Sir Lancelot, standing upright in the grand dress, looked strangely stately in the Great Hall. If only his beard had been trimmed – our clean—shaven generation has forgotten what a difference the trimming of a beard can make – if only he had not starved away to a skeleton in the cell of the poor hermit after the boar hunt – if only he had not been rumoured to be dead – but, even as it was, a sort of awe came into the Hall. The King did not notice it. With measured tread Sir Lancelot walked back to his pigeon loft, and the house carls made an avenue for him as he went.
Chapter XXI
Elaine had done the ungraceful thing as usual. Guenever, in similar circumstances, would have been sure to grow pale and interesting – but Elaine had only grown plump. She walked in the castle garden with her companions, dressed in the white clothes of a novice, and there was a clumsy action in her walk. Galahad, now three years old, walked with her, holding hands.
It was not that Elaine was going to be a nun because she was desperate. She was not going to spend the rest of her life acting the cinema nun. A woman can forget a lot of love in two years – or at any rate she can pack it away, and grow accustomed to it, and hardly remember it more than a business—man might remember an occasion when, by ill—luck, he failed to make an investment which would have made him a millionaire.
Elaine was going to leave her son and become the bride of Christ, because she saw that this was the only thing to do. It was not a dramatic thing, and perhaps it was not very reverent – but she knew that she would never again love any human person as she had loved her dead knight. So she was giving in. She could not tack against the wind any longer.
She was not moping for Lancelot, nor did she weep for him on her pillow. She hardly ever thought of him. He had worn a place for himself in some corner of her heart, as a sea shell, always boring against the rock, might do. The making of the place had been her pain. But now the shell was safely in the rock. It was lodged, and ground no longer. Elaine, walking in the garden with her girls, thought only about the ceremony at which Sir Castor had been knighted, and whether there would be enough cakes for the feast, and that Galahad’s stockings needed mending.
One of the girls who had been playing a kind of ball game to keep warm – the same game as Nausicaa was playing when Ulysses arrived – came running back to Elaine from the shrubbery by the well. Her ball had taken her in that direction.
‘There is a Man,’ she whispered, much as if it had been a rattlesnake. ‘There is a Man, sleeping by the well!’
Elaine was interested – not because it was a man, nor because the girl was frightened, but because it was unusual to sleep out of doors in January.
‘Hush, then,’ said Elaine. ‘We will go and see.’
The plump novice in the white clothes who tiptoed over to Lancelot, the homely girl going composedly towards him with a round face which had stubbornly refused to accept the noble traces of grief, the young matron who had been thinking about Galahad’s mending – this person was not conscious of vulnerability or needs. She went over calmly and innocently, busy about quite different concerns, like the thoughtless rabbit who goes hop—and—nibble along the accustomed path. But the wire loop tightens suddenly.
Elaine recognized Lancelot in two heartbeats. The first beat was a rising one which faltered at the top. The second one caught up with it, picked its momentum from the crest of the wave, and both came down together like a rearing horse that falls.
Lancelot was stretched out in his knightly gown. Sir Bliant, in remarking that gentlemanly things seemed to stir something in his head, had noticed truly. Moved by the gown, by some strange memory of miniver and colour, the poor Wild Man had gone from the King’s table to the well. There, alone in the darkness, without a mirror, he had washed his face. He had swilled out his eye—sockets with bony knuckles. With a currycomb and a pair of shears from the stables he had tried to arrange his hair.
Elaine sent her women away. She gave Galahad’s hand to one of them, and he went without protest. He was a mysterious child.
Elaine knelt down beside Sir Lancelot and looked at him. She did not touch him or cry. She lifted her hand to stroke his thin one, but thought better of it. She squatted on her hams. Then, after a long time, she did begin to cry – but it was for Lancelot, for his tired eyes smoothed in sleep, and for the white scars on his hands.
‘Father,’ said Elaine, ‘if you don’t help me now, nobody ever can.’
‘What is it, my dear?’ asked the King. ‘I have a headache.’
