The monster sped on as fast as it could to the dwelling of its mistress, the witch woman. When she saw it, she perceived how it was bound with Florimell’s girdle. At this she rejoiced greatly, and showed the thing to her son, thinking that he also would rejoice. “See,” said she, “this thankless creature has not escaped. Behold her girdle.”
But he was otherwise minded. “Surely,” he cried, “she is dead, this fairest of all maidens!” And it seemed as if he would have torn the very heart out of his breast. So mad was he with anger and grief, that he would have slain his mother where she stood. Only she hid herself in a secret place where she was wont to call up the evil spirits which served her. And now she summoned them to her help, telling them what had come to pass. “Counsel me,” she said, “for my son is distraught with anger and grief and love, and either he will lay violent hands on himself, or he will slay me, though I have done my very best to serve and help him.”
So the spirits took counsel together in the matter, and by their advice, her own wicked wit helping, she contrived a marvellous thing. She set herself to make another Florimell, a false maid, like in all things to the true, so far as concerned shape and outward semblance. The substance of which she made her was snow, which she gathered in a secret glade of the Thracian hills, the spirits of the mountains having revealed to her the place. This snow she tempered with fine mercury and virgin wax, which had never been touched with fire. These she mingled with vermilion, so making a rosy red in the cheeks. And for eyes she set two lamps, whose fire was marvellously attempered to the likeness of life; and hair she made of golden wire, more marvellously light than ever was hair of woman; and for life to make this dead mass move and breathe—for dead it was for all its beauty—she put one of the spirits which served her. A wicked spirit was this, none more wicked or crafty, or with a more cunning art to take the semblance of goodness. There was no need to teach him how to bear himself. This he knew already; there was no subtlety or craft in all the wit of woman with which he was not acquainted. Such was the false Florimell.
This creature she arrayed in some of the garments which the true Florimell had left behind her, and so brought her to her son, where he lay groaning on the earth. “See, my son,” she said, “the maid herself has come back to us.” And when he saw her, he leapt from the ground, and would have caught her in his arms. But she held back, for the spirit within her knew well how women bear themselves in such a case, neither seeming too fond, yet giving such encouragement as might the more confirm him in his passion. Such was the charge which the witch woman laid upon him.
One day, as the son was walking with the false Florimell in the wood, there chanced to come by a certain knight with a squire attending him. And now it must be said who this fellow was, for, indeed, he was no true knight. It has been already told how that Sir Guyon, when he was helping a traveller in distress, had his horse and his spear also stolen from him. The thing was done by a vain fellow, Bragadocchio by name, who, seeing the horse and spear ready to his hand, thought that by taking them he might make himself into a veritable knight. Little had he of his own but a ready tongue; but this same tongue was no small help with the more foolish sort. He then, mounting the steed, and taking the spear in hand, rode on, and so vain was he, and full of self-conceit, that he hoped to be courteously received for what he seemed to be. And in this notion his first adventure confirmed him. As he rode along he saw a man sitting idly on a bank; and he said to himself: “Here is one whom I will make captive to my spear.” With that he smote his steed upon the flank, and set his spear in rest and charged. The man, when he saw him coming on, fell flat on the ground for fear, and cried for mercy, holding up his hands. At this Bragadocchio took a wonderful conceit of his own strength and courage: “Who are you, caitiff?” he cried. “You are not worthy to breathe the air along with honest men. Prepare for death, or yield yourself to be my prisoner for ever. ’Tis no small favour that I give you time to answer!”
The man cried: “Hold your death-dealing hand, my lord, I am your thrall!”
“So be it,” said the sham knight, “your fate has baulked my will, and given you life when I had purposed death. So be it; life I give you. Fall on the ground, and kiss my stirrup. So pay your homage.”
Then the wretch threw himself on the ground, and kissed the stirrup, and declared himself to be Bragadocchio’s man. For a while he held his master in great respect, but when he found out how hollow was his show of courage, then he grew bolder, and practised upon him for his own ends. Trompart was his name, which, being interpreted, means deceiver; a worthy squire he was for such a knight.
They had not long companied together when they chanced to meet Archimage, who was looking out for some men-at-arms to help him in his evil designs. He, coming close to Trompart, said to him under his breath: “Who is this mighty warrior, who has a spear only and no sword?”
Said Trompart: “He is indeed a mighty warrior; as for his sword, he has made a vow that he will use none till he shall be avenged for a certain wrong that has been done to him. Meanwhile his spear is enough: he can do to death with that as many as he will.” Then Archimage, louting low before him, told a false tale about the Red-Cross Knight and Sir Guyon, which when Bragadocchio had heard, he cried with a loud voice: “Old man, tell me where these false knights are hiding themselves. I will soon punish them for all their misdeeds.”
