As he stood thus astonished, she recovered herself from her swoon, and saw the knight standing by her side without a weapon. Then she lifted herself from the ground and flew upon him with all her former rage. He, indeed, could but ward off her blows with his shield, as well as he could. And now, being without hope, he entreated her to withhold her hand. “Not so,” said she, “till you have yielded to me your shield in token of submission.” Nor could he refuse so to do. He had overcome her in fair fight, yet now was he himself overcome by his own misdoing, for he had of his own accord given up his sword, and so lost that which he had attained. Then she struck him on the shoulder with the flat of her sword, in token that he was from henceforth her subject. As for the unhappy Sir Turpine, he was indeed born under an unlucky star, for they took him back to the place from which he had escaped, and there hanged him shamefully by the heels. Talus they could not take, for all that they sought to lay hands upon him. He laid about him so unmercifully with his flail, that they were right glad to let him escape. Many did he wound and some he slew; the rest he put into great fear. Yet he would not seek to rescue his lord. “Nay,” said he to himself, “Sir Artegall has yielded himself of his own accord, and I must e’en let him be.”
Queen Radigund took the knight who had thus made himself her subject, and despoiled him of all his arms and armour, and put upon him woman’s clothing, with a white apron in place of a breast-plate. Having thus arrayed him, she brought him into a great chamber, on the walls of which were many memorials of other knights whom she had dealt with in the same fashion. His arms and armour she caused to be hung up among these, and his sword, lest it should work mischief to her, she broke in twain. When he was come into this place, he saw sitting there many brave knights whose names he knew right well, bound all of them to obey the amazon’s law, and spinning and carding wool. This they did under constraint, for they were bound to finish their task by the appointed time, nothing being given them whereon to dine or sup but what they could earn by this woman’s work. The queen set him in the lowest place of all, and put a distaff into his hands, and bade him spin flax and tow. Truly it is the hardest of all lots to be a woman’s slave! But he consented to her will, saying to himself: “She vanquished me in battle, and I must abide by my own word.”
After a while the queen began to feel the beginning of love for the knight. Long time she strove against it, thinking shame to be so overcome; but finding that her passion was not to be put away, she sent for the same Clarin, whom she had before made her messenger, and said to her: “Clarin, you see that fairy knight, who has been made my subject, not by my valour, but by his own honourable mind. He gave me my life, when it was lost; why should he suffer there in this cruel bondage? Why should I recompense him with ill for so good a deed? I would fain give him his freedom, yet in such a fashion that in giving it to him, I may win his free goodwill. I would loose him, and yet have him still bound to me, not with the bonds of violence and compulsion, but of benevolence and love. Now if you can by any means win him to such a mood, but without discovering, mark you well, my thought, you will win a goodly reward from him, and have me also greatly beholden to you. And now, that you may be able to pass freely to and fro, I give you this ring as a token to Eumenias”—this was the keeper of the knights’ prison. “Go then, my Clarin; use to the best all thy wits, employing both enticing looks and fair speeches.”
So Clarin, promising that she would use her best endeavour to win Sir Artegall to such thoughts as her lady desired, departed on her errand. She had recourse to all the arts she knew to win his favourable regard, and one day she said to him: “Sir Knight, you have had but an evil fortune; you sit drowned in despair, and yet you might raise yourself, if you were but willing, to something better.”
He was in doubt what this speech might mean, and so made answer: “Fair damsel, that you regard me with compassion is in itself a kindness for which I am in your debt. But you must know that a brave heart bears with equal courage fair weather and foul, frowns of ill fortune or smiles of prosperity. At this moment my life is overcast with cloud, yet I hope for sunshine to come.”
“Yea,” answered the maiden, “and what say you if you should see an occasion ready to your hand for entering on better things?”
“Truly,” answered Sir Artegall, “I count him to be unworthy of good fortune who should not promptly take such occasion, so that it come within his reach.”
Then said Clarin: “Why do you not set about to win your liberty by seeking the favour of the queen? ’Tis true that she has passed her days in war, yet she is not born of tigers or bears. She scorns the love of men, yet she does not forget that she is herself of the kindred of man.”
