As he drew nearer, he saw a horse that he thought he recognised grazing under the trees, and pushed forward with a quickened heart. And when he reached the hermitage, there, sitting in the doorway, was no holy man, but Lional himself, surrounded by his armour and polishing away at his sword against tomorrow’s tournament. Lional looked up as he drew near, but when he saw who it was, his face set like a stone. And as Bors flung himself from his horse to greet him with joy, he made no move, but only rubbed the harder at the sword blade across his knee.
‘Lional!’ cried Bors. ‘Oh, my brother, how is it with you?’
‘It is no thanks to you, that it is not death with me,’ said Lional between his teeth, ‘as it would have been, but that a flash of forked lightning came out of a clear sky, and killed those two who had me in their power; and that left to myself I was able to burst free of my bonds.’ He rubbed the red rope-burns on his wrists as he spoke. But his eyes never left Bors’s face. ‘I would have died for you, Bors, and you left me in sorest peril of my life to go to the rescue of a maiden who was nothing to you.’
To Bors, it was as though his brother had struck him. He knelt down before him with bowed head and joined hands, ‘God knows I did what I thought was right. Lional, pray you forgive me.’
Lional stumbled to his feet and began to gather up his armour without a word.
‘What are you doing?’ Bors said, still kneeling.
‘Getting myself armed, as you see. I was a fool to think I had a brother to love and trust; but even I am not such a fool as to think that I can fight you in nothing but my shirt, while you are fully armed.’
‘Lional, in God’s name, no!’ Bors said, watching.
‘There is only one way to stop me from killing you,’ Lional said, ‘and that is for you to kill me.’
‘No!’ Bors said again. ‘You are my brother!’
‘I was your brother.’ Lional fastened the last buckle. He was beside himself with grief and rage. He mounted his horse and wrenched it round towards where Bors still knelt as though frozen. ‘Get up!’ he yelled. ‘Get on your horse and fight me. If you do not, I swear I’ll kill you kneeling there, and put up with the shame that will follow me afterwards.’
Bors tried once more, stretching out his hands, humbling himself as he had never humbled himself to any man before. ‘Lional, have pity on us both, remembering the love between us; and do not kill me kneeling here, for I cannot and I will not fight you.’
Lional let out a harsh cry, and struck his horse so that it plunged forward, hurling Bors over backwards and trampling him under the great round hooves; and as he lay groaning and half-conscious on the ground, hurled himself from the saddle and began to drag and wrench at his brother’s helmet like a madman, his sword ready in his other hand.
But at that moment, the hermit, who had heard all that passed, yet waited, hoping that they might heal the quarrel for themselves, came hobbling out from his bothie, and seeing Lional about to hack off his brother’s head, flung himself down over the injured knight, crying out, ‘For God’s sake hold your hand! Would you kill your brother, and your own soul with him?’
‘Get out of my way, old man,’ said Lional, ‘or I shall kill you first and him after, and my soul may pay for both!’
But the hermit only clung to Bors the closer, gripping his shoulders and shielding his body with his own.
And so Lional killed him lying there, with one sword stroke that split his skull under the thin silvery hair; and heaving the old man’s body aside, went back to work on his brother’s helmet.
But it so chanced that at that very moment another knight of the Round Table, Sir Colgrevance by name, who had also heard of tomorrow’s tournament, came riding up, and saw what went forward. And he flung himself from the saddle, and seizing Lional by the shoulders, heaved him backwards, shouting, ‘Lional! Are you mad? Would you kill your brother?’
‘Yes,’ said Lional, struggling free, ‘but if you meddle in the matter, I shall kill you first, as I did the old man.’
‘Then I fear that you must try it,’ said Sir Colgrevance, getting between Lional and his brother, and drawing his sword and hitching his shield from behind his shoulder.
