Part 3

Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, to rend In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth. An oak-tree smouldered there. “The goodly knight! What! shall the shield of Mark stand among these?” For, midway down the side of that long hall A stately pile,—whereof along the front, Some blazoned, some but carven, and some blank, There ran a treble range of stony shields,— Rose, and high-arching overbrowed the hearth. And under every shield a knight was named: For this was Arthur’s custom in his hall; When some good knight had done one noble deed, His arms were carven only; but if twain His arms were blazoned also; but if none, The shield was blank and bare without a sign Saving the name beneath; and Gareth saw The shield of Gawain blazoned rich and bright, And Modred’s blank as death; and Arthur cried To rend the cloth and cast it on the hearth.

“More like are we to reave him of his crown Than make him knight because men call him king. The kings we found, ye know we stayed their hands From war among themselves, but left them kings; Of whom were any bounteous, merciful, Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, them we enrolled Among us, and they sit within our hall. But as Mark hath tarnished the great name of king, As Mark would sully the low state of churl: And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of gold, Return, and meet, and hold him from our eyes, Lest we should lap him up in cloth of lead, Silenced for ever—craven—a man of plots, Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside ambushings— No fault of thine: let Kay the seneschal Look to thy wants, and send thee satisfied— Accursed, who strikes nor lets the hand be seen!”

And many another suppliant crying came With noise of ravage wrought by beast and man, And evermore a knight would ride away.

Last, Gareth leaning both hands heavily Down on the shoulders of the twain, his men, Approached between them toward the King, and asked, “A boon, Sir King (his voice was all ashamed), For see ye not how weak and hungerworn I seem—leaning on these? grant me to serve For meat and drink among thy kitchen-knaves A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my name. Hereafter I will fight.”

To him the King, “A goodly youth and worth a goodlier boon! But so thou wilt no goodlier, then must Kay, The master of the meats and drinks, be thine.”

He rose and past; then Kay, a man of mien Wan-sallow as the plant that feels itself Root-bitten by white lichen,

“Lo ye now! This fellow hath broken from some Abbey, where, God wot, he had not beef and brewis enow, However that might chance! but an he work, Like any pigeon will I cram his crop, And sleeker shall he shine than any hog.”

Then Lancelot standing near, “Sir Seneschal, Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray, and all the hounds; A horse thou knowest, a man thou dost not know: Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair and fine, High nose, a nostril large and fine, and hands Large, fair and fine!—Some young lad’s mystery— But, or from sheepcot or king’s hall, the boy Is noble-natured. Treat him with all grace, Lest he should come to shame thy judging of him.”

Then Kay, “What murmurest thou of mystery? Think ye this fellow will poison the King’s dish? Nay, for he spake too fool-like: mystery! Tut, an the lad were noble, he had asked For horse and armour: fair and fine, forsooth! Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands? but see thou to it That thine own fineness, Lancelot, some fine day Undo thee not—and leave my man to me.”

So Gareth all for glory underwent The sooty yoke of kitchen-vassalage; Ate with young lads his portion by the door, And couched at night with grimy kitchen-knaves. And Lancelot ever spake him pleasantly, But Kay the seneschal, who loved him not, Would hustle and harry him, and labour him Beyond his comrade of the hearth, and set To turn the broach, draw water, or hew wood, Or grosser tasks; and Gareth bowed himself With all obedience to the King, and wrought All kind of service with a noble ease That graced the lowliest act in doing it. And when the thralls had talk among themselves, And one would praise the love that linkt the King And Lancelot—how the King had saved his life In battle twice, and Lancelot once the King’s— For Lancelot was the first in Tournament, But Arthur mightiest on the battle-field— Gareth was glad. Or if some other told, How once the wandering forester at dawn, Far over the blue tarns and hazy seas, On Caer-Eryri’s highest found the King, A naked babe, of whom the Prophet spake, “He passes to the Isle Avilion, He passes and is healed and cannot die”— Gareth was glad. But if their talk were foul, Then would he whistle rapid as any lark, Or carol some old roundelay, and so loud That first they mocked, but, after, reverenced him. Or Gareth telling some prodigious tale Of knights, who sliced a red life-bubbling way Through twenty folds of twisted dragon, held All in a gap-mouthed circle his good mates Lying or sitting round him, idle hands, Charmed; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, would come Blustering upon them, like a sudden wind Among dead leaves, and drive them all apart. Or when the thralls had sport among themselves, So there were any trial of mastery, He, by two yards in casting bar or stone Was counted best; and if there chanced a joust, So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to go, Would hurry thither, and when he saw the knights Clash like the coming and retiring wave, And the spear spring, and good horse reel, the boy Was half beyond himself for ecstasy.

