“It is but true,” said the Prince, “that evil lives after death, and that the curse goes down even to the third and fourth generation, so stern is the judgment of God. But yet the knight who raises his hand against the dead, sins against his honour.”
But Pyrochles made reply: “Stranger, you make yourself a sharer in the dead man’s crime.” And as he spoke, he lifted his great sword and dealt a blow which, but that the Prince’s horse swerved aside, had surely laid him on the earth. He reeled somewhat in the saddle, but so true was his seat, still kept his place.
Great was his wrath at such treacherous attack. “Traitor,” he said, “you have broken the law of arms, so to strike without challenge given, and you shall suffer such penalty as befits.” So speaking, he thrust his spear, and thought with that one thrust to end the battle. And so, indeed, it would have fallen out, but for Sir Guyon’s shield, which the pagan carried. Yet even through this, with its seven folds, did the spear-head pass, and pierced Pyrochles’ shoulder, and drove him bleeding to the earth.
When Cymochles saw what had happened, he leapt forward in great wrath, crying: “Now, by Mahomet, cursed thief! You shall pay for this blow!” and smote him on the crest so mightily that he had no chance but to leave his saddle, else had his head been cleft in twain. Now was the Prince in no small distress, for what could he do with his spear alone against two stalwart knights? For sword he had none, and they too were both fully armed, and well skilled in fight, unwounded one, and the other wounded indeed, but only made thereby more furious. Bravely did he bear himself, and bravely held his own, wounding now this adversary and now that, yet did not himself escape without hurt, for Cymochles wounded him sorely in the side, so that the blood flowed out amain. And when the brothers saw it, they rejoiced greatly, thinking that the end had come. But now the pilgrim, seeing that the Prince was hard bested, and all for want of a sword, came near and put Sir Guyon’s blade into his hand, saying, “My son, God bless your right hand; use the sword as he that owns it would have used!”
Right glad was the knight to have this help, and advanced himself with new courage to his task. He smote first this brother and then that, and both so fiercely that, though they were two against one, they could not hold their own, but began to give way. Only the Prince was at this disadvantage that, when Pyrochles held out against him the shield of Sir Guyon with the likeness of Queen Gloriana on it, his hand retreated and forebore the stroke. Once and again was the pagan saved thereby from instant doom. But for all that the appointed hour drew nigh. Cymochles, thinking to end the battle, smote the Prince upon the hauberk. So fierce was the blow, that it broke the links of the mail in twain, and made the Prince to reel, as he had never reeled before. But his courage rose all the higher, and his strength seemed to be doubled. High in the air he lifted Sir Guyon’s sword, and smote the pagan’s helmet so fiercely that he shore it in two, and the steel pierced to the brain, so that he fell dying to the ground.
When Pyrochles beheld what had befallen his brother, he was so filled with rage that he cast away all caution and care, and rushed in madman’s fashion upon the Prince. And now might be seen how an evil deed finds its recompense. The sword which the pagan carried was, in truth, the Prince’s own, which had been filched from him by craft. Now Archimage had warned the knight before, saying: “Use not this blade against its rightful lord; it will not serve your will.” And well he knew that he spoke the truth. But Pyrochles had laughed him to scorn, saying:
“You think too much, old man, of magic charms and words.”
Yet now he found that the old man’s words were true. So perceiving that he smote to no purpose, he threw the sword down and leapt upon the Prince, and caught him round the middle and thought to throw him to the earth. But he strove to no purpose, for the Prince surpassed him both in strength and in skill, so that he was thrown to the ground, whereon he lay helpless as a bittern in the claws of an eagle. Full of rage he was, but he did not move nor cast a look upon his conqueror. But the Prince, full of courtesy and kindness, said: “Pagan, this is an evil day for you; but if you will give up your false faith, and yield yourself to be my liegeman for ever, I will give you life in reward for your courage, and blot out from my memory all your misdeeds.”
“Fool,” cried the pagan in his rage, “I defy your gift; use your fortune as you will, slay me, for I would not live at your behest.” And the Prince, much against his will, smote him that he died.
And now Sir Guyon, waking from his swoon, saw the pilgrim at his side, and cried out with joy, “Dear friend, for lack of whose guidance I have wandered long, how gladly do I see you again. But where are my shield and my sword?” Then the pilgrim told him what had befallen, and the knight rendered his thanks to the Prince right courteously, and he as courteously received them.
All day the two journeyed together with much sweet converse, and, when it was evening, they came to a fair castle, of which the gate was fast barred. So the Prince bade his squire wind his horn under the castle wall, which thing he did with such a will, that a watchman straightway looked forth from an upper storey; but the gate was barred as before. “What want you, strangers?” he asked.
