Amoret was in a piteous plight, as may easily be believed. For first she had been affrighted almost to death by the monster, and then she had been sorely bruised when he cast her so roughly to the ground. So she lay as one without life, and the gentle squire was full of compassion when he saw her hurts, especially the wound which he himself had made with his hunting-spear, when the monster held her before him as a shield. And now Belphœbe, coming back from the cave, saw him looking at her, as it might be, in lover’s fashion, and a great pang of jealousy and anger moved in her heart. At first she thought to slay them both with the arrow which she held in her hand. But keeping herself back from this, she cried: “Is this, then, the faith you keep?” And, with the word, she turned her face and fled into the wood. The squire, knowing that he was wrongly blamed, made haste to follow her, yet, overtaking her, he did not dare to come near; and when he would have told her the truth, she would not listen, but made as if she would slay him with an arrow. So, after having long followed her in vain, he turned back, and finding a solitary place in the depth of a forest, made there a cabin for himself, where he dwelt in most unhappy sort. His weapons of war he broke, and vowed never to use them again. Also he swore a great oath that he would never more speak to woman; his garments, which were of the seemliest fashion, he cut into the strangest shape, and his hair he suffered to grow as it would and fall untrimmed about his shoulders. So he lived for many days.
It chanced one day that a turtle dove which also had lost its mate came near, and, as if it could understand what was in his heart, behaved in a most friendly and familiar fashion. And this it did again and again. The bird would sit upon the branch of a tree hard by, and sing to him; and he, by way of guerdon for its song, would share with him such slender meals as he had. On a certain day he brought out from a certain place certain gifts which Belphœbe had bestowed upon him in the days when the affection between them was yet unbroken. Among these was a ruby of the finest water, with a gold setting in the shape of a heart and a chain of gold fastened to the setting. This jewel he took, and binding it with a riband of his lady’s colour, tied it round the neck of the dove, and solaced his mind by gazing on it. But no sooner had the bird felt the jewel tied about his neck than he spread out his wings and flew away. Not a little troubled was he at this matter, for he had lost, not the companionship of the bird only, but the jewel also. So was his trouble not a little increased. But the bird flew in a straight line to the abode of Belphœbe, and found her sitting in an arbour, taking rest from the toils of the chase. For she still followed in the ways of a huntress, though, in truth, she was not a little troubled that she had lost her lover. So soon as she saw the bird, she spied the jewel about his neck, and knew it for her own gift, and the riband also wherewith it was bound. Thereupon she rose from her place, and would have caught it in her hand, but the bird flew away. For a short space it flew, and then tarried for a space, and then when Belphœbe came near, flew away once more. So it drew the lady on from place to place, ever seeming ready to be caught, yet ever again escaping, till it brought her to the place where the squire dwelt in his unhappiness. There it perched on his hand, and sang a song, sweet and sad, as if to suit his sorrowful estate. So spent was he with grief and trouble that the lady knew him not, but only saw that he was in great misery, yet judged that he had fallen into it from better things. Thereupon she said: “Unhappy man, what has brought you into this evil plight? If it is Heaven’s will, then we must submit; but if it is of man’s wrongdoing, then may the wrong be set right. But if it is of your own will, know that no man should so neglect the gifts of God, who wills that all should be happy.”
“O lady,” answered the squire, “surely it is no one but yourself that has brought me into this trouble.” And he showed her the whole truth.
So peace was made again between the two.
It is now time that the story of Sir Artegall should be told; how he was bred up in the ways of justice. Now this story, as it was commonly reported, was this: Astræa, who was the Goddess of Justice, found him when he was a child playing with other children of a like age; she, liking him well, and finding him innocent and without guile, took him away with her to a solitary place where she dwelt—for as yet she lived upon the earth—and there instructed and trained him to be such an one as she desired. She taught him to weigh right and wrong in equal scales, and to measure out equity according to the rule of conscience. And because there were no men in the place, she taught him to seek experience of the right way among the beasts of the forest; for these also oppress their own kind. Also she caused him to be instructed in the use of arms, in which use he became in due time most expert, so that he came to be held in high repute, as being one who could not only distinguish most truly between right and wrong, but could also maintain the same by force of arms. Also she gave him a sword of great repute which Jupiter himself had used in his war against the Titans; Chrysaor was its name, which, being interpreted, is “Sword of Gold.” Of finest temper was it, and beautiful to behold. Also she gave her servant to attend upon him—Talus was his name. This same Talus wielded an iron flail with which to thresh out falsehood and separate the truth.