The fight between them was fierce and deadly, for both were mighty champions, and had been matched in friendly combat so often that they knew each other’s swordplay as well as they did their own. And it went on so long that Bors began to come back to himself. He dragged up on to one elbow, and saw the dead hermit lying close by, and his brother and his friend in desperate combat; and horror rose in him, and he struggled to get to his feet and come between them. He managed to sit up, but the world swam round him, and for pain and weakness he could get no further.
And the fight was beginning to go against Sir Colgrevance, and seeing Sir Bors sitting up, he shouted to him, ‘Come and help me, man! It is for you I fight; and if I die, it will be on you the shame!’
At this, Bors managed to get his legs under him, and half stood up. And all the while Sir Colgrevance was panting and sobbing out to him for help; but before he could take a step towards the battling figures, Sir Lional got in one last great blow that split his opponent’s helm and bit deep into his head, so that he gave a great choking cry and went down sprawling into death.
Then Lional turned on his brother, and dealt him a blow that sent him half down again. ‘Fight!’ he shouted. ‘Fight, or die like the faithless coward you are!’
Bors drew his sword. The tears were running down his face, but he drew his sword and found his shield. The world was steadying under him, and the strength coming back into his arm. ‘God forgive me,’ he prayed. ‘Sweet Lord Jesus Christ, forgive me!’ And he raised his sword …
Something happened between his shield and Lional’s, as when the sun flashes off polished metal, but a thousand times brighter; there was a crack as of thunder, and a blast of searing heat, and they were flung back from each other and hurled half-stunned to the ground.
And when, in a little, their eyes cleared and their senses returned to them, they saw the ground between them blackened as by fire, and their shields twisted and scorched. Yet neither of them had taken any harm at all, save the wounds that had been on them already.
Then a great quiet came upon them; and out of the quiet, Bors heard a voice which said to him, ‘Bors, get up now, and leave this place. The time has come that you must part from your brother, and make your way to the sea, where Percival waits for you.’
Then Bors went to his brother, and they put their arms round each other. ‘Lional, my most dear brother,’ he said, ‘do you bide here, and see that these two who died for my sake are laid in the ground with all the honour that is due to them.’
‘I will do that,’ said Lional. ‘But you? Will you not stay too?’
Bors shook his head. ‘I am to go to the sea, where Percival waits for me. But I think that when all is over, we shall see each other again.’
So they parted.
And by and by, when all was done for Sir Colgrevance and the holy man, Sir Lional went back to Arthur’s court, for his heart was not in the Quest any more.
But Sir Bors rode away, down to the sea.
He rode day and night until he came to an abbey on the coast; and there he lodged one night. And as he slept, the voice came to him again: ‘Arise, Bors, and go down now to the shore.’
So he rose and armed himself, and saddled his horse and brought it from the stable, and rode down towards the sound of the sea in his ears.
When he came to the shore, he found a ship lying close into the rocks, seemingly empty, and set with sails of white samite, so that she was like no ship he had ever seen before. He dismounted and went on board, and instantly, before he could embark his horse as he had meant to do, she drew away from the shore, and the wind filled her sails and sent her speeding like a seabird over the waves. He looked round him, but the night was too dark to make out any details of the vessel; and since there seemed nothing else to be done, he took off his batte
red helm, and, commending himself to God, lay down in a sheltered corner and went to sleep.
The first thing he saw when he woke in the morning was the yellow head of Sir Percival as he sat rubbing his eyes in the early sun.
Percival saw him in the same moment, and they cried out each other’s names and stumbled towards each other with joyful greetings. ‘How do you come to be here?’ Percival asked. ‘For I was alone in this ship, as I have been for many days, when I fell asleep last evening.’
And they exchanged news of all that had happened to them since they were last together.
‘Now we need only Galahad to join us,’ said Percival, ‘for the promise that was made to me to be altogether fulfilled.’
But now the story leaves Bors, and tells again of that same Galahad.
10
The Ship and the Sword
NOW THE STORY runs that when Sir Galahad had left Sir Percival after saving him from the twenty knights, he took his way through the Waste Forest, and there met with many adventures.