Elaine paid no attention.
‘Father, I have found Sir Lancelot.’
‘Who?’
‘Sir Lancelot.’
‘Nonsense,’ said the King. ‘Lancelot was killed by a boar.’
‘He is asleep in the garden.’
The King suddenly pulled himself out of his chair of state.
‘I knew it all along,’ he said. ‘Only I was too stupid to know. It is the Wild Man. Obviously.’
He reeled a little and put his hand to his head.
‘Leave this to me,’ said the King. ‘You let me deal. I know exactly what to do. Butler! Brisen! Where the devil has everybody gone to? Hi! Hi! Oh, there you are. Now, butler, you go and fetch your wife, Dame Brisen, and get two other men that we can trust. Let me see. Get Humbert and Gurth. Where did you say he was?’
‘Asleep by the well,’ said Elaine quickly.
‘Quite. So everybody must be told to keep out of the rose garden. Do you hear, butler? All people are to avoid, that none may be in the way where the King will come. And get a sheet. A strong sheet. We shall have to carry him in it, by the four corners. And get the tower room ready. Tell Brisen to air the bedclothes. Better have a feather bed. Light a fire, and fetch the doctor. Tell him to look up Madness in Bartholomeus Anglicus. Oh, and you had better get some jellies made, and things like that. In the heaviness of his sleep we shall have to put fresh garments on him.’
When Lancelot came to himself in the clean bed, he groaned. He opened his eyes and looked at King Pelles. Next he looked at Elaine. He continued to look at them for some time, and made speaking movements with his monkey lips. Then he went to sleep again.
The next time he woke they could see that his eyes were clear. But he was evidently in a pitiful state of mind. He was relying on them to save him.
The third time he woke, he said: ‘O Lord Jesus, how did I get here?’
They said the usual things about resting now, and not talking till he was stronger, and so forth. The doctor waved his hand to the Royal Orchestra, who immediately struck up with Jesu Christes Milde Moder – since Dr Bartholomew’s book had recommended that madmen should be gladdened with instruments. Everybody watched hopefully, to see the effect, but Lancelot grabbed the King’s hand and cried in anguish: ‘For God’s sake, my lord, tell me how I came here.’
Elaine put her hand on his forehead and made him lie down.
‘You came like a madman,’ she said, ‘and nobody knew who you were. You have been having a breakdown.’
Lancelot turned his puzzled eyes on her, and smiled nervously.
‘I have been making a fool of myself,’ he said.
Later he asked: ‘Did many people see me while I was mad?’
Chapter XXII
Lancelot’s body revenged itself on his mind. He lay in bed for a fortnight in the airy bedroom with an ache in every bone, while Elaine kept herself outside the room. She had him at her mercy, and could have nursed him day and night. But there was something in her heart – either decency, or pride, or generosity, or humility, or the determination not to be a cannibal – which spared him. She visited him not more than once a day, and thrust nothing on him.
One day he stopped her as she was going out. He was sitting up in a day—gown, and his hands lay still in his lap.
‘Elaine,’ he said, ‘I suppose I ought to be making plans.’
She waited for her sentence.
‘I cannot stay here for ever,’ he said.
&
nbsp; ‘You know you will be welcome as long as you like.’
‘I cannot go back to court.’
Elaine remarked, with hesitation: ‘My father would give you a castle, if you liked, and we – could live there together.’
He looked at her, and looked away.
‘Or you could have the castle.’
Lancelot took her hand and said: ‘Elaine, I don’t know what to say. I can’t very well say anything.’
‘I know you don’t love me.’
‘Do you think we should be happy, then?’
‘I only know when I shall be unhappy.’
‘I don’t want you to be unhappy. But there are different ways of being that. Don’t you think it might turn out that you would be more unhappy if we lived together?’
‘I should be the happiest woman in the world.’