This Artegall, being now come to years of manhood, betook himself, as was the wont of all worthy knights in those days, to the Court of Queen Gloriana. And she gave him as the task which he should accomplish, the succouring of a distressed lady, Irene by name, from whom a tyrant, whom men called Grantorto, withheld the heritage which was rightly hers. For she judged that there was no man who could better discern the right, and having discerned it could more effectually cause it to prevail.
So it came to pass that he and Talus, who was his squire, rode off on their errand. On their way they saw as sorry a sight as ever was seen by mortal eyes, a squire sitting upon the ground in most doleful fashion, and hard by him, lying on the ground, the headless corpse of a lady. It was indeed a piteous thing to see the gay apparel of the dead, most cruelly drenched in blood.
“Now tell me,” cried Sir Artegall, “by what foul mischance this dreadful thing has happened.”
“Oh, sir,” answered the squire, “as I sat here with the lady whom I love, there came riding by a knight who had in his company this fair dame whom you see lying here. And whether he was taken with the sight of my love, or was weary of his own, I know not; but this he said: ‘Ho! fellow, let us make exchange.’ And when I denied his request, and the two ladies also cried out upon him, then he threw down the dame his companion on the ground, and lawlessly taking away from me my own, set her upon his horse. And when his lady saw what he had done, and how he was riding away, she followed him as fast as she could, and laying hold of his arm, cried out: ‘Leave me not in this fashion; slay me rather!’ And he in a fury drew his sword, and with a single stroke shore off her head, even in the place where now she lies. And now he has gone, taking my love with him.”
“Tell me,” said Sir Artegall, “by which way he went. Tell me also by what signs I may know him.”
“But, fair sir,” the squire made answer, “he has gone so long that you can scarce hope to overtake him. Yet, if you would know the way, he rode across the plain.” And he pointed with his hand to the course which the knight had followed. “As for the marks, know that he carried on his shield a broken sword on a field of blood; and, indeed, it seemed to be a fitting emblem.”
“Follow him,” said Sir Artegall to his page Talus. And the page followed him swift as a swallow flies over a field. Nor was it long before he overtook the knight—Sir Sanglier he was called—and bade him come back with him, and answer for his deed. No little scorn did the knight feel to be so commanded, and, setting down the lady whom he carried on his steed, rode at the page Talus with all his force. Full on the body he struck him, but moved him no more than a rock is moved by some stone that is thrown at it. On the other hand, Talus dealt him such a blow that he laid him prostrate on the ground. Ere he could recover himself, Talus had seized him in an iron grip, and forced him to follow him, the lady also, though she would have fled in her fear, following. So they came to Sir Artegall.
“What is this that you have done?” said Sir Artegall.
“Nay,” said the knight, “I did it not: I am guiltless of the blood of this dame, and this I will prove on the body of this false squire, if he will meet me hand to hand.”
Now the squire was not of such prowess as to meet so doughty a knight. Then said Sir Artegall: “This is a doubtful cause, which it were not well to try by arbitrament of battle. Will you therefore commit the matter to me, and abide by my judgment and sentence?”
To this they both consented. Then said Sir Artegall: “Since each of you denies that this lady came by her death through his deed, and each claims the living lady as his own, my judgment is that both the living and the dead shall be equally divided, and each shall have his part both of one and of the other. Also I decree that if either of you two shall reject this my sentence, he shall carry this head as a penance for twelve months, by way of witness that he brought about her death.”
Sir Sanglier gladly accepted the doom, but the squire was ill-content, for he really loved the dame who had been reft from him. “Nay,” said he, “I would rather by far that she should live, though I lose her.”
“’Tis well said, squire!” cried Sir Artegall, “and now I perceive that you are indeed guiltless in this matter. As for you, Sir Knight, who care so little for the living or the dead, take this head and carry it for a twelve months’ space, to be a witness of your shame and guilt.” Sir Sanglier was ill content with this sentence, and would have refused to abide by it. Only, when he saw Talus approaching with intent to compel him, he made his submission, for he knew by experience how great was his strength.
Then said the squire: “Oh, sir, you have done me such service as I can never repay. Let me therefore attend you as your squire, and that without fee or favour.”
“Not so,” Sir Artegall made answer, “I am well content to be as I am. Do you follow your own affairs. As for me, Talus here will be sufficient for my needs.”
As Sir Artegall, with Talus following, rode on, he met a dwarf who was travelling with all the speed that he could use. “Stay awhile,” he said, “for I have somewhat to ask of you.” And the dwarf, though somewhat loath, could not but yield. Now the dwarf’s name was Dony, and he served the fair Florimell. Not a little of his discourse, therefore, concerned the said Florimell. He told how Marinell was recovered of the grievous wound which Britomart had given him, and how he was to wed the fair Florimell.
