldered in the grate. The ice outside had made the ground too slippery for horses. So it was a day of truce, though undeclared.