And after he had rested for a day or so, he set out once more on his quest.
And now the story leaves Sir Bors a while, and tells of Sir Gawain.
7
Sir Gawain Sees a Vision and Slays a Friend
AFTER SIR GAWAIN of Orkney left his comrades of the Grail Quest, he wandered from Pentecost until St Magdalen’s Day, which is late into July, without ever meeting with any adventure worth the setting down, and it was the same with all his fellows, with whom he crossed paths from time to time. And this he found most odd, for he had expected the Quest for the Holy Grail to provide more strange and marvellous adventures than any quest on which he had ridden before.
Then one day he met with Sir Lancelot’s brother, Sir Ector of the Marsh; and that was a fine meeting for both of them, for they were old friends; and gladly they shouted each other’s name and beat each other on the shoulders. And when they had done with their greetings, Sir Gawain asked Sir Ector how it went with him.
‘Well enough, in body,’ said Sir Ector, ‘but I grow weary of riding these forest ways and finding no adventure.’
‘You too?’ cried Sir Gawain. ‘I swear to you that not one adventure worth the name has come my way since we parted beneath the walls of Camelot. Ten knights have I met and fought with at different times, and ten knights have I slain in fair combat; but there is neither strangeness nor adventure in that.’
So they decided that as neither had met with any adventure riding alone, they should ride together for a while, and see if that would change their luck.
And presently, as they rode, Gawain asked his comrade if he had heard any word of Sir Lancelot, his brother.
‘No word,’ said Sir Ector, ‘it is as though he had ridden out of the world of men; and indeed, my heart is uneasy for him.’
‘And Galahad, and Percival, and Bors?’
‘No word of them either. Those four have vanished, leaving neither wind nor wake behind.’
‘God guide them, wherever they be,’ said Sir Gawain.
For a week they rode together, and still met with no adventure. And then towards evening of the seventh day, they came on an ancient chapel. The place was forsaken and half-ruined, and they had hoped for some habitation of living men, where there might be food to be had, for they had not eaten all that day. But the evening was darkening early, with rain in the wind, and any shelter was better than none. So they dismounted and stood their shields and lances against the outer wall, before unsaddling their horses and turning them loose to graze. Then they went into the chapel, and unbuckling and laying aside their swords, they knelt down before the age-worn altar, to make their evening prayers.
And when their prayers were done, hungry as they were they lay down on the chancel floor to try to sleep.
But sleep they could not, for their empty bellies and the wind and rain outside. And as they lay half-wakeful in the darkest hour of the night, they saw a hand and a forearm clad in a sleeve of flame-red samite enter through the chapel door; and no man or woman whose arm it was but just the arm; and in the hand a tall candle, and hanging down from the wrist, a bridle, plainly and serviceably fashioned. And despite the wind that whistled through the crannies in the ancient walls, the candle burned bright and clear, straight-flamed as a laurel leaf, shedding its light all around.
The vision passed between them, and on up the chancel to the altar; and as suddenly as it had come, was gone again, leaving the chapel to the stormy dark.
And as they strained their eyes to make out what had become of it, they heard a voice, ‘Oh ye, weak in faith and dull in belief, these three things that ye have just now looked upon are the three things that ye lack. And for this reason ye ride up and down the forest ways and will never attain to the high adventure of the Holy Grail.’
Then the voice was silent. And when the two knights, awe-struck, had listened a while for it to come again, they turned towards each other in the dark. And Sir Gawain said, ‘Did you see what I saw?’
And Sir Ector said, ‘Did you hear what I heard?’
And both had seen, and both had heard, but neither could make any guess as to the meaning of the thing.
So they passed the rest of the night with little sleep; and in the morning when the storm had passed, saddled up and rode on, determined to seek a hermitage or an abbey where there might be some wise and holy man who could rede them the riddle.
But before ever they found such a place and such a man, they came out into a rich and open valley, and saw at a little distance a knight in full armour; but the sun was behind him, still low, and everything of a trembling dazzle after the night’s rain, so that the device on his shield was dark to them.