“Say you so?” cried Artegall. “Tell me, therefore, when the marriage shall be, for I would fain be present at the celebration.”
“In three days’ time, as I am informed,” answered the dwarf, “and I too should be there, and the place is the castle by the seashore; only there is a hindrance in the way, for a little farther on from this place, a cruel Saracen keeps the bridge by which one must needs pass. Much harm has he done already to travellers, and men are fain to shun the way that lies thereby.”
“Tell me more about the villain,” said Sir Artegall. Then Dony set forth the whole matter.
“He is a man of great strength, and expert in battle. Moreover, he is not a little helped by the charms with which the wicked witch, his daughter, supports him. Thus he has gathered together much wealth, store of gold, and lordships and farms. This wealth he daily increases, greatly by means of this same bridge which he holds by force of arms. No one will he suffer to go over unless he first pays a toll, be he rich or poor. If the traveller be poor, then a squire whom he sets over this business extorts from him this tribute. As for the richer sort, these he deals with himself. Men call him Pollenté, which, being interpreted, is ‘Powerful,’ and the name is fitting, for much power he has. And besides the power he has not a little cunning, for he is wont to fight on this same bridge. Exceeding long is it and narrow, and full of pitfalls which he knows, but a stranger knows not. And often it happens that the stranger falls through one of these said pitfalls into the river beneath. And while he is confused with his fall, Pollenté leaps into the river and takes him at a disadvantage, and either slays him outright or causes him to drown. Then he takes the spoils of them who perish in this fashion, and brings them to his daughter, who dwells hard by. Thus she has gathered together great store of wealth, so that she exceeds even kings. Her they call Munera. Very fair is she, and gorgeously attired; many lords have sought to have her for a wife, but in her pride she thinks scorn of them all.”
This is the story which Dony the dwarf told to Sir Artegall. When the knight heard it, he cried, “Now, by my life, I will go none other way but this, God helping me.”
So he went on with Talus, and the dwarf followed. When they came to the bridge, there came to them an evil-looking villain, who said, “Give me the passage-money, according to the custom of the place!”
“Here,” answered Sir Artegall, “is my passage-money,” and therewith dealt him such a blow that he fell dead upon the ground. When the Saracen knight saw this, he was very wrath, and charged at Sir Artegall full tilt; nor did Sir Artegall lag behind. They met in the middle of the bridge, where there was a trap cunningly devised. The Saracen looked that his adversary should fall into it unawares and be sorely bruised and wounded; but Sir Artegall, having been forewarned by the dwarf, leapt into the river, clear of all that might do damage to horse or man. The Saracen leapt in like fashion, and the two met in the water, not one whit less hotly than had they been on the dry land. And here the pagan had no small advantage, for he was accustomed to fight in this fashion, and his horse also could swim like a fish. Sir Artegall, perceiving that the odds were against him, saw that he must close with his adversary without delay. Long they wrestled together, and Sir Artegall never loosened his grip one whit, and at last forced him from his saddle, so that he no longer had the advantage of the swimming of his horse. And yet the issue of the fight was doubtful awhile, for the Saracen was both brave and expert in arms. Nevertheless Sir Artegall had the better breath, as one that followed temperance in all things, and so prevailed until the Saracen was compelled to turn from the river to the land, hoping so to escape. Yet even as he lifted his head from the stream to the brink, the knight dealt him so heavy a blow that it clean shore the head from the neck. And this being done, then he went his way to the castle where the pagan’s daughter dwelt.
Sir Artegall and the Saracen.
Here he was denied entrance, being received with so great a shower of stones that he was forced to retreat. Then he sent Talus, bidding him compel an entrance. And this he did without damage to himself, and with his iron flail he battered the door so fiercely that the whole place shook from the foundation to the roof. All who were within were greatly dismayed, and the Lady Munera herself came out, and stood upon the castle wall. When she saw in what peril she was, she used all the devices which she could imagine to deliver herself. First she besought the adversary with many prayers to cease from his attack—and, indeed, she was not wont to beseech in vain. Then she tried what enchantments could do, and of these she had a great store at her command. And when she found that prayers and enchantments availed nothing, she thought to corrupt the man with great gifts. She caused sacks of gold and precious things to be brought, and poured from the castle wall, thinking to herself that he would surely cease from his battering, and give her, at the least, some respite and delay.