“We seek shelter for the night,” answered the squire.
“Fly,” cried the man, “fly, my friends, for your lives. Willingly would I give you shelter, but this is no safe abiding place, so closely and fiercely do our enemies assail us. Truly many knights, coming as you have come this day, have perished miserably.” And while he was speaking a thousand villainous creatures swarmed up from all the rocks and caves about, armed in the strangest fashion, some with pikes, and some with clubs, and some with stakes hardened in the fire. Fiercely they rushed at the knights and their company, and for a while drove them back by mere force of numbers. But soon they were forced to fly, and though they came again and again, yet before the night fell they departed and left the travellers in peace. And now the castle gate was opened wide, and the lady of the place, Alma by name, coming to the door with a fair company of knights and dames, bade them welcome. Then she showed them her castle, which was marvellously well-ordered in all its parts. There was a noble hall in which the guests—and there was already gathered a goodly company of knights and ladies—were entertained; and a library where there was a great store of goodly books, and all other things which the heart of man could desire.
On the morrow, Sir Guyon and his guide set forth again, but Prince Arthur tarried behind, desiring to help the Lady Alma against the enemies who sought to take her castle. And this he did in such a fashion that she was troubled no more with them. Yet of his great deeds I will not further speak, being rather concerned with the doings of Sir Guyon, who was indeed now come to the accomplishment of his task.
First they came to a great water, where there was a ferry-boat ready prepared for their coming. In this they embarked and set forth, a stout ferryman being at hand to manage the craft. Two days they sailed and saw no land; but on the third day, as the light began to dawn in the East, they heard the sound of a great roaring. Now the pilgrim held the tiller and steered the craft. To him said the ferryman: “Pilgrim, steer an even course; there is a dangerous place which we must pass across,—on the one side is a great whirlpool, and a ship that comes too near it is sure to sink, and on the other a great rock of magnet, which, if we keep not a due distance, will draw us to itself. Steer then so that we may not fall into this danger or into that.”
Right skilfully did the pilgrim steer, and great was the need. The whirlpool, indeed, showed no sign of what had happened there before, for all was swallowed up in its depths; but on the rock they saw the ribs of ships which had been broken upon it, and the bones of men lying in its clefts. And birds of prey, mews and cormorants and the like, sat watching for such spoils as should come. Right willingly did they pass from that place of death. And when the ferryman, plying his oars with sturdy strength, had rowed awhile, Sir Guyon cried, pointing with his hand: “I see land yonder; steer thereto, good sir.”
“Nay,” said the ferryman, “it is not so. That is no land which you see, but what men call the Wandering Islands. Many men have come to their deaths through them. They seem firm ground, fairly grown with trees and grass and flowers; but let a man once set his foot upon them, he can never recover it again.”
So they journeyed on in a straight course, and in so doing came to one of these islands, whereon they espied a fair lady sitting. On the rock she sat, and she had a little boat hard by. “Come hither, my friends,” she said. “I have somewhat here which I would show you, and which you would willingly see.”
But Sir Guyon said: “Nay, nay. We are otherwise minded; this is the Lady of the Lake who caused me to be parted from my guide.” So they passed on, and took no heed. But when, after a while, they passed hard by another island, on which sat a maiden in sore distress, as it seemed, Sir Guyon’s heart was moved; for was it not a good knight’s part to succour ladies in distress? “Steer thither,” he cried.
“Not so. This damsel in distress is but a show; no damsel she, but some ill creature ready to devour any that she may deceive.” So they passed on, nor did they halt when, passing by a pleasant bay, they heard a sound of sweet singing.
“O Guyon,” such was the song which they heard, “flower of chivalry, most famous of all knights upon earth, turn thy bark hither, and rest awhile.”
“Listen not,” said the pilgrim, “they do but seek to lure you to your death.”
These things past, they came to the place for which they were bound. And the pilgrim said: “This, Sir Knight, is the place where you must contend for the mastery. Take your arms, and make yourself ready, for the hour of trial is at hand.”