As soon as he saw them, he shouted, ‘Joust!’ in challenge, and turned his horse in their direction.
‘Give me leave to take him first!’ said Sir Ector.
But Sir Gawain was already galloping to meet his challenger. The clash of their meeting sent the birds bursting up from the woodshore, crying and calling in alarm; and both knights were lifted clean out of their saddles by the other’s lance. But while Sir Gawain had taken no more harm than a dint to his shield, the other knight was speared right through the body, and the shaft snapped off as he fell, so that he lay transfixed, too sorely wounded to move.
Sir Gawain was on his feet before a man’s heart might beat twice, and drawing his sword, called to the other to get up and fight if he would not lie there and be slain.
But the other answered, choking, ‘Alas, Sir Gawain, you have slain me already.’
And when, with Sir Ector’s help, Sir Gawain had unlaced and taken off the helm of the fallen man, he saw the white agonised face of Sir Owain the Bastard, who he had often jousted with in friendship at Camelot.
‘Now curse the sun that flashed off your shields and hid the blazon,’ said Sir Owain. And then, ‘Here is an end, for me, of the Quest of the Holy Grail. Therefore take me to the abbey near here, that I may die among holy men and have Christian burial.’
‘There is no abbey in these parts, that I know of,’ said Sir Gawain; and the words strangled in his throat for the grief and horror that was upon him.
‘Nay, but I passed by such a place, further down the valley,’ said Sir Owain. ‘Get me upon your horse, and I will guide you to it.’
So Sir Gawain and Sir Ector lifted him up to the saddle, coughing blood when they moved him, and Sir Gawain mounted behind him to hold him from falling, while Sir Ector followed, leading Sir Owain’s horse beside his own. And so, slowly and sorrowfully, they rode on until they came to the abbey. And there the monks gave them kind greeting, and Sir Owain was laid on the bed in the guest chamber.
And when he had prayed and made ready, he said with his last strength, ‘Now I am where I would be. When you go back to court, give my greeting to all of our brotherhood who you find there – though indeed it is in my heart that many will not return from this Quest – and bid them to remember me in their prayers. Now pull the lance-head from me, for I can bear this pain no longer.’
So Sir Gawain, weeping, took hold of the broken lance-head, and quickly and strongly pulled it out from between his friend’s ribs. And Sir Owain gave a groan and stretched himself all along, and the life went from him.
The monks brought a cloth of fine silk in which to wrap his body, and the funeral rites were performed, and he was buried in the abbey church.
Then Gawain and Ector would have ridden forward once more, though indeed the heart was gone out of them. But at the last moment, Sir Gawain bethought him of the vision that they had had in the deserted chapel, and that had been for the time driven from their minds. So he asked that they might speak with the father abbot. And while their horses waited in the outer courtyard, they stood before him in his chamber, and told him of what they had seen and heard, and asked him for the meaning.
The abbot was very old; and when Sir Gawain had done speaking, he sat for a long while with his chin sunk on his breast, so that they thought he dozed, and Sir Gawa
in began to fidget with his feet until the spurs jingled faintly on his heels. At last the father abbot looked up, and they saw that indeed he had not been dozing. ‘It is very simple. You saw a hand with a candle and a bridle, and a voice told you that these were the three things lacking in you. The hand is charity, and the vermilion sleeve is the Grace of God, which burns in charity with a constant flame, so that he that has it is filled with the love of Our Lord in Heaven. The bridle stands for self-control, for even as a man governs his horse with a bridle, so must he govern himself. The candle? The candle stands for truth, what else? The truth of Christ. Lacking these three things, as the voice told you, you will not attain to the adventure of the Holy Grail.’
Then Sir Gawain grew very thoughtful, and said, ‘Holy Father, if that is so, then it is useless for us to continue this quest any further.’
The old man bowed his head.
‘So, sir,’ said Ector, heavily, ‘if we take your word for it, it would be as well for us to turn about, and return to Camelot.’