“That will I do without delay,” answered Archimage, “and will help you also when you come to deal with them. Meanwhile I would give you this counsel, that you give no odds to your adversaries, but provide yourself with a sword before you do battle with them, for, indeed, they are sturdy fighters.”
“Old man,” said Bragadocchio, “you dote. Doubtless your wits have failed you by reason of age, or you would not judge of a man by his coat of mail or his sword. A man, be he indeed a man, can quell a host without sword or shield. Little do you know what this right hand of mine has achieved; but they who have seen it can tell if they will.”
Not a little abashed was Archimage at these high words; well he knew in his heart that whoso should do battle with the Red-Cross Knight or Sir Guyon would need all his arms, and yet he feared to offend this knight. Then Bragadocchio said further: “Once upon a time I slew seven knights with one sword. And I took a great oath, having done this, never again to use a sword in battle, unless it should be the sword of the very noblest knight in all the world.”
“Wait you for that,” said Archimage, “then you shall have it by to-morrow at this time. ’Tis the sword of Prince Arthur, and it flames like a burning fire. Lo! I go to fetch it.” And as he spoke he vanished into air.
“What is this?” thought the two to themselves in sore dismay, for they liked little to have aught to do with such a sword. And they fled from the place as fast as they could to hide themselves in a wood which was near at hand. This they had scarcely reached when they heard the clear ringing of a horn. Thereupon Bragadocchio leapt from his horse and hid his coward head in a thicket. As for Trompart, he was not easily moved, but abode in his place to see what should happen. Soon there came into the glade where they were a very fair lady dressed in huntress fashion. She had a fair white tunic with an edge of gold and gilded buskins, and a boar-spear in her hand, and on her shoulder a bow and a quiver filled with steel-headed arrows. And all about them flowed loosely down her golden hair. When she spied Trompart she said: “Saw you a hind with an arrow in her right haunch? If so, tell me which way she went, that I may follow up the chase.” But while she was speaking, she saw the bush stir in which Bragadocchio lay hid, and thinking it was some beast of prey, would have shot an arrow into it.
But Trompart cried: “Forbear, I pray you, whether you be nymph or mortal maid. That is no mark for your arrows. My master, a famous knight, rests awhile under the shade.” So she stayed her hand, and Bragadocchio came forth from his hiding-place on his hands and knees, and after stood up, making as if he had been newly roused from sleep. After this they talked awhile, and when the lady had passed on, Bragadocchio said to Trompart: “I had from my birth this grace, not to fear any mortal thing. But of the heavenly powers and of the fiends in hell I do stand, I do honestly confess, in great dread. And when I heard that horn, I took it for some signal from the sky, and hid myself for fear. And now let us depart hence.”
Such was Bragadocchio, the false knight who came upon the son of the witch woman as he was walking in the wood with the false Florimell. When he saw the two, and perceived that the lady was very fair to look upon, and that he who was with her was no man of war, he rode up, with his spear in rest, crying, “Clown, how is this? This lady is my love. Gainsay it if you dare!”
The churl dare not answer him a word, but yielded the damsel to him; and he, mounting her upon Trompart’s horse, rode on, not a little proud of the valiant deed which he had done. Nor had he ridden long when there came in view a stranger knight, who cried: “Ho there! Yield the damsel to me; I have a better right than you!”
Sorely dismayed was Bragadocchio at such a challenge, but dissembled his fear, saying, “Think you, Sir Knight, to steal away with words what I have won by many blows? Yet, if you will have trial of my strength or prove your own, let it be so.”
“Turn your horse,” said the stranger, “or I will strike you dead!”
“So be it,” answered Bragadocchio, “if nothing else will content you. Let us then retire our horses for a furlong either way, and tilt together as is the custom.” So they turned their horses, and retired each a furlong’s length; but Bragadocchio came not again, but fled away as fast as his horse could carry him.
By sundry adventures, which there is no need to set forth in their place, the girdle of Florimell came into the possession of Sir Satyrane, who forthwith resolved to hold in honour of it a great tournament. In this same tournament there should be, so he proclaimed, two contests; first, a contest of knights, who should joust with each other, so showing who excelled in strength and courage; second, a contest of fair ladies, she who should most fittingly wear the said girdle being adjudged the most excellent.