And now the ferryman drove the boat upon the shore, and Sir Guyon and his guide stepped out upon the sand. Straightway they heard a hideous bellowing as of savage beasts, and soon the beasts themselves came in view, threatening as if they would devour them. But no sooner did the pilgrim hold out his staff than they ceased their roaring, and humbled themselves to the ground. And now they came to the Bower of Bliss, a place most daintily adorned with all that could please the eye. The porch by which they entered was of ivory cunningly adorned with carved work, in which was told the story of Jason and Medea; how he sailed in the good shipArgo, and how he won the love of the king’s daughter, and how she helped him to win the fleece of gold from the dragon which guarded it, and how she fled with him over the sea. And when they had passed through the porch they came to a very fair meadow, adorned with the fairest trees and flowers. And the meadow being passed they came to another gate, where there sat a comely damsel, who pressed the clusters of a vine which hung above her head into a cup. This cup she proffered to the knight, and he, suspecting evil in all that seemed most fair and pleasant, took it from her hand, and threw it violently on the ground, so that it was broken into many pieces, and all the liquor was spilt.
Sir Guyon and the Men in Bestial Shapes.
Sir Guyon and the Men in Bestial Shapes.
Many other tempting sights did they see, and all the knight passed by unscathed, the pilgrim not ceasing on occasion to give counsel and warning. So at last they came to the most sacred place of the Bower, where the queen herself, Acrasia by name, had her abode. Fair she was beyond all words and daintily arrayed, and at her feet there lay a goodly knight asleep. He was of goodly aspect, just come to the years of manhood, with the down newly sprung upon his cheeks and his lips. His arms hung idly on a tree hard by, but his shield was without an emblem, as if he had put away the purpose of his life.
Sir Guyon and the pilgrim drew near, none seeming to heed them, so occupied were they with the pleasures of the place. And then the pilgrim threw over the queen and the knight a net which he had cunningly prepared for that same purpose. Fast did it hold them for all their struggles, neither force nor art could avail them, though they strove with all their might. The queen being thus captured, they bound her with chains of adamant, for nothing else could hold her safely; but the knight they soon set free, for he was of a noble nature, though it was much decayed by evil ways, and he was willing to take to himself good advice and counsel. And the beauty and glory of the Bower did they deface and spoil, the goodly carvings they broke in pieces, and cut down the pleasant groves. As for the beasts, when the pilgrim raised his staff over them, they left their bestial shapes and came back to their own, for, indeed, they were men whom this same evil queen had changed to the forms and thoughts of beasts. So did Sir Guyon perform the command of Queen Gloriana.
Sir Guyon returned to rest awhile in the castle of the Lady Alma, where also he had Prince Arthur for companion. Acrasia he sent to Queen Gloriana under a strong guard, lest perchance her friends and followers, of whom there was great multitude, should seek to deliver her. After a while the two knights set out again on their journey. Many good deeds they did, helping the weak and setting right the things that were wrong. It happened on a certain day that they espied a knight riding towards them, with an aged squire by his side, who seemed too weak for the burden which he bare. The knight had a shield with the device of a lion on a field of gold. Sir Guyon said to Prince Arthur, “Let me, I pray you, have this turn.”
So he put his spear to rest, and charged, and the stranger did likewise. They met full and fair; Sir Guyon’s spear, so fast and furious was the onset, was like to pierce the stranger’s shield, but this it did not avail to do, nor did it drive the stranger from his seat: nevertheless he was somewhat shaken. On the other hand, Sir Guyon himself was carried back, ere he was aware, nigh upon a spear’s length behind the crupper of his saddle, yet without hurt to life or limb. Nevertheless his anger was great, for never since the day when he first bore arms as a knight had he been dismounted in such fashion. And indeed, if he had known the whole truth of the matter, his anger had been both less and greater; less because the spear by which he had been overthrown was of the magic sort, and greater, because the knight by whom he had been overthrown was no man, but a maid, even the famous Britomart. Full of rage he was and hot to do away his disgrace, as leaping from the ground he drew his sword. And now the pilgrim in great haste came between the knight and his purpose, for being a holy man and wise, he perceived that there was some marvellous power in that same spear-point. This indeed he did not disclose, for it was not lawful so to do, but he made other pretence: “Nay, Sir Knight, it were ill advised to seek amends with your sword for the mischance of your spear. If haply your steed swerved somewhat to the side, or your page was somewhat careless in the ordering of your equipage, why should you be so carried away by wrath; for, remember, you have no quarrel with this knight.”
With such prudent counsels did the pilgrim pacify Sir Guyon’s wrath. Thus concord was made between the two, in which the prince also was joined.
When they had journeyed awhile Prince Arthur and Sir Guyon set off on an adventure of their own, to rescue some fair lady in distress. But Britomart, finding that they two would suffice for that enterprise, on which her own mind was in nowise set, rode on without company until she came to a fair castle, with a meadow before the gate, on which she saw six knights setting upon one. He was not a little pressed by such odds, yet in nowise dismayed. Indeed, the six dared not to stand up against him face to face, so shrewd were the blows which he dealt them, but sought to take him at a disadvantage from behind. Britomart endured not to see such knavish work, but setting spurs to her horse and crying aloud, “Have done with such foul tricks,” made all haste to help. And when they ceased awhile from the attack, she said to the single knight: “How comes it, sir, that you do battle in such fashion and at such odds?”