But the riches moved him no more than the entreaties and enchantments. Still he battered with his iron flail till he broke down the door and made a way for his master to enter. No one dared to lift a hand against them: all through the castle they moved at their will. The Lady Munera for a while they could not find. At the last Talus, than whom a bloodhound was not more keen to scent a runaway, found her hidden under a heap of gold. Thence he drew her from her lair, pitying her not at all. For now even Sir Artegall, seeing how fair she was, had some compassion in his heart, and when she knelt before him would have given her some remission of the penalty. But there was no such thought in the heart of Talus. He cared for naught but to do justice to the full. So he took her by the waist, she crying loudly the while, and cast her into the river. And when he had wrought this justice upon her, he took all the pelf that he found in the castle, and ground it small to powder, and threw it into the water. This done, he razed the castle to the ground, destroying it utterly, so that no one in days to come should think to set it up again. After this Sir Artegall reformed the evil customs of the bridge, ordering that in time to come it should be free for all to pass over.
This good deed accomplished, they journeyed on to the castle by the sea, where the nuptials of Sir Marinell and the fair Florimell were to be celebrated with great honour. There were great feastings and rejoicings, to which an infinite concourse of lords and ladies resorted from all quarters; no knight that was held in repute for valour and deeds of arms was absent. When the banquet, which was furnished with all rare meats and drinks that the heart of man could desire, was finished, then the company addressed themselves to feats of arms. First came forth Sir Marinell and six knights with him, declaring to hold the field against all comers, in right of Florimell, and to affirm that she was the fairest of all the ladies upon earth. Against these there came from all parts such as desired to try their fortune in the lists—none were debarred. Many feats of arms were wrought that day; many knights were unhorsed, and some were wounded; but none, so it was judged by common consent, bore themselves more bravely than did Sir Marinell. His name, therefore, did the heralds proclaim as the champion of the day. And on the second day the event was the same. There was much fighting, many suffered loss and overthrow; and in the end the heralds proclaimed, as they had done before, the victory of Sir Marinell. But on the third day things fell out otherwise, for the knight pursuing his adversaries when he had put them to flight, somewhat rashly, was surrounded by them and taken prisoner. While they were leading him away, it so chanced that Sir Artegall came into the tilting-yard, and close behind him followed Bragadocchio, who had in his company the false Florimell.
When Sir Artegall understood what mishap had befallen Sir Marinell, he said to Bragadocchio: “I would fain help this brave knight; but I would not have anyone know who I am: therefore, I pray thee, change shields with me.” And Bragadocchio full willingly did so, thinking that he might thus win to himself renown without cost or danger. Sir Artegall, therefore, taking Bragadocchio’s shield, set upon the knights who were leading away Sir Marinell. There were a hundred in all. Of these fifty assailed him, and the other fifty stayed behind to guard the prisoner. But for all that there were so many they could not stand against him. The fifty who assailed him he speedily put to flight, and the fifty who would have kept the prisoner did not hinder Sir Artegall from setting him free. Then Sir Marinell being delivered and armed anew, for they had taken his arms from him, the two joined their forces and drove their adversaries out of the field. There was not one among them who could hold up his head or make a stand against them. When Sir Artegall had accomplished this, then he gave back the shield to Bragadocchio, who had stayed to see the issue of the day, keeping with him the false Florimell.
After this the trumpets sounded, and the judges rose up in their place and summoned the company, saying: “Hear! All ye knights who have borne arms to-day, and know to whom the prize of valour is awarded.” Then came forth the fair Florimell from the place where she sat, as queen of the tourney, that she might give to each knight his proper guerdon, and to him who should be held to have best acquitted himself, the first prize of all. Loudly did they call for the stranger knight who had wrought such prodigies of valour and strength in delivering Sir Marinell. He did not come forward, but in his stead Bragadocchio presented himself, with the shield bearing the device which all men knew—namely, a sun shining in a field of gold. When the company saw this, they, thinking that this was indeed the champion, set up a great shout, and the trumpets sounded, and Florimell rose up and greeted him most graciously, thanking him for his championship. But all this praise turned the vain fellow’s mind. “Not for your sake, madam,” said he, “but for my own dear lady’s sake did I this,” adding other words such as could not pass the lips of a true knight. Then he called to Trompart his squire, saying, “Bring forth the fairest of all dames!” Thereupon Trompart led forth the false Florimell; for he had her in keeping, hidden by a veil from the common sight.
Great was the astonishment of the company when they saw her. “This surely is Florimell,” they said to themselves, “or, if it be not, then it is one fairer than she.” Never were men more perplexed than the guests that day. Nor was Sir Marinell himself less amazed than the rest, and, as he gazed, the more and more steadfastly did he believe that this false Florimell was indeed the true.