The beginning of the tournament was that Sir Satyrane came forth from his pavilion, holding in his hands an ark of gold. This ark he opened with much solemnity, and drew forth from it the girdle. A wondrously fair thing it was, curiously embossed with pearls and precious stones; they were all costly things, but the workmanship was costlier yet. This he held up for the general view; and all eyes were drawn to it, for indeed it was a thing greatly to be admired; nor was there one in all that company but said in his heart: “Happy the knight who shall win so fair a prize! Happy the dame who shall be deemed to wear it most fittingly.”
The girdle having been thus displayed in the sight of all the concourse, the knights disposed themselves for the jousting. And first of all Sir Satyrane came forth holding in his hand the great spear which he was wont to wield; no man in those days bore one greater, or, indeed, so great. He was the challenger, and it became him thus to be first in the field. Behind him were ranged the knights of Fairyland, owning allegiance, all of them, to the great Queen Gloriana. On the other side was ranged a great company of knights, who had come from all parts. First of these rode up a pagan knight, Sir Bruncheval, surnamed the Bold (he jousted with Sir Satyrane), whose mastery of arms had been tried in many battles. Fierce was their onset, so fierce that neither could resist the other; but both were tumbled on the plain, holding, indeed, their spears in their hands, but not able to move them so much as a hair’s-breadth. When Sir Ferramont saw his leader in this plight, he set spurs to his horse, and rode forth. Against him came out Sir Blandamour, putting all his strength into his stroke; but his strength availed him nothing, for he was tumbled on the ground, he and his horse together. And when Sir Paridell rode forth to his rescue, he fared no better. The next in turn to contend was Bragadocchio, but the thing was not to his liking, and he stood still in doubt what he should do, or rather in fear. Thereupon Sir Triamond, vexed indeed that a brave-seeming knight should bear himself so basely, but rejoicing in the occasion, rode forth with his spear in rest, and charged on Sir Ferramont with all his might. So sure was the stroke, that both man and horse were laid prostrate on the ground, nor could they lift themselves again for a space. And when Sir Devon rode forth from the Fairyland array he fared no better; nor did Sir Douglas, nor Sir Palimord, when in turn they made trial of him. Either they were stretched on the plain or went sorely wounded.
By this time Sir Satyrane had woke out of the swoon in which he had lain so long. Looking round, he was sorely dismayed to see the havoc which Sir Triamond had wrought among the knights of Queen Gloriana. “Truly,” he said to himself, “I had rather been dead than laid here helpless while such deeds were done.” Then, gathering strength, he laid hold of his spear, which lay close beside him; his horse also, by good fortune, was at hand. Mounting, therefore, he rode forth again to where the brave Triamond was carrying all before him. Not a man could stand up against him, so heavy were his strokes, so deadly was his hand. But now there came a stay to his achievements; Sir Satyrane smote him on the side with his great spear, and the point made a most grievous wound. So grievous was it, that though he was not forthwith overthrown, he was fain to withdraw himself from the field. Then the challengers ranged over the lists, claiming to be conquerors, and, indeed, no one was ready to take them in hand. And now the night fell, and the trumpets sounded a retreat. That day, therefore, Sir Satyrane was adjudged to have won the prize.
On the second day of the tournament Sir Satyrane rode forth, with Queen Gloriana’s knights following him, to challenge all comers. And on the other side also were many famous warriors, eager all of them to win the prize for himself. But Sir Triamond was not one of these; his wound was so grievous that it hindered him from making a trial of arms. So he was constrained to stand aside, but it grieved him sorely. This his close friend Sir Cambell perceiving, said to himself: “I cannot cure his hurt, nor undo the thing which has been done; but this I can do; I can win honour for him.” Therefore he took Sir Triamond’s arms, none knowing, neither Sir Triamond himself, nor anyone else, for he said to himself: “If I fare ill in this matter, the blame will not fall on my friend.”
He went therefore to fight, no one doubting that he was the veritable Triamond. When he was come, he found Sir Satyrane, full of joy and triumph, for no one was able to stand up against him. At him, therefore, he charged, with his spear in rest; nor did Sir Satyrane, on his part, draw back from the encounter. With so great a shock did they meet that both were driven from their saddles to the ground. Rising, therefore, they drew both of them their swords, and fought therewith such a fight as had scarce been seen before in that land. And now Sir Satyrane’s horse, for, by this time, they had both again mounted their steeds, chanced to stumble, so that his rider was well-nigh cast to the ground. This Sir Cambell perceiving, was not slow to seize the occasion, but dealt him so sore a blow on the crest of his helmet that he fell to the ground. Then Sir Cambell leapt from his steed, and would have spoiled him of his arms. But this, which, indeed, is a custom of the battlefield rather than of the tourney, the knights who were of Sir Satyrane’s party would not suffer. Hastening to their comrade’s help, they closed his adversary in so close a ring that though he laid about him most bravely, yet could he not deliver himself—for what could one against so many? So he was taken prisoner and led away.