To this Sir Artegall replied: “Believe me, fair damsel, that not from obstinacy or disdain have I neglected to seek her favour. ’Tis lack of means that has kept me back from so doing; and if you can in any way supply this lack, then shall I be bound to you for ever.”
“This fish bites at the bait,” said the damsel to herself, “but it is not yet surely caught.” But even while she spoke, she herself, foolish maiden that she was, was caught herself. For, as a fisher who, while he seeks for the prey, falls into the brook, so Clarin, seeking to serve her mistress’s ends, conceived a great pity for this captive knight, and from pity it is but a short journey to love. But her love she durst not tell, neither to the knight, lest haply she should be disdained, nor to anyone else, lest that by any means it should come to the knowledge of the queen, for that she knew would mean a sure sentence of death. Therefore she kept the matter in her heart, watching for such occasion as might arise.
Queen Radigund, growing impatient of the delay, bade her unfold the truth. “How have you fared?” she said, “What is the temper of the man? Has captivity brought him to a more humble mind?”
“Not so,” said Clarin; “he is as stern and obstinate as ever. He scorns all offers and conditions; he would sooner die—so he declares—than look with any favour on those who have done him so great a wrong. This in brief is his resolve; in truth these are his very words: ‘My body may be thrall to the queen, but my heart is free.’”
When she heard these words the queen fell into a mighty rage. But coming to herself, and perceiving that anger would profit her nothing, she said to her minister: “Clarin, what remains for us to do? It were a shame to have laboured in vain, and still more a shame to sit down content when this fellow flouts us in such fashion. Nevertheless, that his guilt may be seen to be the greater, and my grace the more admirable, I will bear with this folly of his till you shall have made another trial of him. And you I charge to leave nothing that can be done or said to work upon him. Leave nothing unpromised that may help to persuade him. Tell him that he shall have life, freedom, grace, and store of gifts, for by gifts even the hearts of gods are touched. And to these promises add all your arts and woman’s wiles. And if your arts avail nothing, then let him feel the weight of your hand. Diminish his victuals; maybe he is too proudly fed; put more labour upon him, and with harder conditions; let him lodge less softly, lying upon straw; do aught that may abate his courage and his pride; put a chain of cold iron upon him, and deny him all that he may desire. And when you have done all this, tell me how he bears himself. If need be, I will deal with him, not as a lover, but as a rebel.”
All this Clarin heard, and made pretence to fulfil her lady’s commands. But her mind was turned to quite another thing, that is to say, to play her mistress false, and to gain the knight’s love for herself. To him therefore she made as great a show of goodwill as she could, telling him that she was making suit for him to the queen, that she should set him at liberty, but that she could not persuade her.
“The more I entreat her,” she said, “the sterner and the harsher she is.” Then from the knight she would go to the queen and say: “The more grace I show, the more haughty and unbending is he.” As for Sir Artegall, he spoke the woman fair, but never did he depart from his loyalty to his own fair lady.
While Sir Artegall lay thus in evil plight under the tyranny of Queen Radigund, the Lady Britomart was in no small distress of mind. For now the latest date that had been fixed for his return was long past, and yet no tidings of him had come. Sometimes she thought that some mishap had befallen him in his adventure, and sometimes that his false foe had entrapped him, and sometimes—and this was the most grievous fear of all—that he had bestowed his love upon another. She knew no ill of him, nor ever had heard any; yet could she not forbear to think ill. Now she blamed herself, and now she condemned him as being faithless and untrue. Then again she would think to herself: “Surely I have miscounted the time,” and she reckoned the days and weeks and months again; and, indeed, the days were as weeks and the weeks were as months. Also she considered within herself what she should do; should she send someone to search for him, and yet who could go on such an errand but herself? She could not rest in her dwelling, no place could please her; yet that which displeased her least was a certain window which looked towards the west, for it was from the west that Sir Artegall was due to come. It chanced then that as she sat at this same window on a certain day she saw someone approaching at full speed. No sooner did she see him, though she could not discern his face, than she said to herself, “This is someone from my love.” And truly, when he came nearer, she perceived that it was Sir Artegall’s groom Talus. The sight filled her heart both with hopes and with fears; nor could she stay in her place, but ran forth to meet him, crying, “Where is your lord? Is he far from here? Has he lost or has he won?”