But now Sir Artegall, who stood in the press of the crowd, closely disguised, heard the false boaster’s words, and could not contain himself any more, but came forth and cried with a loud voice: “False boaster, strutting thus in borrowed plumes, and doing dishonour to others with your lies, verily when each shall have his due, great will be your disgrace! ’Tis true that the shield which you bear was this day borne by him who delivered Sir Marinell, but yours was not the arm which struck the blow. And now hold forth your sword and let it show what marks of battle it bears, and if you bear in your body the mark of a wound, let this company behold it; nay, boaster, this is the sword which won the victory, and these the wounds which were endured in the winning!” And here he showed his sword, which bore the dint of many a blow, and the wounds which he carried on his arms and his body. “And,” he further said, “as for this Florimell of yours, I warrant she is no true dame, but only a fit companion for such as you.” Then he took the true Florimell by the hand and led her, she blushing the while, for the colour on her fair face was of roses mixed with lilies, and set her by the side of the false. And then, lo! a great marvel! The false dame melted away as snow melts in the sunshine! In a moment naught remained of her save only the empty girdle which once had compassed her waist. So on a day of storm we see a rainbow spanning the sky with all its goodly colours, and in a moment it vanishes from our sight, so did this lovely creature, the false Florimell, vanish from before the eyes of that company. And now Sir Artegall took up the golden girdle which alone remained of all that fair show, for this, indeed, was true, while all else was false. This he presented to the true Florimell, and she forthwith fastened it about her waist. Many a fair dame before had essayed to do it, but not one had found it truly and rightly fit.
But the end of these things was not yet, for now Sir Guyon came forth from the crowd to claim his own good steed, which, as has been told, had been stolen from him in time past by this false thief. With one hand he seized the golden bit, and with the other he drew forth his sword from its sheath, for he would have smitten the knave with a deadly blow, but that the press hindered him, for now there was a great tumult in the place. Thereupon Sir Artegall came forth and would fain know how the knight had been robbed of his horse. Then Sir Guyon told the story how, while he was busy setting right a grievous wrong, some knave had stolen his horse. “And now,” said he, “I challenge the knave who robbed me of it to deadly combat.” So he spoke, but Bragadocchio held back. He had no liking for such things.
Then said Sir Artegall: “This is truly the law of knighthood, that if one man claim a thing and offer to make good his claim by might of arms, and the other will not, the judgment goes against the latter by default. Nevertheless, for further and clearer discovery of the truth, can you who claim this horse as your own declare some tokens in proof?”
To this answered Sir Guyon: “Most truly I can. Such a token there is: a black spot in the beast’s mouth like in shape to a horse’s shoe.” But when they thought to look into his mouth so as to discern the token, he wounded first one and then another so sorely that they were like to die. From no one would he suffer such a thing. But when Sir Guyon called him by his name—Brigador—he, hearing the voice, stood still, as if he had been bound, and suffered them to open his mouth, so that all could see the mark as it had been described. Nay more, he would follow Sir Guyon, breaking the band with which he was tied, and frisked right gaily, ay, and bent his knee.
Then said Sir Artegall: “Now it may be plainly discerned that the horse is indeed yours. Take it therefore, with its saddle of gold, and let this boaster go horseless, till he can win a steed for himself.”
Much was Bragadocchio moved to be so shamed in the presence of all that company—so moved that for a while he laid aside his very cowardice, and broke forth into angry words against Sir Artegall. The knight made as if he would have slain the knave with his sword, but Sir Guyon stayed him. “Sir,” said he, “it would ill suit your dignity to vent your wrath on such a knave as this. The meetest punishment for him is to be put to open shame in the sight of all this company.”
But Talus was not minded to let the knave escape so easily. He caught him by the neck and led him out of the hall, and shaved his beard, and reft away his shield, and blotted out the escutcheon, and defaced all his arms. Nor did the false squire, Trompart, fare better, though he cunningly had essayed to fly, for Talus overtook him and served him in the like way. So may all makers of falsehood fare!
The marriage of Sir Marinell and the fair Florimell having been duly celebrated with much rejoicing and great festivity, Sir Artegall set forth again upon his travels. On his way, which for a while lay by the seashore, he came upon two men who were wholly taken up with a great quarrel. They were brothers, as might clearly be seen by the likeness between them. Near them stood two fair dames who would fain have reconciled them; but the brothers took no heed of their words, whether they spoke gently or in threatening fashion. Between them stood a strong chest, bound about with bands of iron; it seemed to have been much battered, whether by the violence of the sea or by the chances of long travel from foreign parts. It was indeed for this that the two seemed to be contending, for now the one and now the other would lay his hands upon it; so did they well-nigh come to blows, but the two damsels had so far hindered them from coming to this extremity. Not the less were they bent on trying their cause by the sword. It seemed as if it could not be decided in any other fashion. But when they were on the point to do so, notwithstanding all that the damsels could say or do, then did Sir Artegall appear.
