The Once and Future King (43 page)

Elaine arrived at the yawning barbican, and Guenever kissed her coolly. ‘You are welcome to Camelot,’ she said. ‘Five thousand welcomes.’

‘Thank you,’ said Elaine.

They looked at each other with hostile, smiling faces.

‘Lancelot will be delighted to see you.’

‘Oh!’

‘Everybody knows about the baby, dear. There is nothing to
be shy about. The King and I are quite excited to see whether he will be like his father.’

‘It is kind of you,’ said Elaine uncomfortably.

‘You must let me be the first to see him. You have called him Galahad, have you not? Is he strong? Does he notice things?’

‘He weighs fifteen pounds,’ the girl announced with pride. ‘You can see him now if you like.’

Guenever took hold of herself with an effort which was hardly noticeable, and began fussing with Elaine’s wraps.

‘No, dear,’ she said. ‘I must not be so selfish as that. You must rest after your long journey, and probably Baby will have to be settled down. I can come to see him this evening, when he has had a sleep. There will be plenty of time.’

But she had to see the baby in the end.

When Lancelot next met the Queen, her sweetness and reason were gone. She was cold and proud, and spoke as if she were addressing a meeting.

‘Lancelot,’ she said, ‘I think you ought to go to your son. Elaine is grieving because you have not been to see him.’

‘Have you seen him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is he ugly?’

‘He takes after Elaine.’

‘Thank God. I will go at once.’

The Queen called him back.

‘Lancelot,’ she said, taking a breath through her nose, ‘I am trusting you not to make love to Elaine under my roof. If you and I are to keep apart until it is settled, it is only fair that you should keep away from her.’

‘I don’t want to make love to Elaine.’

‘You must say that, of course. And I will believe you. But if you break your word this time, it will be finished between us. Absolutely finished.’

‘I have said all I can say.’

‘Lancelot, you have deceived me once, so how can I be sure? I have put Elaine in the next room to mine, and I shall see if you go to it. I want you to keep in your own room.’

‘If you like.’

‘I shall send for you some time tonight, if I can get away from Arthur. I will not tell you when. If you are not in your room when I send for you, I shall know that you are with Elaine.’

The girl was weeping in her chamber, while Dame Brisen arranged the cradle for the little boy.

‘I saw him in the archery butts, and he saw me too. But he looked away. He made an excuse and went out. He has not even seen our baby.’

‘There, there,’ said Dame Brisen. ‘Lawks a mussy.’

‘I ought not to have come. It has only made me more miserable, and him too.’

‘’Tis that there Queen.’

‘She is beautiful, isn’t she?’

The Dame said darkly: ‘Handsome is as handsome does.’

Elaine began to sob helplessly. She looked repulsive, with her red nose, as people do when they abdicate their dignity.

‘I wanted him to be pleased.’

There was a knock on the door, and Lancelot came in – which made her quickly dry the eyes. They greeted each other with constraint.

‘I am glad you have come to Camelot,’ he said. ‘I hope you are well?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘How is – the baby?’

‘Your lordship’s son,’ said Dame Brisen with emphasis.

She turned the cradle towards him, and moved back so that he could see.

‘My son.’

They stood looking down at the fresh thing, helpless and only half alive. They were strong, as the poet sings, and it was weak – one day they would be weak, and it strong.

‘Galahad,’ said Elaine, and she leaned over the wrappings, making the foolish gestures and meaningless sounds which mothers delight to use when their babies are beginning to pay
attention. Galahad clenched his fist and hit himself in the eye with it, an achievement which seemed to give pleasure to the women. Lancelot watched them in amazement. ‘My son,’ he thought. ‘It is part of me, yet it is fair. It does not seem to be ugly. How can you tell with babies?’ He held out his right finger to Galahad, putting it inside the fat palm of his hand, which clutched it. The hand looked as if it had been fitted to the arm by a cunning doll maker. There was a deep crease round the wrist.

‘Oh, Lancelot!’ cried Elaine.

She tried to throw herself into his arms, but he pushed her off. He looked at Brisen over her shoulder with fear and exasperation. He made a wild, senseless sound – and rushed out of the room. Elaine, unsupported, sank down beside the bed and began to sob more than ever. Brisen, standing rigid, as she had stood to bear Sir Lancelot’s glare, looked at the closed door with an inscrutable expression.

In the morning he and Elaine were summoned to the Queen’s chamber. He, for his part, went with a kind of happiness. He was remembering how Guenever must have pleaded illness on the previous evening, so as to leave the King’s room. Her lover had been sent for in the darkness. The usual conniving hand had led him by the finger on tiptoe to the chosen bed. In the silence forced on them by being next to Arthur’s chamber, but in passionate tenderness, they had done their best to make it up. Lancelot was happier today than he had been since the story of Elaine started. He felt that if he could only persuade his Guenever to make a clean break with the King, so that everything was in the open, there might still be a possibility of honour.