It chanced somehow that the news of what had befallen Sir Cambell came to Sir Triamond where he lay in his bed. In a moment of time he leapt therefrom, wholly forgetting his wound, and sought for his armour. He sought, but he found it not, for indeed, Cambell was wearing it at the very time. But the arms and armour of Sir Cambell he found. These he donned without delay, and issued forth to take such chance as might befall him. There he saw his friend and companion Cambell as he was led away captive in the midst of a great press of knights, and the sight moved him to great wrath. He thrust himself into the thickest of the press, and smote down all that were in his way till he came to where Cambell was led a prisoner between two knights. Fiercely did he assail these two, and they, for their own lives’ sake, were constrained to let him go. Then he, seizing a sword from one of them, laid about him with all his might, for both his own wrong and the wounding of his friend stirred a great wrath in him. So these two made great havoc over all the field, till the trumpet sounded the end of the battle for that day. By common consent the prize of the day was adjudged to these two, Cambell and Triamond, but to which of the two was doubtful, for they strove together, each advancing the other’s cause, so that the matter was postponed.
On the third and last day of the tournament many valiant deeds were done, not without great hurt and damage to many that contended in the field. There might be seen that day full many a shivered shield, and swords strewn upon the ground, horses also running loose without their riders, and squires helping their lords who were in evil plight. But, for the most part, the knights of the Queen fared the better, and among the knights there was not one that fought with better success than the brave Sir Satyrane. Now and again his fortune failed him; but ever it returned again, and he was the best stay and support of his side.
But when it was now past noon, there came forth from the other side a strange knight whom no one knew. Strange he was and strange was his disguise, for all his armour was covered with moss from the wood, and his horse had trappings of oak leaves, and on his shield, which had ragged edges, was written this motto: Salvagesse sans Finesse. He, as soon as he had come upon the field, charged the first knight that was in his way. This was the stout Sir Sanglier, a valiant man, well approved in many battles; but now he was laid low at the very first encounter. And after him Sir Brianor came to a worse fate, for he was killed outright. Seven knights, one after the other, he overthrew; and when his spear was broken, then he worked no less damage with his sword. Shields and helmets he broke through, and wasted all the array of knights, as a lion wastes a flock of sheep. So Satyrane and his party were turned to flight, for, indeed, no man could stand before him. And when they would find out his name, no one knew it, so that they were constrained to call him the Savage Knight. But he was in truth Sir Artegall.
It was said by a wise man of old time that no man should be accounted happy before the end, because it cannot be known what change of fortune may befall him. And so it proved that day with Sir Artegall. For when the sun was laid low in the heavens, but before the trumpet had sounded, there came forth from the ranks of the Queen’s knights a stranger. First he charged at Sir Artegall and tumbled him backwards over his horse’s tail, with so heavy a fall that he had small desire to rise again. This when Sir Cambell saw he charged with all his might; and he, too, could be seen lying on the plain. In like manner fared Sir Triamond when he would have avenged his friend’s disgrace. Nor did Sir Blandamour succeed where these had failed. Many another famous knight was overthrown that day, yet without loss of honour, for they had to yield to the enchanted spear of Britomart. So when the trumpet sounded on the third day of Sir Satyrane’s great tournament, the honour rested with the knights of Queen Gloriana.
The tournament being ended, the next thing in order to be done was to adjudge the prizes. For the first day the prize was given to Sir Satyrane, as has been told before, because, having been first at the beginning, he was also first at the end. For the second day Sir Triamond was held to have excelled all others: Cambell, indeed, was victor, but then Triamond had saved him from imprisonment, and he who saves the victor is, without controversy, first of all. For the third day the prize was adjudged to Britomart, or, as men called her, the Knight of the Ebony Spear, for who she was in truth no one knew. Nor could this judgment be disputed, for, whereas the Savage Knight had overthrown all others, so was he overthrown by her. And this third prize was held to be the most honourable of all, and the knight to whom it was given the first of all. And because by good right beauty and valour go together, there must needs be a trial of the dames, who should be reckoned the fairest, with the girdle of Florimell for prize.