So for a month he wrought among the thralls; But in the weeks that followed, the good Queen, Repentant of the word she made him swear, And saddening in her childless castle, sent, Between the in-crescent and de-crescent moon, Arms for her son, and loosed him from his vow.

This, Gareth hearing from a squire of Lot With whom he used to play at tourney once, When both were children, and in lonely haunts Would scratch a ragged oval on the sand, And each at either dash from either end— Shame never made girl redder than Gareth joy. He laughed; he sprang. “Out of the smoke, at once I leap from Satan’s foot to Peter’s knee— These news be mine, none other’s—nay, the King’s— Descend into the city:” whereon he sought The King alone, and found, and told him all.

“I have staggered thy strong Gawain in a tilt For pastime; yea, he said it: joust can I. Make me thy knight—in secret! let my name Be hidden, and give me the first quest, I spring Like flame from ashes.”

Here the King’s calm eye Fell on, and checked, and made him flush, and bow Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answered him, “Son, the good mother let me know thee here, And sent her wish that I would yield thee thine. Make thee my knight? my knights are sworn to vows Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness, And, loving, utter faithfulness in love, And uttermost obedience to the King.”

Then Gareth, lightly springing from his knees, “My King, for hardihood I can promise thee. For uttermost obedience make demand Of whom ye gave me to, the Seneschal, No mellow master of the meats and drinks! And as for love, God wot, I love not yet, But love I shall, God willing.”

And the King “Make thee my knight in secret? yea, but he, Our noblest brother, and our truest man, And one with me in all, he needs must know.”

“Let Lancelot know, my King, let Lancelot know, Thy noblest and thy truest!”

And the King— “But wherefore would ye men should wonder at you? Nay, rather for the sake of me, their King, And the deed’s sake my knighthood do the deed, Than to be noised of.”

Merrily Gareth asked, “Have I not earned my cake in baking of it? Let be my name until I make my name! My deeds will speak: it is but for a day.” So with a kindly hand on Gareth’s arm Smiled the great King, and half-unwillingly Loving his lusty youthhood yielded to him. Then, after summoning Lancelot privily, “I have given him the first quest: he is not proven. Look therefore when he calls for this in hall, Thou get to horse and follow him far away. Cover the lions on thy shield, and see Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta’en nor slain.”

Then that same day there past into the hall A damsel of high lineage, and a brow May-blossom, and a cheek of apple-blossom, Hawk-eyes; and lightly was her slender nose Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower; She into hall past with her page and cried,

“O King, for thou hast driven the foe without, See to the foe within! bridge, ford, beset By bandits, everyone that owns a tower The Lord for half a league. Why sit ye there? Rest would I not, Sir King, an I were king, Till even the lonest hold were all as free From cursed bloodshed, as thine altar-cloth From that best blood it is a sin to spill.”

“Comfort thyself,” said Arthur. “I nor mine Rest: so my knighthood keep the vows they swore, The wastest moorland of our realm shall be Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall. What is thy name? thy need?”

“My name?” she said— “Lynette my name; noble; my need, a knight To combat for my sister, Lyonors, A lady of high lineage, of great lands, And comely, yea, and comelier than myself. She lives in Castle Perilous: a river Runs in three loops about her living-place; And o’er it are three passings, and three knights Defend the passings, brethren, and a fourth And of that four the mightiest, holds her stayed In her own castle, and so besieges her To break her will, and make her wed with him: And but delays his purport till thou send To do the battle with him, thy chief man Sir Lancelot whom he trusts to overthrow, Then wed, with glory: but she will not wed Save whom she loveth, or a holy life. Now therefore have I come for Lancelot.”

Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth asked, “Damsel, ye know this Order lives to crush All wrongers of the Realm. But say, these four, Who be they? What the fashion of the men?”

“They be of foolish fashion, O Sir King, The fashion of that old knight-errantry Who ride abroad, and do but what they will; Courteous or bestial from the moment, such As have nor law nor king; and three of these Proud in their fantasy call themselves the Day, Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and Evening-Star, Being strong fools; and never a whit more wise The fourth, who alway rideth armed in black, A huge man-beast of boundless savagery. He names himself the Night and oftener Death, And wears a helmet mounted with a skull, And bears a skeleton figured on his arms, To show that who may slay or scape the three, Slain by himself, shall enter endless night. And all these four be fools, but mighty men, And therefore am I come for Lancelot.”

Hereat Sir Gareth called from where he rose, A head with kindling eyes above the throng, “A boon, Sir King—this quest!” then—for he marked Kay near him groaning like a wounded bull— “Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen-knave am I, And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I, And I can topple over a hundred such. Thy promise, King,” and Arthur glancing at him, Brought down a momentary brow. “Rough, sudden, And pardonable, worthy to be knight— Go therefore,” and all hearers were amazed.