‘Look, Elaine, our only hope is to speak plainly, even if it sounds horrible. You know that I don’t love you, and that I do love the Queen. It is an accident which has happened and it can’t be changed. Things do happen like that: I can’t alter it. And you have trapped me twice. If it had not been for you, I should still be at court. Do you think we could ever be happy, living together, like that?’
‘You were my man,’ said Elaine proudly, ‘before you were ever the Queen’s.’
He passed a hand over his eyes.
‘Do you want to have a husband on those terms?’
‘There is Galahad,’ said Elaine.
They sat side by side, looking into the fire. She did not cry or bid for pity – and he knew she was sparing him these things.
He said, with difficulty: ‘I will stay with you, Elaine, if you want me to. I don’t understand why you should want it. I am fond of you, very fond of you. I don’t know why, after what has happened. I don’t want you to be hurt. But, Elaine – I can’t marry you.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘It is because – it is because marriage is a contract. I – I have always been proud of my Word. And if I do not – and if I have not that feeling for you – hang it, Elaine, I am under no obligation to marry you, when it was you who tricked me.’
‘No obligation.’
‘Obligation!’ exclaimed Lancelot, with a wry face. He threw the word into the fire as if it had a bad taste. ‘I must be sure that you understand, and that I am not cheating you. I will not marry you, because I do not love you. I did not start this, and I can’t give you my freedom: I can’t promise to stay with you for ever. I don’t want you to accept these terms, Elaine: they are humiliating ones. They are dictated by the circumstances. If I were to say anything else, it would be lies, and things would be worse –’
He broke off and hid his head in his hands.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘I am trying to do my best.’
Elaine said: ‘Under any terms, you are my good and gracious lord.’
King Pelles gave them a castle which was already known to Sir Lancelot. The King’s tenant, Sir Bliant, had to move out to make room for them – which he did the more readily when he knew that he was obliging the Wild Man who had saved his life.
‘Is he Sir Lancelot?’ asked Bliant.
‘No,’ said King Pelles. ‘He is a French knight who calls himself the Chevalier Mal Fet. I told you I was right about Sir Lancelot being dead.’
It had been arranged that Lancelot was to live incognito – because, if it were allowed to get about that he was still living and lodged at Bliant Castle, there would only be a hue—and—cry for him from the court.
Bliant Castle had such a fine moat that it was practically an island. The only way to get to it was by boat, from a barbican on the land side, and the castle itself was surrounded by a magic fence of iron, probably a sort of cheval de frise. Ten knights were appointed to serve Lancelot there, and twenty ladies to serve Elaine.
She was wild with joy.
‘We will call it the Joyous Island,’ she said. ‘We shall be so happy there. And, Lance’ – he flinched when she called him by the pet name – ‘I want you to have your hobbies. We must have tournaments, and hawking, and plenty of things to do. You must invite people to stay, so that we can have company. I promise I won’t be jealous of you, Lance, and I won’t try to live in your pocket. Don’t you think we might have a happy time if we are careful? Don’t you think the Joyous Isle would be a lovely name?’
Lancelot cleared his throat and said: ‘Yes, it would be an excellent one.’
‘You must have a new shield made for you, so that you can go on with your tournaments without being recognized. What sort of blazon will you have?’
‘Anything,’ said Lancelot. ‘We can arrange that later.’
‘The Chevalier Mal Fet. What a romantic name! What does it mean?’
‘You could make it mean several things. The Ugly Knight would be one meaning, or the Knight Who Has Done Wrong.’
He did not tell her that it could also mean the Ill—Starred Knight – the Knight with a Curse on Him.
‘I don’t think you are ugly – or wrong.’
Lancelot pulled himself together. He knew that it would be most unfair to stay with Elaine if he were going to mope about it, or to do the Grand Renunciation – but, on the other hand, it was empty work to pretend.
‘That is because you are a darling,’ he said. He kissed her quickly and clumsily, to cover the crack in the word. But Elaine noticed it.
‘You will be able to attend to Galahad’s education personally,’ she said. ‘You will be able to teach him all your tricks, so that he grows up to be the greatest knight in the world.’