And so he came, on a day, to the abbey where Sir Percival had seen King Mordrain lying; he that had first owned the white shield with the blood-red cross. And he heard King Mordrain’s story; how that he had waited in wounds and blindness so many years, for the shield’s next master to set him free.
So next morning he went at the time of Mass to the abbey church where the King lay.
And when Mass was over, he drew near, the iron grille opening to let him through. And King Mordrain rose on his bed and held out gaunt arms to him; and the light came back into his eyes, so that he saw him clear.
‘Long has been the waiting time,’ said Mordrain, with great gladness. ‘But now it comes to its end.’
And Galahad caught him as he swayed, and sat down at the head of the bed and laid him back against his shoulder. And suddenly in that moment the old wounds were healed over, leaving not even their scars behind.
‘Now I have all that my heart longed for,’ said the King. ‘Now, Lord God, let me come to You in peace, for my sorrows are over.’
And lying against Galahad’s shoulder, he gave a long, slow, contented sigh, and his spirit went free.
And when he had been buried as befitted a king, Sir Galahad rode on his way, for he knew that the time had come for him to ride towards the sea.
But as he headed for the coast, he came one shimmering late summer noontide to a place where a great tournament was going forward. Indeed it was almost over, for those knights whom he judged to be defending their castle were outnumbered and outmatched and beginning to be driven back.
Galahad drew his sword and spurred forward to their aid. And he performed such mighty feats of championship, and hurled so many of the attackers from their saddles, that the defenders took heart and began to press forward again, as though the Archangel Michael himself had come among them.
Now Sir Gawain and Sir Ector, who had also chanced upon the tournament and were fighting on the other side, saw the white shield with the red cross blazing in the midst of the mêlée; and by now most of the Quest knights knew whose device that was, and they began to think that maybe they would withdraw from the struggle and look for an adventure elsewhere. But before they could do so, by the chance of battle, Sir Galahad came straight that way, and in the close fighting, dealt Sir Gawain such a blow on the head that his sword bit through helm and mail coif and brought him crashing to the ground.
Then he swept on, and was lost in the roaring swirl of men and horses. And the fighting had turned as a tide turns and began to shift away from the castle, while Sir Ector got his horse head-on to the flood and managed to hold him there, guarding his fallen friend and keeping him from being trampled as he lay on the ground.
The attacking knights broke and streamed away; with the defenders hot in pursuit. But presently the knights of the castle came back from their hunting, and found Sir Ector kneeling over his friend; and they gathered Sir Gawain up with the rest of the wounded, and bore him back to the castle, and sent for a physician to salve and bind his head. Then Sir Gawain opened his eyes and said, ‘My head is sore hurt – and I am like to die.’
‘In a month you will be fit to ride and carry arms again,’ said the physician.
Then Sir Gawain said to Sir Ector, ‘Now, if you are for riding on, you must ride on without me, for as soon as I can ride indeed, I am away back to Camelot. This looked to be a fine quest at the outset, but it has brought me nothing but sorrow and a sore head.’ And then he added, as though that made it worse, ‘There is no standing against that one. I am thinking that if I had got my blow in first, he would not have bled at all!’
‘Somehow, I would scarce expect him to,’ said Sir Ector, in a puzzled voice.
‘Any more than one would expect it of a stone or a flame or a lily, or St Michael himself,’ said Sir Gawain, with disgust. ‘I had sooner the men I fight or ride with were flesh and blood!’
So in a few days they parted, and Sir Ector rode on alone.
Sir Galahad had not returned with the castle knights. When they looked for him at their turning back from the pursuit, he was simply not there. He had ridden on towards the sea.
He rode so far and fast that dusk of that same day found him not two leagues from Corbenic. But he knew within himself that for him the Quest was not yet ready to be accomplished, nor his journeying to the Grail Castle done. And so, passing a hermitage by the way, he stopped there to ask shelter for the night. And the hermit fed him and gave him a spread of fresh grass to sleep on.
But in the dark hour of the night there came the nearing sound of horse’s hooves, and a light quick beating on the door, and a woman’s voice calling for Sir Galahad.