“Sir,” he made answer, “these six would have me swear that the lady of this castle hard by is fairer than the lady whom I love. Now that I utterly refuse; I had sooner die than break my plighted word in such a fashion.”
Then said one of the six, speaking for his fellows: “In this castle which you see there dwells a lady of such a beauty that none in all the world can be compared with her. She has ordained this law, that any knight coming to this place, if he have no lady-love already, shall vow himself to her service; but if he have such a lady-love, then he shall confess that she is of less grace and beauty, or failing so to do, shall do battle with us.”
“By heaven!” cried Britomart, “this is a hard choice! And tell me, pray, if this knight be obedient to this same law, what reward shall he have?”
“He shall have the lady’s fair regard. But tell us, sir, for yourself—have you a lady-love?”
“That,” said Britomart, “I answer not; whether I have such or have not, I pay no such homage as you ask to your lady. Rather, I take up this good knight’s cause against you.” And even while she spoke, she rode at one of the six and laid him low upon the ground, and then at another, and then again at a third, with the like end. Meanwhile the knight had discomfited the fourth. And the two that were left were fain to sue for peace. “See,” said Britomart, “how truth and honour prevail!”
Then was Britomart taken into the castle and received with great honour. Yet she misliked the place and the company, for that they both seemed unduly given over to ease and luxury. Nor would she doff her armour, nor, indeed, do aught but raise the visor of her helmet. And when the lady of the place, seeing that the stranger was very fair and of a noble presence, bore herself as one greatly enamoured, she departed in great discontent. The six knights would fain have stopped her going, and one of them, Gardanté by name, shooting with an arrow, for to come to closer quarters was not to his mind, wounded her in the side. But he and his companions received manifold more hurt than they gave, not only from Britomart, but from the strange knight and Sir Guyon also, for they, hearing the tumult, came to her help.
As they journeyed, it came into Sir Guyon’s mind to inquire of his companion concerning her condition, and how she came to be wandering in these parts. Britomart was not a little disturbed by this questioning. For a while she was silent, and could make no answer, but trembled and blushed, no knight but a very woman. But when the passion had passed, and she had gathered her strength together, she said: “Sir Knight, I would have you know that from a child I have been trained in things of war, to carry a shield, and to put spear in rest, that the life of ease, which women, for the most part, follow, pleased me not; and as for fingering the fine needle and the slender thread, by heaven! I had sooner be struck dead by a foeman’s spear! And so, all my heart being set on deeds of arms and perilous adventures, by sea and by land, wheresoever they might be met, I came from my own country, which men call the Greater Britain, into this land. For it was told me that in this same fairy land many such adventures were to be found, and much glory and honour won thereupon. And now, courteous sir, I would ask you one question: Know you, perchance, of one Artegall, for he has done me a wrong for which I would fain requite him?”
Scarcely had she spoken the words, when she fain would have called them back. But Sir Guyon, taking them up with no small heat, made answer: “Fair warrior, surely you do ill to accuse so true and loyal a knight as is Sir Artegall with ill-behaviour. Truly of all who have ever taken part in tilt or tourney, there is not one that stands in better repute than he. It were indeed the greatest of marvels that he should do an unworthy act, or even think in his heart an unworthy thought. And if you have come with such a purpose in your heart, then I say that you have journeyed far on a false errand.”
Now Britomart, in her secret heart, was glad to hear such praises of Sir Artegall. For, indeed, as will be seen, she loved him, and it was her woman’s craft, by speaking ill of him to his friends, so to call forth his praises. And when, with this thought in her heart, she had again uttered some injurious words concerning him, Sir Guyon answered: “It would be well, lady, that you should listen to reason in this matter. Truly he is not one whom you can compel by force to do this thing or that, for there is not, I take it, a knight upon earth that can match him in equal fight. And, indeed, for what you ask me, where is Sir Artegall to be found, I cannot tell you. He is not one who will remain for long time in any certain place; rather he wanders round the world, seeking occasion for great deeds, by which he can help to right such as suffer wrong.”