But on the damsel’s forehead shame, pride, wrath Slew the May-white: she lifted either arm, “Fie on thee, King! I asked for thy chief knight, And thou hast given me but a kitchen-knave.” Then ere a man in hall could stay her, turned, Fled down the lane of access to the King, Took horse, descended the slope street, and past The weird white gate, and paused without, beside The field of tourney, murmuring “kitchen-knave.”

Now two great entries opened from the hall, At one end one, that gave upon a range Of level pavement where the King would pace At sunrise, gazing over plain and wood; And down from this a lordly stairway sloped Till lost in blowing trees and tops of towers; And out by this main doorway past the King. But one was counter to the hearth, and rose High that the highest-crested helm could ride Therethrough nor graze: and by this entry fled The damsel in her wrath, and on to this Sir Gareth strode, and saw without the door King Arthur’s gift, the worth of half a town, A warhorse of the best, and near it stood The two that out of north had followed him: This bare a maiden shield, a casque; that held The horse, the spear; whereat Sir Gareth loosed A cloak that dropt from collar-bone to heel, A cloth of roughest web, and cast it down, And from it like a fuel-smothered fire, That lookt half-dead, brake bright, and flashed as those Dull-coated things, that making slide apart Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath there burns A jewelled harness, ere they pass and fly. So Gareth ere he parted flashed in arms. Then as he donned the helm, and took the shield And mounted horse and graspt a spear, of grain Storm-strengthened on a windy site, and tipt With trenchant steel, around him slowly prest The people, while from out of kitchen came The thralls in throng, and seeing who had worked Lustier than any, and whom they could but love, Mounted in arms, threw up their caps and cried, “God bless the King, and all his fellowship!” And on through lanes of shouting Gareth rode Down the slope street, and past without the gate.

So Gareth past with joy; but as the cur Pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere his cause Be cooled by fighting, follows, being named, His owner, but remembers all, and growls Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the door Muttered in scorn of Gareth whom he used To harry and hustle.

“Bound upon a quest With horse and arms—the King hath past his time— My scullion knave! Thralls to your work again, For an your fire be low ye kindle mine! Will there be dawn in West and eve in East? Begone!—my knave!—belike and like enow Some old head-blow not heeded in his youth So shook his wits they wander in his prime— Crazed! How the villain lifted up his voice, Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen-knave. Tut: he was tame and meek enow with me, Till peacocked up with Lancelot’s noticing. Well—I will after my loud knave, and learn Whether he know me for his master yet. Out of the smoke he came, and so my lance Hold, by God’s grace, he shall into the mire— Thence, if the King awaken from his craze, Into the smoke again.”

But Lancelot said, “Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against the King, For that did never he whereon ye rail, But ever meekly served the King in thee? Abide: take counsel; for this lad is great And lusty, and knowing both of lance and sword.” “Tut, tell not me,” said Kay, “ye are overfine To mar stout knaves with foolish courtesies:” Then mounted, on through silent faces rode Down the slope city, and out beyond the gate.

But by the field of tourney lingering yet Muttered the damsel, “Wherefore did the King Scorn me? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, at least He might have yielded to me one of those Who tilt for lady’s love and glory here, Rather than—O sweet heaven! O fie upon him— His kitchen-knave.”

To whom Sir Gareth drew (And there were none but few goodlier than he) Shining in arms, “Damsel, the quest is mine. Lead, and I follow.” She thereat, as one That smells a foul-fleshed agaric in the holt, And deems it carrion of some woodland thing, Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender nose With petulant thumb and finger, shrilling, “Hence! Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen-grease. And look who comes behind,” for there was Kay. “Knowest thou not me? thy master? I am Kay. We lack thee by the hearth.”

And Gareth to him, “Master no more! too well I know thee, ay— The most ungentle knight in Arthur’s hall.” “Have at thee then,” said Kay: they shocked, and Kay Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again, “Lead, and I follow,” and fast away she fled.

But after sod and shingle ceased to fly Behind her, and the heart of her good horse Was nigh to burst with violence of the beat, Perforce she stayed, and overtaken spoke.

“What doest thou, scullion, in my fellowship? Deem’st thou that I accept thee aught the more Or love thee better, that by some device Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness, Thou hast overthrown and slain thy master—thou!— Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon!—to me Thou smellest all of kitchen as before.”

“Damsel,” Sir Gareth answered gently, “say Whate’er ye will, but whatsoe’er ye say, I leave not till I finish this fair quest, Or die therefore.”