And Sir Galahad rose and went to the door, and found there a maiden, holding the bridle of a little palfrey.
‘What is it that you would with me?’ he asked.
‘Arm yourself, and mount and follow me; and I will lead you to the highest adventure that ever a knight beheld.’
So Galahad went back into the hermitage and armed himself while the maiden caught and saddled his horse that grazed nearby. And he took his leave of the hermit, and mounted, and went with her.
They were far on their way when the sun rose and dusty-gilded the dark spreading trees of late summer. And all that day and far into the night, they rode, not stopping to eat or rest. And in the clear green half-dark of the next dawn, they began to hear the sounding of the sea. So they came down to the shore, and found there waiting for them a ship whose drooping sails were all of white samite, and Bors and Percival standing on the deck, looking for them to come.
‘We must turn our horses loose here,’ said the maiden, and slipped to the ground, lifting down after her a casket of rare and exquisitely carved wood, which she had carried on her saddlebow all the way. Sir Galahad dismounted also, and unsaddled both horses and turned them loose to graze. Then he went down to the vessel, and stepped aboard, helping the maiden, still with her beautiful carved casket, over the side after him. Then there were great rejoicings, as the companions greeted each other; and for Sir Percival especially, when he saw the maiden, and knew her for his sister Anchoret, whom he had not seen for many years. And a great joy and peace of heart rose in all of them, at their coming together again.
And a wind came out of the quiet dawn and filled the sails, so that when the sun rose clear of the world’s edge they were far out to sea, beyond sight of any land. And still the three knights were talking; sometimes gravely, sometimes with laughter, telling each other of all that had passed since last they were together. But at last, when the sun had risen high enough to glow like a blurred golden rose through the white samite curve of the sail, a little silence fell between them. And Sir Bors said, ‘Now it seems to me that if my lord Lancelot, your father, were here, there would be nothing more that we could wish for, save for the fair ending of our quest.’
‘To me also,’ said Sir Galahad. ‘But it is not God’s will.’
All that day and all the nex
t night the ship sped before the wind; and at dayspring they came to a low rocky island alive with the crying and calling of sea birds. And as though there was an unseen hand at the steering-oar, they headed up a narrow hidden creek; and the wind fell from the sails and the ship settled to rest. And just ahead of them beyond a sandy spur of the shore, so that she could only be reached on foot, they saw another ship much richer and larger than their own.
‘Good sirs,’ said the maiden Anchoret, who had kept herself happily apart, and scarcely spoken since the joyful moment of greeting her brother, ‘yonder is the adventure for which Our Lord has gathered you together. Do you come now, and see.’
So they sprang ashore, helping her among them, and she still carrying the beautiful casket cradled in her arms, and went scrambling across the dunes to the strange ship. When they got there, they saw written on her side: ‘Oh man who would set foot in me, take heed that thou be full of faith. For I am Faith, and if thou fail me, I shall fail thee.’
Then Bors and Percival hesitated on the shore. But Galahad stepped aboard, and the maiden with him, and so the other two followed.
In the midst of the ship, under an airy canopy, they found a bed spread with fair silks and linens. And at the head of the bed rested a golden crown, and across the foot lay the most beautiful sword that any of them had ever seen; with a handspan of its blade drawn from the sheath. And the pommel was of one great gem-stone that shone with all the colours under Heaven; and engraved on the quillions were the words, ‘None was ever able to grip me, none ever shall, save one alone; and he shall surpass all who came before him, and all who come after.’
‘Here is a marvellous claim!’ said Sir Percival. ‘Let us test its truth.’ And he reached out to take up the sword. But big as he was, his hand could not encircle the grip. Then Sir Bors tried, with no better success. And then they looked to Sir Galahad. But he said, ‘Not yet.’ He was reading some words wonderfully etched on the unsheathed part of the blade. ‘Let no man draw me from my scabbard, unless he can outdo and outdare every other. Death it is to any lesser man who draws me.’