Britomart was greatly pleased to hear such praises of the knight. Still she dissembled the matter and said: “Whether it be easy or hard to find the man I know not; but at least I would know how I may profitably seek him. Tell me some mark by which I may know him, the manner of his shield, the fashion of his arms, the bearing of his steed, and other things by which I may certainly know the man should I chance to encounter him.” Then Sir Guyon told her all that she would know, and she, listening to all that he said, found it most welcome to her heart.
There was a certain king of old time in the land of Deheubarth, which men now call South Wales. His name was Ryence, and he had for his principal counsellor one Merlin, who was a great magician. This Merlin made by his art a wonderful mirror, which was so contrived that he who looked in it could see anything from the lowest parts of the earth to the highest part of the heavens, if only it concerned him. If a foe contrived any evil against him, if a friend had used any falsehood in respect of him, there he could see it plainly set forth. This mirror Merlin gave to the king for a protection, that if at any time an enemy should invade his dominions, he should know of his design before tidings could come to him from without, and so should be able to be beforehand with him. Never had prince a more noble present, nor one more worthy of reward, for there could be no treason within the realm or enmity without but that it came straightway to the king’s knowledge.
Now Britomart was the daughter of King Ryence, and it chanced on a certain day that she came into his closet, for he kept nothing secret from her, seeing that she was his only child and the heir of his kingdom, and there saw Merlin’s mirror. She had seen it indeed not once or twice only, and knew its virtues. There came into her head the thought that she might see therein the image of the man who should be her husband. Such a thought maidens are wont to entertain, and Britomart, being her father’s only child, and knowing that she would one day come to the kingdom, was the more curious in this regard, nor had she had to that time any thought of one man more than of another. So looking into the mirror she saw a very comely knight, armed cap-à-pie. He had the visor of his helmet up, showing a face that would strike fear into an enemy and be loving to a friend. He was tall of stature, and bore himself with a manly grace. For his crest he had a hound couchant, and his armour seemed of ancient fashion, massive and strong to look at; on it was written in old letters these words, “The Arms of Achilles which Artegall did win.” The shield was of seven folds, and it bore an ermilin crowned, white on a field of blue. The maiden looked and liked well what she saw, and went her way, not knowing—such was the simplicity of her age—that she had seen with her eyes the fate that should rule the fortunes of her life. That keen archer Love had wounded her with his arrow, but she knew it not. Yet from that day she began to droop. No longer did she carry herself with princely pride. Sad and solemn was she, and full of fancies, yet knew not why. That she ailed somewhat she was well aware, but thought it was not love, but some passing mood of melancholy. Such was she by day, and at night, when she laid herself down to rest, sleep fled far from her eyes. She kept a sorrowful watch as the hours of the night went by, and she watered her couch with her tears; and if, when nature was worn out with these long watchings, she fell into some brief slumber, then some fearful dreams would come and bring with them a worse unrest.
One night her nurse, Glaucé by name, caught her in her arms as she was leaping from her bed, and held her down by force. “Ah, my child,” she cried, “how is it that you are in this evil plight? What is it that has changed your cheerful mood to this sadness? Surely there is some cause for these troubles that haunt you by night, and drive away sleep from your eyes. And in the days when your equals in age disport themselves, you mope in solitary corners, and have no enjoyment of your princely life. I doubt much whether the cause be not love; yet if the love be worthy of your race and royal birth—and that it is I seem to myself to read by many signs and tokens—then I do swear most solemnly to help you. Away, dear child, with your fears! Neither danger or death shall keep me from bringing you due relief.” Then she caught the maid in her arms, and embraced her in all tenderness, and chafed her limbs to drive away the cold, and kissed her eyes, still entreating that she should show the secret of her heart. For a while the maid was silent; then she said, “Dear nurse, why should you grieve for me? Is it not enough that I must die? Must you die also?”
“Talk not of dying,” cried the nurse; “never was wound yet for which no salve could be found. The god who has wounded you has, I doubt not, in his quiver another arrow for your lover’s heart.”
So they talked together; the maid would have it that there was no remedy for her trouble; the old nurse still steadfastly affirmed that the cure could easily be found. At last the damsel told the secret of her grief, as it seemed to her: “Alas, dear mother,” she said, “it is no living man whose image dwells in my heart and makes this pain; it is but the shadow and semblance of a knight; I saw him one day in the magic mirror of the king my father; this is the baited hook which, as some foolish fish, I swallowed; it is this thought that brings me to my death.”
“Is this all, my daughter?” cried the nurse; “then is nothing strange or against nature here. Why should you not set your heart on one who seemed so worthy of your love?”
“Oh, mother,” answered the girl, “I seemed to myself like the Greek boy of old who saw his own face in the fountain and perished miserably.”