“Ay, wilt thou finish it? Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks! The listening rogue hath caught the manner of it. But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, knave, And then by such a one that thou for all The kitchen brewis that was ever supt Shalt not once dare to look him in the face.”

“I shall assay,” said Gareth with a smile That maddened her, and away she flashed again Down the long avenues of a boundless wood, And Gareth following was again beknaved.

“Sir Kitchen-knave, I have missed the only way Where Arthur’s men are set along the wood; The wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves: If both be slain, I am rid of thee; but yet, Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine? Fight, an thou canst: I have missed the only way.”

So till the dusk that followed evensong Rode on the two, reviler and reviled; Then after one long slope was mounted, saw, Bowl-shaped, through tops of many thousand pines A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink To westward—in the deeps whereof a mere, Round as the red eye of an Eagle-owl, Under the half-dead sunset glared; and shouts Ascended, and there brake a servingman Flying from out of the black wood, and crying, “They have bound my lord to cast him in the mere.” Then Gareth, “Bound am I to right the wronged, But straitlier bound am I to bide with thee.” And when the damsel spake contemptuously, “Lead, and I follow,” Gareth cried again, “Follow, I lead!” so down among the pines He plunged; and there, blackshadowed nigh the mere, And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and reed, Saw six tall men haling a seventh along, A stone about his neck to drown him in it. Three with good blows he quieted, but three Fled through the pines; and Gareth loosed the stone From off his neck, then in the mere beside Tumbled it; oilily bubbled up the mere. Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on free feet Set him, a stalwart Baron, Arthur’s friend.

“Well that ye came, or else these caitiff rogues Had wreaked themselves on me; good cause is theirs To hate me, for my wont hath ever been To catch my thief, and then like vermin here Drown him, and with a stone about his neck; And under this wan water many of them Lie rotting, but at night let go the stone, And rise, and flickering in a grimly light Dance on the mere. Good now, ye have saved a life Worth somewhat as the cleanser of this wood. And fain would I reward thee worshipfully. What guerdon will ye?” Gareth sharply spake, “None! for the deed’s sake have I done the deed, In uttermost obedience to the King. But wilt thou yield this damsel harbourage?”

Whereat the Baron saying, “I well believe You be of Arthur’s Table,” a light laugh Broke from Lynette, “Ay, truly of a truth, And in a sort, being Arthur’s kitchen-knave!— But deem not I accept thee aught the more, Scullion, for running sharply with thy spit Down on a rout of craven foresters. A thresher with his flail had scattered them. Nay—for thou smellest of the kitchen still. But an this lord will yield us harbourage, Well.”

So she spake. A league beyond the wood, All in a full-fair manor and a rich, His towers where that day a feast had been Held in high hall, and many a viand left, And many a costly cate, received the three. And there they placed a peacock in his pride Before the damsel, and the Baron set Gareth beside her, but at once she rose.

“Meseems, that here is much discourtesy, Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my side. Hear me—this morn I stood in Arthur’s hall, And prayed the King would grant me Lancelot To fight the brotherhood of Day and Night— The last a monster unsubduable Of any save of him for whom I called— Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen-knave, ‘The quest is mine; thy kitchen-knave am I, And mighty through thy meats and drinks am I.’ Then Arthur all at once gone mad replies, ‘Go therefore,’ and so gives the quest to him— Him—here—a villain fitter to stick swine Than ride abroad redressing women’s wrong, Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman.”

Then half-ashamed and part-amazed, the lord Now looked at one and now at other, left The damsel by the peacock in his pride, And, seating Gareth at another board, Sat down beside him, ate and then began.

“Friend, whether thou be kitchen-knave, or not, Or whether it be the maiden’s fantasy, And whether she be mad, or else the King, Or both or neither, or thyself be mad, I ask not: but thou strikest a strong stroke, For strong thou art and goodly therewithal, And saver of my life; and therefore now, For here be mighty men to joust with, weigh Whether thou wilt not with thy damsel back To crave again Sir Lancelot of the King. Thy pardon; I but speak for thine avail, The saver of my life.”

And Gareth said, “Full pardon, but I follow up the quest, Despite of Day and Night and Death and Hell.”

So when, next morn, the lord whose life he saved Had, some brief space, conveyed them on their way And left them with God-speed, Sir Gareth spake, “Lead, and I follow.” Haughtily she replied.

“I fly no more: I allow thee for an hour. Lion and stout have isled together, knave, In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, methinks Some ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt thou, fool? For hard by here is one will overthrow And slay thee: then will I to court again, And shame the King for only yielding me My champion from the ashes of his hearth.”

To whom Sir Gareth answered courteously, “Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed. Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt find My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay Among the ashes and wedded the King’s son.”