“Sirs,” said he, “are you content to tell me the cause of your strife?” To this the two gave a common consent.
“Sir,” said the elder—Bracidas was his name—“our father, who was a knight, Milesio by name, divided between us, by his testament, his estate, that is to say, two islands which you see yonder. One is but a little mount, but in years past it was fully as long and broad as that which you see on the other side of the bay. To me he bequeathed that island which you see to be so small; for the sea, as years have passed by, has wasted it, and in so doing has largely increased the other, for what the waves took away from my land they added unto his. There is also this to be told. I was betrothed to that fair lady who stands yonder, Philtera by name, and with her I was to receive a goodly dowry, so soon as we should be linked together in bonds of wedlock. My younger brother, whose name is Amidas, was betrothed to that other dame whom you see yonder, Lucy by name. She had but small dower, but much of that which is far better—to wit, goodness. Now when the lady Philtera saw that my lands had been greatly decayed and the lands of my brother not less increased, she deserted me and betook herself to my brother, who, that he might receive her, deserted his own betrothed, to wit, the fair Lucy. Thereupon this damsel, in her unhappiness, thinking it better to die than to suffer such a contumely and pain, threw herself into the sea. But while she floated among the waves, being, I take it, buoyed up by her clothing, she chanced upon this chest which you see. And now there befell her what has often befallen others in like case. She, who had thought death to be better than life, when she saw his terrors close at hand, changed her mind, and desired to live. Catching hold, therefore, of this chest, she clung to it, and after much tossing by the sea, was at last thrown upon my island, and I, chancing at that time to be walking on the shore, espied her; and she being by this time much spent with hunger and cold, and little able to help herself, I did, so to speak, save her from death. And she, being not a little grateful for this same help, bestowed upon me the dowry which fortune had given her, to wit the chest on which she had chanced, and what was far more precious, her own self. When we had opened the chest, we found in it a great store of treasure, and took it for our own use. But now this damsel, Philtera, maintains that this chest is hers by right, that she was bringing it from foreign lands that she might deliver it to her husband, and that she suffered shipwreck by the way. Whether this be so or no, I cannot say; but this I do maintain, that whatever by good fortune or by the ordering of God has been brought into my hands is verily mine, I not having in any wise contrived the same. My land he has, and also my betrothed, though of that I take no count, but my good luck he shall not have!”
To this the younger of the two made this answer: “As for the two islands, it is as my brother has said. I do not deny the truth. But as for this chest and the treasure therein, which has been cast by the sea upon his island, that I do affirm to belong to the Lady Philtera, my wife, as she can prove by most certain signs and tokens, and I do claim that it be straightway rendered up to her.”
Sir Artegall said: “It were no hard thing to decide this matter, if you would refer it to the judgment of some just man. Are you content so to do?”
“Yes,” said the two with one voice, “you shall be a judge between us, and we will abide by the judgment that you shall give.”
“Then lay down your swords under my feet,” said Sir Artegall, and they laid them down.
Then Sir Artegall, turning himself to the younger of the two brothers, said to him: “Tell me now by what right you hold for yourself, and withhold from your brother, the land which the sea has taken from him and added to you?”
“I do so,” the man made answer, “because the sea bestowed it upon me.”
“You are in the right,” said Sir Artegall; “it is yours, keep it.” Then turning himself to the elder, he said: “Bracidas, by what right do you hold this treasure of which your brother and his wife affirm, and not without reason, that it is theirs?”
“I hold it,” said he, “because the sea bestowed it upon me.”
“You also are in the right,” said Sir Artegall; “it is yours; keep it.” Then, speaking to both, he thus declared his sentence: “That which the sea has taken is his own. None who before possessed it has claim upon it. He may bestow it as he will. The land which he took from Sir Bracidas he gave to Sir Amidas; let it therefore remain in his hand. The treasure which he took from Sir Amidas, or from the Lady Philtera, his wife, he gave to Sir Bracidas; let him also keep it.”