“Nay,” cried the nurse, “he was but the lover of a shadow, and rightly faded into a flower. But of this image which you saw, there is, be sure, a substance somewhere, and there are arts by which it may be found. And now, dear child, let me give you my counsel. If you can banish this thought from your mind till the convenient time be come, then do so. If it is too strong for you, then I vow and promise that, by one means or another, I will find this very knight whose image you beheld.”
The maid was somewhat encouraged by these words, and slept awhile. But on the morrow, and as the days went by, the old trouble came again, and Glaucé, seeing that neither words nor prayers, nor strange spells of the magic art, for such she tried, were of any avail, judged that some other remedy must needs be found. What this remedy might be she long doubted in herself. At last it seemed to her that he who had made the mirror, that is to say, the wise magician Merlin, might tell her in what land the knight of the image might dwell, for though he dwelt in farthest Ind, yet find him she would. Forthwith these two, that is to say, Glaucé and the maiden Britomart, disguised themselves in mean attire, that no one might learn their purpose, and betook themselves to Maridunum, where, in a cave which he had hollowed out for himself beneath the earth, so as to escape from the curious eyes of men, Merlin had his abode. When they were come to the place they stood awhile without, in doubt and fear, whether they had done well in making so bold a venture.
At last the maid, moved by love, which is ever bold, led the way, and Glaucé following, they stood within the cave. There they found the magician busy on some wonderful work, for he was writing strange characters on the ground, the spells by which he bound the spirits of the earth to his service. He was not one whit moved at their coming, of which, indeed, he was aware beforehand, for indeed by his art he knew the secret thoughts of others. Nevertheless he made as though he knew not their errand, saying: “Tell me now on what business you are come?”
Then Glaucé answered: “Blame us not, kind sir, that we have thus disturbed you in your solitude, coming thus unbidden, but the need was great.”
“Speak on,” said Merlin.
Then she began: “Three months have passed since this maiden here began to sicken of some strange disease. What it is, and whence it began, I know not; only this I know, that unless you can find some remedy she must shortly die.”
The magician smiled at her woman’s craft, knowing well that she had in her heart that which she would not tell. “Madam,” he said, “I take it from what you say that this damsel has more need of the physician’s art than of any skill of mine. They who may find a remedy for their trouble elsewhere, do ill to have recourse to the magic art.”
The old dame was not a little disturbed by these words, but yet was loath to show her true purpose. “Sir,” she said, “the trouble has taken too strong a hold on this maiden’s life that the physician’s art could work a cure. I fear me much that some bad spell has been cast upon her. Some witch or evil spirit has done this thing; therefore it is that we seek your help.”
When he heard these words Merlin could no more contain himself, but laughed aloud. “Glaucé,” he said, “what avails this pretence by which you seek to hide your purpose? And you, fair Britomart, why have you thus disguised yourself in mean attire, as the sun hides himself behind a cloud? You have come, by the ordering of Fate, to the very place where you shall find the help which you need.” The maiden, hearing her name so called, blushed a rosy red; but the nurse, not one whit dismayed, but rather taking heart at Merlin’s words, said:
“Sir, if you know our troubles, and, indeed, what is there that you do not know, have pity upon us, and help us in our need.”
Merlin sat silent awhile, for many thoughts were in his mind. At last he spoke: “Most noble maid, who have learned to love in this strange fashion, be not dismayed by this hard beginning of your life. It was no chance look, O Britomart, in the mirror of the king your father, but the unchanging course of the purposes of Heaven, that showed you this image. Believe me, it is no ill-fortune that you love this noble knight. Submit yourself, therefore, to the purposes of God, and be content to do His will.”
Then said Glaucé: “Tell us, man of wisdom, what means she shall use, what ways she shall take, to find this man. Or has she no need of toil, but may sit still while her fate is fashioned for her?”
“The fates,” answered Merlin, “are firmly fixed; not the less it becomes those whom they concern to do their own endeavour, and to be fellow-workers with God.” Then he told Britomart the true name and lineage of Sir Artegall, how that he was son to Gorloïs, King of Cornwall in time past, and brother to Cador, then king of the same land. Then he turned to Britomart and opened to her the future, how she should be wife to Sir Artegall, and how from them would come a line of kings who should reign with great glory. Many things that should come to pass in after days, both good and evil, did Merlin unfold to her.