First came Sir Cambell, leading his wife, the fair Cambina, clad in a veil which covered her from head to foot, which being taken away, such was her beauty that all hearts were won. Nevertheless, when Sir Triamond, coming next, showed his wife Canacé, they were not less moved by the sight. And some greatly admired the false Duessa, when Sir Paridell led her forth before the company, for some hearts are moved by one thing and some by another. Nor did the Lady Lucida, whose champion was Sir Ferramont, want for worshippers; nor, indeed, did any one of the hundred dames assembled in that place, lack some to champion her. Yet, doubtless, the great number of the votes had been given to Amoret, when Britomart led her forth, but that she also was surpassed in the common judgment by Sir Blandamour’s Florimell, not the true Florimell, it must be understood, but the false which the witch woman had made. For in comparison of her all others seemed but base, even as the stars seem to grow dull when the moon is shining at her full. “This,” said they all, “is no mortal creature, but an angel from heaven.”
Even so when some cunning smith overlays base metal with covering of gold, he lays upon it so fair a gloss that it seems to surpass the true gold itself. So they who had looked upon the true Florimell thought to themselves, “The dame is fairer than ever before!” For ever it is that false things do seem to excel the true, so weak and false are the judgments of men.
Then, by common consent, the girdle was adjudged to her as being the fairest of all; but lo! when they thought to bind it round her waist, they could not prevail to do it. So soon as they fastened it, it seemed to loose itself and fall away, as if there was some secret hindrance and want of fitness. And so it fared with many other dames when they assayed the same; when they would have girt the thing about their waists, they could not. However fast it seemed to be, it was soon seen to be loose. Then a certain squire, who thought scorn of women, cried aloud: “Surely this is a sorrowful sight, that out of so many fair dames not one can fit to herself the girdle of beauty! Shame on the man who thought of this fatal device! May he never find fair lady to love him!” At which saying all the knights laughed loud, and all the ladies frowned.
And now the gentle Amoret, coming last of all that company, took the girdle in her hands, and put it around her waist, and lo! it fitted to a marvel. But the false Florimell snatched it away as if in anger, and would have clasped it round her own waist. She clasped it, but it fitted as ill as before. Nevertheless it was adjudged to her as her right, for such the common voice had been; and she herself was assigned to the Knight of the Ebony Spear, that is, to Britomart. But she was ill-content: “Nay, nay,” she said, all thinking that it was the Knight of the Ebony Spear that spoke, “I am no light of love; I am still steadfast to my own Amoret.” Then she was adjudged to the Savage Knight, but he had already departed in great wrath; and then to Triamond, but he was faithful to his Canacé; and after Triamond to Sir Satyrane. He indeed was well content. But then arose great strife, and, like enough, there had been a drawing of swords, but for this strange happening. Sir Satyrane stood forth and said:
“Surely we have had enough of battles; why should we fight again the old quarrels? Let the fair lady choose for herself. Surely the love that comes of her will is the sweetest of all!” To this they all consented. And so the choice was given to the false Florimell. Long looked she upon each gallant knight, for it seemed as if she would willingly have pleased them all; but at the last she turned to Bragadocchio, for he also stood among the rest, and said:
“This is the man I choose!” Great was the wrath of all the company of knights, for they knew not how fitting it was that the false beauty should choose the valour that was false.
Britomart grew not a little weary of these strivings of knights and dames. Therefore she departed, taking with her the Lady Amoret, for she was still bent on finding the Knight of the Mirror. An unlucky maid she was, in truth, thus seeking one who had been her adversary, to whom she had been so near, though she knew it not. Great was her grief, and great also her toil, for neither grief nor toil did she spare, thinking that could she find him, there would be both an end of her own toil and a solace for her grief. The gentle Amoret also, who was her companion, had a sorrow of her own, for she sought for her Scudamore; but he, unhappy man, had his heart full of hatred and revenge. For that evil hag, whose name was Até or Strife, had poisoned it with suspicion. The very one who had best served him, he hated most, even Britomart. Neither could Glaucé, for she went with him, serving him as a squire, abate his rage, for all that she could say.
And now, as though the evil counsels of Strife had not wrought trouble enough for him, he must needs put another burden on his soul. As they journeyed on, the night came upon them unawares, very heavy with cloud and rain. They, seeking some place where they might find shelter, perceived upon a steep hillside what seemed to be a poor man’s cottage. And underneath there ran a little stream, but the water was muddy and thick, and had an evil smell. As they came near they heard the sound of hammers, and judged that it must be a blacksmith’s forge. Entering in, they found the goodman of the place busy with his work. He was of a mean and wretched aspect, spent, it would seem, with weariness. His eyes were hollow, and his cheeks fallen in, like to one who had been many months in a prison cell; his face was begrimed with smoke and his beard ragged, as if neither comb nor shears had ever passed upon it. Rude were his garments, and hanging in rags, and his hands were blistered with burning, with nails long left unpared. Care was his name, and his trade was the working of wedges of iron. To what purpose they could serve, neither he nor anyone knew. Such are the idle doubts and fears which Care drives into the hearts of men. Nor was it he alone that was busy with this toil; six stout workers stood about the forge, all with huge hammers in their hands, which they plied in order. Much did Sir Scudamore wonder to see their work; but when he had watched it awhile, he asked them of its purpose, saying, “What make you?” But they answered not a word, nor did they hold their hands for a moment; the bellows blew like to a cold blast from the north, and the din of the hammers ceased not.