Guenever was stiff, as if she were in a rigor, and her face was drained white – except that there was a red spot on either side
of her nostrils. She looked as if she had been seasick. She was alone.

‘So,’ said the Queen.

Elaine looked straight in her blue eyes, but Lancelot stopped as if he had been shot.

‘So.’

They stood, waiting for Guenever to speak or die.

‘Where did you go last night?’

‘I –’

‘Don’t tell me,’ shouted the Queen, moving her hand so that they could see a ball of handkerchief in it, which she had torn to pieces. ‘Traitor! Traitor! Get out of my castle with your strumpet.’

‘Last night –’ said Lancelot. His head was whirling with a desperation which neither of the women noticed.

‘Don’t speak to me. Don’t lie to me. Go!’

Elaine said calmly: ‘Sir Lancelot was in my room last night. My woman Brisen brought him in the dark.’

The Queen began pointing at the door. She made stabbing movements at it with her finger, and, in her trembling, her hair began to come down. She looked hideous.

‘Get out! Get out! And you go too, you animal! How dare you speak so in my castle? How dare you admit it to me? Take your fancy man and go!’

Lancelot was breathing heavily and looking upon the Queen with a fixed stare. He might have been unconscious.

‘He thought he was coming to you,’ said Elaine. She had her hands folded together, and watched the Queen passively.

‘The old lie!’

‘It is not a lie,’ said Elaine. ‘I could not live without him. Brisen helped me to pretend.’

Guenever ran up to her with tottering steps. She wanted to hit Elaine in the mouth, but the girl did not move. It was as if she was hoping that Guenever would hit her.

‘Liar!’ screamed the Queen.

She ran back to Lancelot, where he had sat down on a chest and was staring blankly at the floor, with his head between his
hands. She caught hold of his mantle and began pushing or heaving him toward the door, but he would not move.

‘So you taught her the story! Why couldn’t you think of a new one? You might have given me something interesting. I suppose you thought the old, stale stuff would do?’

‘Jenny –’ he said, without looking up.

The Queen tried to spit on him, but she had never practised spitting.

‘How dare you call me Jenny? You are reeking of her still. I am the Queen, the Queen of England! I am not your trull!’

‘Jenny –’

‘Get out of my castle,’ screamed the Queen at the top of her voice, ‘Never show your face in it again. Your evil, ugly, beast—like face.’

Lancelot suddenly said to the floor, in a loud voice: ‘Galahad!’

Then he took down his hands from his head and looked up, so that they could see the face she spoke of. It had a surprised look, and one of the eyes had begun to squint.

He said, more quietly: ‘Jenny.’ But he looked like a blind man.

The Queen opened her mouth to say something, though nothing came out.

‘Arthur,’ he said. Then he gave a loud shriek, and jumped straight out of the window, which was on the first floor. They could hear him crash into some bushes, with a crump and crackle of boughs, and then he was running off through the trees and shrubbery with a loud sort of warbling cry, like hounds hunting. The hullabaloo faded into the distance, and there was silence in the chamber with the women.

Elaine, who was now as white as the Queen had been but still held herself proud and upright, said: ‘You have driven him mad. His wits must have been weak.’

Guenever said nothing.

‘Why have you driven him mad?’ asked Elaine. ‘You have a fine husband of your own, the greatest in the land. You are a Queen, with honour and happiness and a home. I had no home,
and no husband, and my honour was gone too. Why would you not let me have him?’

The Queen was silent.

‘I loved him,’ said Elaine. ‘I bore a fine son for him, who will be the best knight of the world.’

‘Elaine,’ said Guenever, ‘go away from my court.’

‘I am going.’

Guenever suddenly caught her by the skirt.

‘Don’t tell anybody,’ she said quickly. ‘Don’t say anything about what happened. It will be his death if you do.’

Elaine freed the skirt.

‘Did you expect I would?’

‘But what are we to do?’ cried the Queen. ‘Is he mad? Will he get better? What will happen? Ought we to do something? What are we to say?’

Elaine would not stay to talk with her. At the door, however, she turned with a trembling lip.

‘Yes, he is mad,’ she said. ‘You have won him, and you have broken him. What will you do with him next?’

When the door was closed, Guenever sat down. She dropped her tattered handkerchief. Then – slowly, deeply, primitively – she began to cry. She put her face in her hands and throbbed with sorrow. (Sir Bors, who did not care for the Queen, once said to her: ‘Fie on your weeping, for ye weep never but when there is no boot.’)