The matter being settled, the knight went on his way. After a while he espied a great rout of people, and turned aside from the road that he might discover what it might mean. When he came near he saw a great crowd of women, in warlike array, with weapons in their hands. And in the midst of them he saw a knight, with his hands tied tightly behind his back, and a halter about his neck; his face was covered, but his head was bare. It was plain that the man was about to be hanged. And, as they went, the women reviled him in bitter words. When Sir Artegall came near, he said: “Tell me, pray, what this may mean.”
To this they gave no answer, but made as if they would assault him. Then, at the knight’s bidding, Talus went among them, and with a few strokes of his iron flail sent them flying hither and thither. Then he took the knight, who would otherwise have been put to death, and brought him to Sir Artegall.
“Sir Turpine, unhappy man”—it so chanced that he knew the man—“how came you into this evil plight? How is it that you suffered yourself to be thus enslaved by women, who should rather be subject to men?” Sir Turpine was sore ashamed and confounded, and could say but little in his excuse for himself; but this was the story which he told.
“I was desirous, as was indeed my knightly duty, to find some adventure which would be praiseworthy in itself, and also bring me to honour. And I heard a report that there was a proud amazon who was accustomed to defy all the knights of Queen Gloriana. Some she had put to shame, and some she had slain. And the cause of her rage was this. She had loved the bold Bellodant, and when he disdained her, then her love was turned to hatred, not towards him only, but towards all knights, to whom she worked, as, indeed, she still works, all the mischief that she can devise. Any whom she can subdue, either by force or fraud, she treats in the most evil fashion. First she takes from them their arms and armour, and then she clothes them in women’s garments, and compels them to earn their bread by women’s work, spinning and sewing and washing and the like. And all the food that she gives them in recompense is but bread and water, so as to disable them from taking their revenge. And if anyone is of so manly a mind that he sets himself against her pleasure, him she causes to be hanged out of hand on that gibbet which you see yonder. And in this case I stood. For when she overcame me in fight, then she put me into that base service of which I have spoken; and when I refused, then she sent me with that rabble of women whom you dispersed, that I might be done to death.”
“By what name do they call this amazon?” said Sir Artegall, “and where does she dwell?”
“Her name,” answered Sir Turpine, “is Radigund; a princess is she of great power and pride, well tried in arms and skilled in battle, more than I could have believed had I not known it by my own experience.”
“Then,” said Sir Artegall, “by the faith which I owe to my queen, and the knighthood which I bear, I will not rest till I have made trial of this same amazon, and have found out for myself what she has of strength and skill. And now, Sir Turpine, put off these unseemly clothes which you wear, and come with me that you may see how my enterprise shall prosper, and whether I shall avenge the cause of knighthood upon this woman.”
To which request Sir Turpine consented with all his heart.
Radigund the amazon dwelt a mile or so from the place where the gallows had been set up, in a city which she had called Radigone, after her own name. On the walls of the city were set watchmen to warn the queen of the coming of strangers. One of these espied Sir Artegall and his company, and gave warning accordingly, saying: “I see three strangers; one of them is a knight fully armed, and the others have a warlike look!” Thereupon all the people ran in haste to arm themselves, like to bees when they come forth in a swarm from their hive, and Radigund herself, half-arrayed as a man, came forth from her palace. Meanwhile the three drew near to the city gate, and when the porter, thinking scorn of them because they were so few, did not trouble to open to them the gate, they beat upon it with many blows, threatening the man also that he should suffer much for his insolence.
When the queen heard this she fell into a great rage and cried: “Open the gate; these fellows shall soon know to what a city they have come!” So the porter threw wide the gate, and the three pressed forward, meaning to pass through. But lo! of a sudden there fell upon them such a storm of arrows that they had perforce to halt.
“These women,” said Sir Artegall, “are stout fighters; let us be careful what we do.” And when they halted, the rout set upon them more fiercely than ever. As for Queen Radigund, when she saw Sir Turpine, and knew that he had escaped from the doom which she had decreed for him, and was now dealing blows to her women, she was carried away with rage, and flew at him headlong, as a lioness flings herself at an ox, and dealt him so fierce a blow as brought him headlong to the ground. And when she saw him lying she set her foot upon his neck, with intent to make him pay with his life for his disparagement of her authority. So does a bear stand over the carcase of an ox, and seem to pause awhile to hear its piteous crying. When Sir Artegall saw what had befallen Sir Turpine, he made all haste to help him, and dealt the queen so mighty a blow that it reft her of her senses; nay, but that she somewhat broke its force, for she was expert in arms, it had laid her dead upon the ground. For a while she lay without speech or hearing; then, recovering herself, she would have assailed him with all her might, for never before had she endured such disgrace. But when her maidens saw it, for a great company, armed for battle, accompanied her, they thrust themselves between; for they deemed that she was not wholly in fit condition for fighting. Thus were Sir Artegall and Queen Radigund perforce kept apart. As for the rest, Talus, with his iron flail, drove them hither and thither, breaking their bows and marring their shooting, and they fled before him as sheep fly from a wolf.