‘That is my advice. You will serve no purpose by going on. No better purpose than you have served already.’ And he gestured towards the little window in the chamber wall, that looked down into the church towards Sir Owain’s grave.
But Sir Gawain and Sir Ector did not turn back, not yet; for Sir Gawain was a stubborn man who did not easily turn back at another’s bidding from any path that he had started out upon. And Sir Ector would not leave his friend to go on alone.
And now the story leaves Sir Gawain, and tells again of Sir Lancelot.
8
A Hair Shirt and an Uphill Road
SIR LANCELOT REMAINED with his holy man for three days; and at the end of that time a squire came riding out of the forest with a raking bay horse, and the helm and sword for which the priest had sent to ask of his brother. So next morning Sir Lancelot laced on the helm and belted the unfamiliar sword at his side, and thanking the priest for his goodness and asking him to pray for him, that he might not again fall into evil doing, he mounted the bay horse and rode on his way.
Towards noon he came upon a small chapel with a hermitage beside it. And drawing closer, he saw the black scar of a fire on the grass before the chapel, and an ancient man in a monk’s white habit kneeling in the chapel doorway, beside the body of another who lay there dead. And the kneeling monk was crying out in grief and protest, ‘Dear God, why have You allowed this to be? He has served you heart and soul these many years, and could You not have kept him from this?’
Sir Lancelot dismounted and, hitching his horse’s reins on a branch, came close and said, ‘God keep you, sir, you grieve most sorely for this man’s death.’
‘Not for his death,’ said the aged monk, ‘but for the manner of it. For see the fine soft tunic that he wears, and his own garment cast aside.’
And looking where the old man pointed, Lancelot saw a horrible hair-cloth shirt lying tumbled close to the dead feet. And still he did not understand.
‘He was of my Order,’ said the monk, ‘though a fighting-man in his youth, and to us the wearing of fine linen is forbidden. Therefore, finding him like this, I know that the Devil must have come upon him at the last, and tempted him to the breaking of his vows, so that it was no godly death he died, and I cannot but fear that he is lost to all eternity.’
And Sir Lancelot did not know what to answer, to comfort the old man.
But out of the sorrowful silence, another voice answered, quiet as a little wind through the treetops but clear as a trumpet call, ‘Nay, he is not lost, but most gloriously saved.’
And looking round, Lancelot could see no one there; but clearly the old monk could see the speaker well enough, for he looked upward from his kneeling, as though at one standing tall above him; and wonder and the beginning of relief were on his face.
‘Listen,’ said the voice, ‘and I will tell the manner of this man’s death. Thou knowest that he was of noble birth, and still has kinsmen in these parts. Two days since, the Count of the Vale went to war with one of these kinsmen, Agoran by name. And the man who lies here, knowing his kinsfolk outnumbered and their cause just, took his sword from the place where he had laid it by, and turned fighting-man again on their behalf. So by the feats of valour that he performed, his kinsman had the victory; and the good man came back here to his hermitage to take up again his true life where he had laid it down.
‘But followers of the Count knew at whose door to lay their defeat, and came after him, and called him out and would have cut him down with their swords. But though he was clad only in his habit and hair shirt, their blades turned and rebounded as though on the finest armour that was ever forged.
‘This threw them into a mindless fury; and they fetched branches and lit a fire, saying they would see if the flames could do what their blades could not. And they stripped the old man to the skin, he making no resistance, but saying, “If it be God’s will that my time on earth is accomplished, then I shall die, and that will please me well. But if I die, it will be by God’s will, and not the fire; for the fire has no power to burn a hair of my head; nor is there a garment in the world, whether it be my own hair shirt or of the finest linen ever woven, that would be so much as scorched, if I were to put it on now.”
‘At this they cried “Moonshine”, with much laughter. And one of them tore off his own fine shirt, and they thrust it upon the old man in mockery, and cast him upon the flames.
‘That was yester morning; and when they returned at night, the fire was newly burned out, and the old man lying there as peacefully as on a bed; and dead indeed, but with no mark nor scorch upon him when they dragged him from the hot ash; and the fine shirt upon him fresh and unmarked as thou seest it.