When the knight saw that no one answered, he laid himself down upon the floor, seeking to rest his weary limbs; Glaucé did the like; and sore was her need of rest, for she was old and feeble, and they had journeyed that day a long and weary way. She slept indeed, but to Sir Scudamore there came no sleeping. Now he would lie on this side, now on that; now he lay in one place, now in another. Anon he would rise from his place, and then lie down again. But every change was to no purpose, and every place seemed full of pain. Also the dogs howled and barked all the night long, and the cocks crowed, and the owls hooted; and if by chance slumber came down upon his eyes, then one of the workers smote his headpiece with a hammer, for they indeed rested not all the night. As morning drew near, he fell into a sleep, so utterly wearied was he, but sleep was worse than waking, for it brought evil thoughts of those whom he was most bound to love and trust.
The next day Sir Scudamore and Glaucé, serving him as his squire, started betimes from the house of Care, for his was the dwelling where they had spent the night. After a while they espied a knight sitting beside a wood, while his horse grazed in the field hard by. The man mounted, so soon as he saw them, and rode forward, as did also Sir Scudamore. But when the two were near enough that each could discern what arms the other wore, the Knight of the Wood lowered his spear and turned his horse aside, saying, “Gentle Scudamore, pardon me, I pray you, that I had unknowingly almost trespassed against you!”
“I blame you not,” answered Sir Scudamore; “such happenings may well be to knights who seek for adventures. But, sir, as you call me by my name, may I be bold enough to ask you yours?”
The other made answer: “I pray you pardon me if I withhold my name for a time; the time serves not that I should make it known. May it please you to call me the Savage Knight, for thus I am commonly known.”
Sir Scudamore said: “This place seems to suit well the arms which you are pleased to wear. But tell me, have you any special purpose to serve that you abide in this place?”
“Sir,” replied the other, “be it known to you that a stranger knight did me but the other day a great shame and dishonour, and I wait till I can take vengeance on him.”
“Tell me,” answered Sir Scudamore, “who it is that wronged you.”
“His name,” said the Savage Knight, “is unknown, yet he himself is known to many, especially by the ebony spear which he carries. It was but the other day that with this spear he overthrew all that met him in the tourney, and reft from me the honour of the day; not only so, for of these things a knight may not complain, but he took from me the fairest lady that ever was, and withholds her still.”
Then Sir Scudamore knew that he spoke of Britomart, who, as he thought, had taken from him his love. All his heart was full of rage, and he cried out: “Now, by my head, this is not the first time of this knight’s playing an unknightly part, for I know him by this same spear which he bears. From me also did he carry away my love. If you purpose to take vengeance on him, I will give you all the help that I can.” So these two agreed to join together in wreaking their wrath on the Knight of the Ebony Spear, that is to say, on Britomart.
While they were communing together on this matter, they saw in the distance a knight riding slowly towards them, somewhat strangely attired, and bearing strange arms, whom approaching they perceived to be the very one of whom they were speaking.
Then said Sir Scudamore: “I beseech you, Sir Savage Knight, that as I was first wronged, so I may first take vengeance. And if I fail, then the lot comes to you.”
Sir Scudamore overthrown by Britomart.