When evening came, Queen Radigund bade the trumpeters sound a recall, so that the soldiers should cease fighting. All the people she made pass back into the city; and she caused all them that were wounded to be carried to houses where their hurts might be healed. Then Sir Artegall caused his tent to be pitched, on the open plain, not far from the gate of the city. There he and Sir Turpine took their ease, but Talus, as was his custom, kept watch all the night. But Radigund was ill-content with what had happened that day; never before had her pride been so rebuked. She could not rest, but cast about in her mind how she could avenge herself for the shame which had been put upon her that day, and that for the first time in her life. After a while she made this resolve in her mind; that she would meet the knight in single combat and make trial of his strength, for that her people should suffer such waste and ruin as she had seen that day was a thing not to be endured. Then she asked for one of her maidens, Clarin by name, whom she judged to be most trustworthy, and fit to do her errand, and said to her: “Clarin, go quickly, and bear a message to the stranger knight, who has so distressed us this day, saying that I will meet him to-morrow in single combat, that we may see whether he or I be the better. Say also that these are my conditions: If I overcome him, then he shall render me obedience and be bound for ever to my service; and I, if he should vanquish me, do promise to do the same. Go, therefore, taking with you six of your fellows, arrayed as finely as may be, that they may be witnesses of this covenant! Take with you also wine and meats, that he may eat. Verily, if I have my will, he shall sit hungry many a day!”
So the damsel did as she was bidden, taking with her six companions, and meat and drink also. When she came to the gate of the city she bade the trumpeter blow a blast for warning to the knights. And when Talus came forth, she said that she would fain speak with his master. So being brought with her companions into the tent, she delivered to him the message of the queen. Sir Artegall received her right courteously, and when she had departed—not without gifts—he betook himself to sleep.
The next day the two adversaries made themselves ready for battle. Sir Artegall was accoutred as knights commonly are; not so Queen Radigund. She wore a purple cloak, embroidered with silver, with ribands of diverse colours, nicely ordered upon it. This cloak, for easier motion, she shortened to her thighs; but when she pleased, she could let it fall to her heels. She had for defence of her body a cuirass of chain-mail; buskins she had, finely embroidered with bars of gold; at her side she had a scimitar hanging to a most gorgeous belt; her shield was finely decked with precious stones, it was like the moon when it is at the full. In this guise she came out of the city gate, a noble sight to see; about her was a bodyguard of maidens, some of whom made music with shawms and trumpets. Her people had pitched a pavilion for her, where she might rest till the fight should begin. After this Sir Artegall came out of his tent, fully armed, and first entered the lists. Nor did Radigund long delay to follow him. And when the lists had been barred against the crowd, for a great multitude of people were gathered to see the issue of the battle, the trumpets sounded the signal, and the combat began.
The queen charged first in the most furious fashion, as if she would have done her adversary to death out of hand. But he, having had much experience in such matters, was not carried out of himself by her rage, but was content to defend himself from her assault; the greater was her fury, the more calmly did he bear himself. But when her strength began to fail her, then he took the other part; even as a smith, when he finds the metal grow soft, plies his hammer with all his might. Even so did Sir Artegall deal blow upon blow as if she were an anvil; and the sparks flew from her armour, and from her shield also, for with this she guarded herself in right skilful fashion from his assault. But now things began to go ill with her; for off this same shield the knight with one stroke shore away a full half, so that her side for half its length was exposed. Yet not one whit was she dismayed, but, smiting him with her scimitar, wounded him on the thigh, making the blood flow amain. Loud did she boast when she saw the blood, thinking that she had wounded him to death; but he, provoked by her boasting, struck at her with all his might, and when she put her shield to ward the blow, lo! this was shattered altogether, and fell in pieces on the plain. Next, as she was thus left without defence, he smote her again, this time upon the helmet; so that she fell from her horse, and lay upon the plain, like to one that was dead. When he saw her lying thus, he leapt from his steed and unlaced her helmet, with intent to sever her head from her body. But when he had unlaced her helmet, lo! her face was discovered to him. So fair it was, even though covered with blood and sweat, that he stood amazed; it was as when a traveller sees the face of the moon through a foggy night. And at the sight, all the cruel purpose departed out of his heart. So great was his pity that he threw his sword from him, for, indeed, there is no heart so hard but that the sight of beauty will soften it.