He kissed her again. She had said, ‘If we are careful,’ and she was trying to be careful. He felt pity for her trying, and gratitude for the decency of her mind. He was like a distracted man doing two things at once, one of them important and the other unimportant. He felt a duty to the unimportant one. But it is always embarrassing to be loved. And he did not like to accept Elaine’s humility because of his opinion of himself.
The morning when they were to set out for Bliant arrived, and the newly—made knight, Sir Castor, stopped Lancelot in the Hall. He was only seventeen.
‘I know you are calling yourself the Ill—Made Knight,’ said Sir Castor, ‘but I think you are Sir Lancelot. Are you?’
Lancelot took the boy by the arm.
‘Sir Castor,’ he said, ‘do you think that is a knightly question? Suppose I were Sir Lancelot, and was only calling myself the Chevalier Mal Fet – don’t you think I might have some reasons for doing that, reasons which a gentleman of lineage ought to respect?’
Sir Castor blushed very much and knelt on one knee.
‘I won’t tell anybody,’ he said. Nor did he.
Chapter XXIII
The spring came slowly, the new menage settled down, and Elaine arranged a tournament for her chevalier. There was to be a prize of a fair maid and a jerfalcon.
Five hundred knights came from all parts of the kingdom to compete in the tournament – but the Chevalier Mal Fet knocked down anybody who would stand up to him, with a kind of absent—minded ferocity, and the thing was a failure. The knights went away puzzled and frightened. Not a single person had been killed – he spared everybody indifferently as soon as he had knocked them down – and, by the Chevalier at any rate, not a single word had been spoken. The defeated knights, jogging home with their bruises, missed the conviviality which usually happened on tournament evenings, wondered who the taciturn champion could be, and talked superstitiously among themselves. Elaine, smiling bravely until the last of them had gone, went up to her room and cried. Then she dried her eyes and set out to find her lord. He had vanished as soon as the fighting was over, for he had got into the habit of going away by himself at sunset every evening – she did not know where.
She found him on the battlements, in a blaze of gold. Their shadows, and the shadow of the tower on which they stood, and all the spectres of the burning trees, stretched over the parkland in broad strips of indigo. He wa
s looking towards Camelot with desperate eyes. His new shield, with the blazon of his incognito, was propped in front of him. The cognizance was of a silver woman on a sable field, with a knight kneeling at her feet.
In her simplicity, Elaine had been delighted by the compliment on the shield. She had never been clever. Now she realized, for the first time, that the silver woman was crowned. She stood helplessly, wondering what she could do – but there was nothing she could do. Her weapons were blunt ones, of soft metal. She could only use patience and hope and self—restraint, poor tools when matched against the heart—felt mania of love to which the ancient race was martyred.
One morning they were sitting on a green bank at the edge of the lake. Elaine was doing embroidery, while Lancelot watched his son. Galahad, a priggish, mute little boy, was playing some private game with his dolls – to which he remained attached long after most boys would have taken to soldiers. Lancelot had carved two knights in armour for him out of wood. They were mounted on wheeled horses, from which they were detachable, and they held their spears in fewter. By pulling the horses towards each other, with strings tied to the platform on which they stood, the knights could be made to tilt. They could be made to knock each other out of the saddle. Galahad did not care for them at all, but played with a rag doll which he called the Holy Holy.
‘Gwyneth will ruin that sparrow hawk,’ remarked Lancelot.
They could see one of the castle gentlewomen coming towards them at a great pace, with the sparrow hawk on her fist. Her haste had excited the hawk, which was bating continuously – but Gwyneth paid no attention to it, beyond giving it an occasional angry shake.
‘What is the matter, Gwyneth?’
‘Oh, my lady, there are two knights waiting beyond the water, and they say they have come to tilt with the Chevalier.’
‘Tell them to go away,’ said Lancelot. ‘Say I am not at home.’
‘But, sir, the porter has told them the way to the boat, and they are coming over one at a time. They say they won’t both come, but the second will come if you beat the first. He is in the boat already.’