To this the other gave his assent. Thereupon Sir Scudamore charged at her with all his might and at his horse’s top speed, which she perceiving, made herself ready, and gave him so rough a welcome that she smote to the ground both horse and man; and this so strongly, that neither had any mind to rise therefrom. This Sir Artegall perceiving, felt in himself a yet greater anger than before, and laying his lance in rest, charged also with all his strength. But he also was laid upon the ground, for there was nothing that could withstand the enchanted spear. Nevertheless he fared better than his fellow, in that he rose lightly from the ground, and drawing his sword, leapt fiercely at his adversary. So sore were his strokes, that though she was on horseback, she was constrained to give place before him. As they turned this way and that, it chanced that a blow which Sir Artegall aimed at the Princess, glancing down the corslet which she wore, lighted on the back of her horse, wounding him so sorely upon the back, in the rear of the saddle, that she was compelled to alight. Not a whit was she dismayed at this mischance, and casting down her enchanted spear, betook herself to use sword and shield. And now the fortune of the fight changed somewhat, for he was not a little spent by long fighting on foot, and she, having been mounted hitherto, had the advantage. Hence it followed that she drove him backwards, and even, so heavy were her blows, wounded him through his coat of mail. And now behold! another change. She was over-hasty in her assault, and her breath began to fail; and he on the other hand reserved his strength, and dealt his blows as thick as the hailstones fall upon a roof—unhappy man, who came so near to slaying the fairest creature in all the world! Still was the battle waged between these two, but ever Sir Artegall grew the stronger and Britomart the weaker. At last he dealt a stroke that, had it been aimed aright, had surely gone near to slay her; but, by good chance, it did but shear away the visor of her helmet, so that her face could plainly be seen, somewhat reddened indeed by long toil, and with the sweat standing on it in great drops, but yet fair beyond all comparison. And at the same time her hair, its band being broken, fell down as it were a river of gold flowing about her. Already had the knight lifted his hand to strike again; but when he saw the fair face and golden hair his arm was, as it were, benumbed, his sword dropped from his hand, and he himself fell upon his knees.
“Surely,” he said to himself, “this is some goddess that I see before me.” She stood, indeed, in great wrath, for she had been in sore straits, and anger ever follows close on fear, and made as if she would strike him, but he could do nothing but ask for pardon. Nor was Sir Scudamore less amazed, for he had by this time recovered from his swoon, when he saw the sight.
And now Glaucé, glad at heart to see again the mistress whom she had missed so long, drew near, and made her a reverence, saying: “Truly I rejoice to see you safe after so many toils and dangers. And now, dear daughter, as you love me, grant these knights a truce.”
“So be it,” Britomart made answer. Thereupon they lifted up their visors, so that their faces could be seen. And when Britomart looked on the face of Artegall, behold it was the very countenance of the knight whom she had seen long since in the magic mirror! And as she saw it her haughty spirit abated. She could never again lift hand against him; nay, when she thought to use her tongue, and reproach him with angry words, even her tongue failed her.
And now Sir Scudamore, greatly rejoiced to know that all his fears and suspicions were false, drew near and said: “Surely it makes me glad, Sir Artegall, to see you who were wont to despise all dames, bow yourself before one in so lowly a fashion.” And when Britomart heard the name of Artegall, her heart leaped within her breast, nor for all her feigning could she hide the gladness which she felt. Then said Glaucé again: “Gentle knights, be thankful for the happy chance which has brought so strange an ending to your fears and troubles. Here is no thief that would take away from you the ladies whom you love. And you, Sir Artegall, who call yourself the Savage Knight, count it no shame that a maid has so bravely held her own against you, and strive no longer against love, which is the very crown of knighthood. And you, fair lady, turn away your wrath; if there is fire in your heart, let it be the fire of love.” Britomart blushed deep to hear these words, and Sir Artegall was glad at heart.
And now Sir Scudamore, who was divided between hope and fear concerning his Amoret, spoke, saying: “Pardon me if I ask you for tidings of my Amoret. I know that you delivered her at no small peril from the Enchanter’s prison. Where is she? for I would seek her, as is, indeed, my bounden duty.”
Britomart answered: “Sir Knight, it grieves me much that I cannot tell you what you seek to know. After I had delivered her from the Enchanter, as you know, I kept her safe. And truly there never was companion more dear to me than she. But one day, as we travelled, we lighted from our steeds by the wayside, to rest awhile. Then I laid myself down to sleep; but when I woke from my sleep, she was nowhere to be seen. I called her; I sought her far and near; but nowhere could I find her, or hear tidings of her.”
When Sir Scudamore heard these words, he was greatly troubled, and stood like to a man who has received a mortal blow. But Glaucé said: “Be not discouraged, fair sir; hope still for the best; why should you trouble yourself in vain?”
Little comfort did he take of these words, but when Britomart said, “Truly you have great cause for trouble; yet take comfort, by the light of day I swear that I will never leave you till I find and give her back to you,” then was he not a little comforted, for he had a great trust that what Britomart promised she would surely perform.