King Pelles was sitting in the solar with Sir Bliant two years later. It was a fine winter morning with the fields frosted, no wind, and a light fog which was not enough to confuse the pigeons. Sir Bliant, who had been staying the night, was dressed in scarlet furred with miniver. His horse and squire were in the courtyard, ready to take him back to Castle Bliant, but the two men were having their elevenses before he started. Sitting with
their hands spread to the splendid log fire, they sipped their mulled wine, nibbled pastry, and talked about the Wild Man.

‘I am sure he must have been a gentleman,’ said Sir Bliant. ‘He kept doing things which nobody but a gentleman would do. He had a natural leaning to arms.’

‘Where is he now?’ asked King Pelles.

‘God he knows. He vanished one morning when the hounds were at Castle Bliant. But I am sure he was a gentleman.’

They sipped and gazed into the flames.

‘If you want to have my opinion,’ added Sir Bliant, lowering his voice, ‘I believe he was Sir Lancelot.’

‘Nonsense,’ said the King.

‘He was tall and strong.’

‘Sir Lancelot is dead,’ said the King. ‘God be good to him. Everybody knows that.’

‘It was not proved.’

‘If he had been Sir Lancelot, you could not have mistaken him. He was the ugliest man I have ever seen.’

‘I never met him,’ said Sir Bliant.

‘It was proved that Lancelot ran mad in his shirt and breeches, until he got gored by a wild boar and died in a hermitage.’

‘When was that?’

‘Last Christmas.’

‘It was about the same time that my Wild Man ran away with the hunt. Ours was a boar hunt too.’

‘Well,’ said King Pelles, ‘they
may
have been the same person. If they were, it is interesting. How did your fellow arrive?’

‘It was during the summer questing, the year before last. I had my pavilion pitched in a fair meadow, in the usual way, and I was inside it, waiting for something to turn up. I was playing chess, I remember. Then there was a frightful row outside, and I went out, and there was this naked lunatic lashing on my shield. My dwarf was sitting on the ground, rubbing his neck – the maniac had half broken it – and he was calling out for help. I went to the fellow and said: “Look here, my good man, you don’t want to be fighting me. Come now, you lay
down that sword and be a good chap.” He had got hold of one of my own swords, you know, and I could see that he was mad straightway. I said: “You ought not to be fighting, old boy. I can see that what you need is a good sleep and something to eat.” And, really, he did look dreadful. He was like a man who had been watching a passager for three nights. His eyeballs were bright red.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He just said: “As for that, come not too nigh: for, an thou do, wit thou well I will slay thee.”’

‘Strange.’

‘Yes, it was strange, wasn’t it? That he should have known the high language, I mean.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Well, I was only in my gown, and the man looked dangerous. I went back into the pavilion and did on my armour.’

King Pelles handed him another pasty, which Sir Bliant accepted with a nod.

‘When I was armed,’ he went on, with his mouth full, ‘I went out with a spare sword to disarm the chap. I did not intend to strike him, or anything like that, but he was a homicidal maniac and there was no other way of getting the sword from him. I went up to him like you do to a dog, holding out my hand and saying, “There’s a poor fellow: come now, there’s a good chap.” I thought it would be easy.’

‘Was it?’

‘The moment he saw me in armour, and with a sword, he came straight at me like a tiger. I never saw such an attack. I tried to parry a bit, and I dare say I would have killed him in self—defence, if he had given me a chance. But the next thing I knew was that I was sitting on the ground, and my nose and ears were bleeding. He had given me a buffet, you know, which troubled my brains.’

‘Goodness,’ said King Pelles.

‘The next thing he did was to throw away his sword and rush straight into the pavilion. My poor wife was there, in bed, with no clothes on. But he just jumped straight into bed with her,
snatched the coverlet, rolled himself up in it, and went fast asleep.’

‘Must have been a married man,’ said King Pelles.

‘The wife gave some frightful shrieks, hopped out of bed on the other side, jumped into her smock, and came running out to me. I was still a bit astonished, lying on the ground, so she thought I was dead. I can tell you we had a fine to—do.’

‘Did he sleep right through it?’

‘He slept like a log. We managed to pull ourselves together eventually, and the wife put one of my gauntlets down my neck to stop the nosebleed, and then we talked it over. My dwarf, who is a splendid little chap, said we ought not to do him any harm, because he was touched by God. As a matter of fact, it was the dwarf who suggested that he might be Sir Lancelot. There was a good deal of talk about the Lancelot mystery that year.’

Sir Bliant paused to take another bite.