‘Then great fear came upon them, and they ran, leaving him as thou didst find him here. Now therefore bury him in the white fine shirt, for it is no shame to him but the garment of his victory. And for the hair shirt he wore so many faithful years, there is another wearer waiting.’
Then came a sudden gust of wind, and a dazzle of sunlight in and out between the swaying treetop branches; and when all was quiet again, the voice spoke no more.
And the old monk brought his gaze down to look at his dead friend in joy and relief.
He asked Sir Lancelot to bide with him in keeping watch beside the body, and help him next morning to bury it. So Sir Lancelot remained with him through the rest of that day. And again he made his confession, and the old monk gave him much good advice. And next day, when they had buried the holy man before the altar of his little chapel, and the knight was making ready to arm and ride away, the monk said to him, ‘Sir Lancelot, last night, when I had heard your confession, I gave you absolution and blessing. Now, before you ride on, I give you your penance. It is that you shall wear this hair shirt from now on. And further, I charge you to eat no meat and drink no wine while you follow the quest on which you have started out. But above all, keep to the hair shirt, for while you wear it it shall keep you from further sin.’
So Sir Lancelot stripped, and took up the hair shirt of the man he had just helped to bury, and pulled it on, with its rasping bristles next to his bare skin, and then put on his tunic and then his harness. And so he took his leave of the old monk, and mounted and rode away.
That night he came to a woodland shrine where two ways parted, and laid him down there with his shield for a pillow. Watching and fasting had wearied him out, till not even the prickling and chafing of the hair shirt could keep him awake. But his sleep was restless and broken with dreams, and with the first cobweb light of dawn he was glad to be up and riding on.
Noon found him in a valley between wooded cliffs, all shut in and murmurous with small winged things among the young bracken. And there riding towards him he beheld the knight who had robbed him of hope and helm and his well-loved sword Joyeux before the chapel of the Grail.
The knight saw him in the same instant, and shouted to him to defend himself or he was a dead man, then struck spurs to his horse ?
?? Lancelot’s horse – and rode at him full tilt. Sir Lancelot spurred to meet him, anger and gladness mingled in his answering shout. The point of the other knight’s lance took him in the shoulder; but though it broke through the links of his hauberk it did little more than gash the skin, and he crouched low in the saddle, and gathering up all his strength, got in a blow that brought the horse crashing down and all but lifted the rider’s head from his shoulders, as he galloped past. Without pause, he wrenched round and came thundering back on his tracks; but although the horse was already struggling up, the knight lay where he had fallen among the bracken, and the fight was over.
Then Sir Lancelot dismounted and took Joyeux from the fallen man’s sheath, leaving the blade that he himself had carried since yesterday in its place. The battered helmet was not worth the taking back. He tied the bay to a birch tree where the knight would find it when he came to himself and was fit to ride, and took back his own horse, that came at his whistle and was dear to him like his sword – it had been a bad moment when he saw the horse go down – and rode on.
And as he rode, his heart lightened and warmed within him, and the prickling and chafing of his hair shirt where his armour pressed it against his skin was a kind of sharp joy to him, for he thought that the winning back of his horse and his sword was maybe a sign that God’s face was no longer quite turned away from him, and the strength and potency of his knighthood were given back to him once more.
Sir Lancelot rode for many days in the forest and along the fringes of the Waste Land, sleeping now beneath the roof of a holy man or a forester or a hurdle maker, now under a tree or at the foot of a wayside cross, or on open heathland, where the night wind searched him to the bone. He dreamed strange dreams in his solitude as he slept by night and rode by day, of men with stars between their eyes, and trees that bore bright and bitter fruit, and knights who turned into lions, and lions who grew sky-wide wings. And still he looked and listened for tidings of the knight with the red cross on the white shield. For he knew in his heart that that knight had some special meaning for him. And always he looked and listened for tidings of Sir Galahad, not knowing that they were one and the same. And always he rode with his heart wide open, waiting for God to tell him what next to do in the following of his quest.