Then they all journeyed together to a castle that was near, Sir Artegall being their guide. There they rested till their wounds were healed and their strength repaired. Meanwhile Sir Artegall paid court to Britomart, who, after much persuasion, though, indeed, she was not unwilling in her heart, consented to take him for her husband. Nevertheless their marriage could not be yet, because Sir Artegall was bound on a great adventure which he must needs carry through. Nor could she refuse to allow him to depart, seeing that his honour was bound in the matter. Only it was agreed that when three months had waxed and waned, then he should return. So the knight departed, Britomart going with him for a part of his journey. Full loath was she to leave him, finding ever new occasions for delay. And when these were all spent, then with a heavy heart did she return to the castle, for she also had business in hand, even to seek together with Sir Scudamore for the lost Amoret.
It shall now be told how the fair Amoret was lost. She and Britomart, riding away from the place where Sir Satyrane had held his tournament, chanced in their journey upon a wood. There it seemed good to them to rest awhile. Britomart, being not a little wearied with fighting in the lists, fell fast asleep, but Amoret walked in the wood. As she walked a giant rushed out of a thicket hard by and seized her; she cried aloud; but Britomart heard her not, so deep was she in slumber. A horrible monster to behold he was, feeding on the raw flesh of men and beasts, with a face red as blood, and two great ears, like to the ears of an elephant. He was covered with shaggy hair, and in his hand a young oak with sharp snags that had been hardened in the fire, till they were as steel. He carried her through the wood to his cave, and threw her in. For a while she lay without sense; then, being somewhat recovered, she heard someone sighing and sobbing, and inquired who it was that spoke.
Then that other said: “Listen, unhappy one, and I will tell you my story, from which you may learn in what plight you yourself are. Twenty days have I dwelt in this dreadful place; and in these twenty days have I seen seven women slain and devoured. And now he has for store three only, yourself and me and an old woman yonder; and of these three he will surely devour one to-morrow. And if you ask my history it is this. I am daughter to a lord of high degree, and it happened to me to love a squire of low degree. Of low degree he was, but so comely as to be a fit mate for the proudest lady in the land. Nevertheless, my father, loving me well after his fashion, and seeking my advancement, would have none of him. But I, being steadfast in my mind, made a resolve to flee far from my home, and take with my lover such a lot as fortune might bring. On a certain day, therefore, it was appointed that I should meet him at a certain place. To which place I came, but he, alas! was not there. Then this monster found me, and carried me away as an eagle carries off a dove.”
After they had talked awhile, lo! the monster himself came back to his cave. And Amoret, as soon as she saw him, leapt from her place, which chanced to be near to the mouth of the cave, and fled away on her feet as fast as she could; and the monster, perceiving her flight, pursued her. Fleet of foot was she, but it had fared ill with her but for a happy chance which brought her help beyond all hope, as shall now be told.
There dwelt in those parts a famous huntress, Belphœbe by name; this Belphœbe was own sister to Amoret. That day she was following the chase, pursuing leopards and bears, of which beasts there was a great multitude in those woods. With her were her companions, the forest nymphs, and also a gentle squire, who was her lover. Now the squire chanced to be separated from the rest of his company, and so came to the very place where the monster was in chase of Amoret. By this time he had overtaken her and caught her up in his arms. And when the squire perceived it, and set upon him, seeking to deliver her out of his hands, the villain used this crafty device. When the squire would have thrust at him with the hunting-spear which he carried, then the monster would shield himself with the body of Amoret. And when the squire held back his blow, or when the blow chanced to fall ever so lightly on the dame, then the monster laughed aloud. So they two contended awhile; but at the last the squire dealt his adversary a shrewd blow and wounded him sorely. But this did not abate his rage, for, throwing Amoret on the ground, he set upon the squire so fiercely with his club, that the man had much ado to save himself from being beaten down. Nor can it be known what had been the issue, for now Belphœbe, hearing the sound of the strokes through the wood, and guided by her ear, drew near, holding her bow in her hand, with an arrow upon the string, ready to be despatched. When the monster saw her, he, knowing how deadly was her aim, turned and fled. Nor did she fail to pursue; swift of foot was she, and ere he could reach his cave, she smote him on the back of the neck with an arrow. He fell to the ground with a great crash, and when she came up, thinking to put an end to him, lo! he was already dead. Thereupon she went into the cave, and while she wondered that a place could be so foul, she heard a whispering and a low sort of groaning. Then she said to herself: “Are these spirits that suffer in this place of dread and darkness?” and afterwards aloud, “If there be any here, let them come forth, if only they be free to move.” Thereupon Æmilia stood up from the place where she had been lying, and told her story. “Come forth,” said Belphœbe, when she heard the tale; “haply, I may give you help.” So she led her to the place where she had left the squire and the fair Amoret. And now there befell an evil chance which brought about no small trouble.