‘In the end,’ he said, ‘we took him to Castle Bliant in a horse litter, bed and all. He never stirred. When we got him there, we tied his hands and feet against the hour when he would wake up. I am sorry about it now, but we could not chance it according to what we knew at the time. We kept him in a comfortable room, with clean clothes, and the wife gave him a lot of nourishing food, to build up his strength, but we thought it best to keep him handcuffed all the same. We kept him for a year and a half.’

‘How did he get away?’

‘I was coming to that. It is the plum of the story. One afternoon I was out in the forest for half an hour’s questing, when I was set upon by two knights from behind.’

‘Two knights?’ asked the King. ‘From behind?’

‘Yes. Two of them, and from behind. It was Sir Bruce Saunce Pité and a friend of his.’

King Pelles thumped his knee.

‘That man,’ he exclaimed, ‘is a public menace. I can’t think why somebody doesn’t do away with him.’

‘The trouble is to catch the fellow. However, I was telling
you about the Wild Man. Sir Bruce and the other one had me at a considerable disadvantage, as you will admit, and I regret to say that I was compelled to run away.’

Sir Bliant stopped and gazed into the fire. Then he cheered up.

‘Ah, well,’ he said, ‘we can’t all be heroes, can we?’

‘Not all,’ said King Pelles.

‘I was sore wounded,’ said Sir Bliant, discovering a formula, ‘and I felt myself faint.’

‘Quite.’

‘These two came galloping with me all the way to the Castle, one on either side, and they kept hitting me all the time. I don’t know to this day how I got away with my life.’

‘It was written in the Stones,’ said the King.

‘We rode past the barbican loopholes, hell—for—leather, and it was there that the Wild Man must have seen us. We kept him in the barbican chamber, you know. Well, he saw us at all events, and we found out afterwards that he broke his fetters with his bare hands. They were iron fetters, and he had them on his ankles also. He wounded himself dreadfully doing it. Then he came hurling out of the postern, with his hands all bloody and the chains flying about him, and he pulled Bruce’s ally out of the saddle, and took his sword from him, and walloped Bruce on the head so that he knocked him noseling, clean off his horse. The second knight tried to stab the Wild Man from behind – he was absolutely unarmed – but I cut off the fellow’s hand at the wrist, just as he stabbed. Then the both of them caught their horses, and rode away for all they were fit. They rode more than a pace, I can tell you.’

‘That was Bruce all over.’

‘My brother was staying with me that year. I said to him: “Why ever have we kept this dear fellow chained up?” I was ashamed when I saw his wounded hands. “He is happy and gracious,” I said, “and now he has saved my life. We must never chain him up again, but give him his freedom and do everything we can for him.” You know, Pelles, I liked that Wild Man. He was gentle and grateful, and he used to call me Lord. It is a
dreadful thing to think that he might have been the great Dulac, and us keeping him tied up and letting him call me Lord so humbly.’

‘What happened in the end?’

‘He stayed quietly for several months. Then the boar hounds came to the castle, and one of the followers left his horse and spear by a tree. The Wild Man took them and rode away. It was as if he were excited by gentlemanly pursuits, you know – as if a suit of armour, or a fight, or a hunt, stirred something in his poor head. They made him want to join in.’

‘Poor boy,’ said the King. ‘Poor, poor boy! It might well have been Sir Lancelot. He is known to have been killed by a boar last Christmas.’

‘I should like to know that story.’

‘If your man was Lancelot, he rode straightaway after the boar they were hunting. It was a famous boar which had troubled the hounds for several years, and that was why the field was not on foot. Lancelot was the only man up at the kill, and the boar slew his horse. It gave him a dreadful wound in the thigh, riving him to the hough bone, before he cut off its head. He killed it near a hermitage, with one blow. The hermit came out, but Lancelot was so mad with his pain and everything that he threw his sword at the man. I heard this from a knight who was actually there. He said there was no doubt about its being Sir Lancelot – he was ugly and all that – and he said that he and the hermit carried him into the hermitage after he had fainted. He said that nobody could possibly have recovered from the wound, and that, in any case, he saw him die. What made him most certain, he said, about the Wild Man being a great knight, was that when he was standing in his death agony beside the dead boar, he spoke to the hermit as “Fellow.” So you see, there may have been a touch of sanity at the end.’

‘Poor Lancelot,’ said Sir Bliant.

‘God be good to him,’ said King Pelles.

‘Amen.’

‘Amen,’ repeated Sir Bliant, looking into the fire. Then he stood up and shook his shoulders.

‘I shall have to be going,’ he said. ‘How is your daughter? I forgot to ask.’

King Pelles sighed, and stood up also.

‘She spends her time at the convent,’ he said. ‘I believe she is going to be received next year. However, we are to be allowed to see her next Saturday, when she comes home on a short visit.’