From Merlin’s cave these two, Britomart and Glaucé, her nurse, went back to their own home. There they consulted together many days how they might best carry out their purpose of seeking Sir Artegall. At last Glaucé said: “My daughter, I have conceived in my heart a scheme, somewhat bold, I must confess, yet such as may be accomplished if you are both brave and prudent. And above all things, it is in good accord with the conditions of these present days. You must know that the good King Uther has of late made war against the pagan brothers, Octa and Oza, who are newly come to this country from the lands which lie about the Northern Sea, and has won a great victory over them and their people, and that all Britain is now in a great flame of war. My counsel therefore is, seeing that armed men are everywhere, let us make ourselves as armed men. Let our hands, weak though they be by nature, learn to handle the spear and the sword, nor shall we fail therein, for there are no scholars so apt as they who have need for their teacher. And, indeed, my daughter, you are one who should easily learn such matters, for you are both tall and strong, and need practice only, which being had, you should be as truly martial a maid as you could wish. Nor is such a thing unknown in the race from which you come. Such was the bold Boadicea, who reigned in old time over the Iceni, for she made haughty Rome to tremble before her, and others, as Gwendolen and Emmilen. Hear also this thing which I saw with my own eyes. On the battlefield at Menevia, where King Uther last fought against the pagan hosts, there was a Saxon virgin who thrice struck to the earth the great Ulfin himself. Verily she had slain him as he lay, but that Caradoc held her hand, and Caradoc himself had much ado to escape from her without hurt.”
“Tell me, I pray you, her name,” said Britomart.
“They call her Angela,” the nurse made answer, “and she is as fair as she is strong. She is the leader of a tribe who are more to be feared than all other Saxons; they call themselves Angles.”
Much was the maiden moved by this tale, so that she made her resolve, unknown to her father, to take upon herself all the duties and adventures which were fitting to a knight. And she said to her nurse: “See, Glaucé, that you have all things ready that are convenient to my new estate.” And this Glaucé did with all readiness and care. Fortune also helped in the matter; for about this time a band of Britons, being abroad on a foray, took a great spoil of Saxon goods, and among them goodly armour decked with gold, and arms of proof which belonged to the Saxon queen Angela. These spoils King Ryence commanded to be hung up in the chapel of his palace, that they might be a memorial for all time of the great victory which God had given to his arms. Into this same chapel Glaucé led the maiden Britomart late in the night when no one was near, and taking down the armour, clad her in it, and she gave her the arms also, chief among these being a wonderful spear which King Bladud had made by magical arts many years before. This virtue it had, that whosoever might be struck by the point thereof, could not stay in his saddle, but must be borne to the ground. And when Glaucé had so furnished the maiden with due equipment of war, then she took for herself such arms and armour as befitted a squire, and put them on. This done, they left the place by secret ways, unseen of any. Thus did it happen that Britomart came in guise of a knight into the company of Sir Guyon and the Red-Cross Knight.
Not long after this they parted from each other, for the Knight had an errand of his own, and Britomart was bent on the finding of Sir Artegall. Many miles did she ride, and through many lands did she travel, till at last she came to the shore of the sea. There she lighted from off her horse and bade Glaucé unlace her helmet, and sat down upon a rock to rest awhile and refresh herself with the breeze that blew from off the waves. And as she sat, she thought within herself: “Ah me, how like is love to this restless sea! How shall my frail bark escape where there are so many dangers, and no certain guide?” So she spake to herself, sighing the while; weep she would not, for tears, she thought, did not become a knight. But Glaucé comforted her, calling to her mind what Merlin had prophesied about the things to come. Nor were these words in vain; but there soon befell a thing which roused her more than many words. She spied a knight in shining armour riding towards her in all haste, with his spear in rest as one that had some hostile purpose. Quickly she mounted her horse, and bade Glaucé lace her helmet, and addressed herself without delay to battle. Now, by the time she had put her shield in place and made ready her spear, the knight was close at hand.
“Sir Knight,” said he, “know you that you travel on this road against my strict commands? I suffer not any to pass by this way. Others who have so trespassed have come by their death. Therefore I counsel you to go back while there is yet time.”
She made answer in few words: “Let them fly who have need for flight. You may frighten children with your words. As for passing by this way, I am prepared to do it, even without your leave. Verily, I will pass or die.” Scarcely had she spoken when the stranger knight rode at her with his spear in rest. He smote her full on the breast, and she bowed her head, so fierce was the stroke, till it well-nigh touched the crupper of her saddle. But her counter-stroke was deadlier by far. The spear-point passed through his shield and through his cuirass, and, glancing thence, pierced his left side. The power of the stroke bore him from the saddle, and laid him bleeding on the ground, where he lay wallowing in his blood. So fell the knight, Sir Marinell, upon the shore which he called his own. And Britomart rode on; and as she went she saw pearls and precious stones of every kind, and ingots of gold half buried in the sand. Much she wondered to see such riches, but she would not descend for a single hour. What were jewels or precious stones or gold to her, that they should hinder her in her quest?
The story of Sir Marinell, briefly told, is this. His mother was a daughter of Nereus, God of the Sea, and his father a mortal man. He was reared up in arms, and became a great and famous knight. And he had for his possession this same shore; a place in which Nature of her own will had set much riches, pearls and precious stones and the like, and to which, by the ordering of Nereus, great store of the treasure which the sea swallows up through shipwreck was brought, for his daughter made request of the same for her son. This coast, then, he most jealously guarded against all comers. And being, as has been said, valiant and strong and expert in arms, and also because he knew the place and was able to take a new-comer unawares, he seemed to be invincible. Many knights, seeking to pass along the coast, for, indeed, the fame of its treasures was spread abroad, were slain, and yet more, being vanquished in battle, for life’s sake, submitted themselves to him, and became vassals and servants to him. One hundred knights, men of name all of them, were so bound to his service. In the end, Sir Marinell, what with the multitude of his riches, and the pride of having so many knights of renown at his beck and call, became not a little puffed up, and his mother, knowing that the wise man had said of old, “Pride goeth before a fall,” would fain know how he might be kept from mischief. So she went to a certain god of the sea, Proteus by name, who had the gift of foretelling things to come. And Proteus said to her: “My daughter, keep this thy son from all womankind, for from a woman he shall have a deadly hurt.” And the mother, taking these words to be spoken of woman’s love, set her son’s mind against all such things, and did most carefully keep him from all company of women. And he, to do her pleasure, obeyed her in this matter, yet could not so escape his fate. And this fate was all the harder, because this knight was beloved of a fair and virtuous maiden, Florimell by name, whom he might have wedded much to his joy and profit. Of this same Florimell more shall be told hereafter.
Britomart, after having thus vanquished Sir Marinell, still went on her quest, and came at night to the castle of a certain Malbecco. To this same place there had also come, earlier by the space of an hour or so, two other knights, Sir Paridell and Sir Satyrane. It was this same Satyrane that helped the Lady Una in her wanderings when she was parted by evil chance from the Red-Cross Knight. To them Sir Paridell’s squire had said: “My lords, you will not find entertainment here. The master of this castle, Malbecco by name, is a mere churl, and hates all company, and this for two reasons: the first of these reasons is that his mind is wholly set on riches, and he hates all doings by which they may seem to be wasted; and the second is that he, being old and crabbed, is wedded to a very fair young wife, whom he would fain keep from the sight of all eyes but his own. Verily he keeps her as in prison.”
When Sir Paridell heard the squire’s story, he said: “Why do we suffer this old dotard to behave himself in this churlish fashion? ’Twere better to kill the villain and spoil his home.”
“Nay,” said Sir Satyrane, who was a loyal and true knight, and would fain bear himself honestly to all men; “we will first gently entreat this man to give us entertainment. And if he will not listen to gentle words, then will we threaten him; for some who heed not fair words will take account of foul. And if we accomplish nothing either by entreaties or by threats, then we will make our way into his dwelling by force, and deal with him as he deserves.”
“So be it,” said Sir Paridell, and coming to the gate he knocked. “Sir Porter,” he said, “two knights seek shelter and entertainment.”
Now the porter was Malbecco himself, for it was his custom to play the porter’s part. He answered: “All in this house, my friend, are now gone to their beds, and the keys have been taken to the master of the house, and he also is in his bed, nor is there anyone so bold that would venture to wake him from his sleep. I pray you, therefore, to be patient and to seek entertainment elsewhere.”
The two knights were not a little wroth at this fellow’s churlishness, but knew not what they should do, for he took no heed, neither of blandishments nor of threats. And while they parleyed with him, the sky was overcast, and there came so bitter a blast of wind and so fierce a storm of rain and hail that they were constrained to depart and seek shelter in a little hut that was near at hand, being a sty for pigs. While they were faring as best they could in this place, there came another knight to the castle gate. He also sought for entertainment and was denied, and he also, under compulsion from the storm, sought shelter in the hut. And when, the place being indeed already filled, he was not suffered to enter, he fell into a great rage.
“Nay,” said he, “this will I not suffer. Either I will lodge with you, or you shall be dislodged. Choose then whether of these two things ye will have.” The two knights scarce knew how they should answer him. They liked not to deny him lodging, and they liked not to yield to his boasting. But of the two Paridell was the less disposed to take the matter patiently.