Talus, albeit he was made of iron, and was without feeling of pain and sorrow, yet was conscious within himself that his news was ill, and stood silent as if he would rather that she should discern his tidings than that he should declare them. Then she said: “Take courage, Talus; tell me what you have to tell, be it good or be it bad.”
Then he answered: “If I must tell my evil tidings, so be it. My lord lies in wretched bondage.”
“How came that to pass?” said Britomart; “did the tyrant, his enemy, vanquish him?”
“Not so,” quoth Talus, “no tyrant man did vanquish him, but a tyrant woman.” Great was the rage of Britomart when she heard these words.
“And you are not ashamed, evil newsmonger, to come here with such tidings of your lord’s disgrace?” And she turned her back upon him, seeking her own chamber; and there with much self-torturing she spent many weary hours.
The next day she sought out Talus again, and being now in a milder mood, she said: “Tell me now plainly how came Sir Artegall into this captivity. Does he woo this tyrant lady?”
“Ah! madam!” answered Talus, “he is in no state to woo; he lies in thraldom, weak and wan; and yet, for the truth must be told, it was by his own doing that he came into this state.”
Then Britomart’s anger was kindled again. “Are you not leagued together to deceive me? You say that he came into this bondage of his own accord; is he not then false?”
Then Talus unfolded the whole story of how Sir Artegall fought, and how he was vanquished, not by the strength of his adversary, but by his own compassion. When Britomart heard this same story, she was, so to speak, torn asunder by anger and grief, nor would anything content her but that she must straightway put on her armour, mount her horse, and ride forth to deliver Sir Artegall, Talus being her guide. After they had ridden for a space they came upon a knight who was riding slowly across the plain, a man well stricken in years, and of a very modest and peaceable bearing. He saluted Britomart right courteously, and she, though in her sad mood she would sooner have remained without speech, answered him pleasantly. Then he began to talk of many things, and she, though wholly occupied in her mind with one matter, to wit, the deliverance of Sir Artegall from his prison, made such replies as were suitable. After some converse he said: “Friend, night is about to fall, and there are tokens of rain in the heavens; will you not lodge with me at my house?” And Britomart, seeing that the day was far spent, consented.
They rode therefore to the knight’s dwelling, which was, indeed, hard by. There he most hospitably entertained them, both with good cheer and pleasant conversation. When the hour of rest came, Britomart was conducted to the bower where she should sleep. There she found grooms who offered to undress her, but she would not doff her arms for all her host’s entreaties. “Nay,” she said, “I have vowed a vow that I will not take off these arms till I have taken vengeance for a great wrong that has been done to me.”
When she made this answer, it might have been perceived that her host was somewhat troubled. Nevertheless he took his leave right courteously, and departed. Britomart watched all the night; if sleep seemed about to settle for a moment on her eyes, she shook it off with a right resolute will. And Talus watched also; outside her door did he lie in no small trouble of mind, as a dog that keeps guard over his master’s chamber. So night passed, but about the dawn, when the cock commonly crows for the first time, Britomart perceived that the bed in her chamber began to sink through the floor, and that after awhile it was raised again. And while she waited to see what this might mean, though indeed it was clear that it meant treachery of some sort, there came two knights to her chamber door, with a rabble rout of followers after them. But these came on a vain errand. Talus, having his iron flail ready to his hand, laid about him with a right goodwill. They fled before him, both knights and the rabble also. Some he struck to the ground as they fled, and others as they strove to hide themselves in dark corners of the house.
Now the true story of the matter is this. This knight, who seemed so gentle and courteous, was one Dolon, a man of great cunning and of an evil mind. He had been a knight in his youth, yet had achieved no honour; only by his craft he had undone many men who were better than himself. Three sons he had, of the same temper as himself, full of fraud and guile. One of these, the eldest in birth, Guizor by name, had been slain by Sir Artegall in battle, not without his deserving, for he had sought to compass some treachery. And now this Dolon would have taken vengeance for this injury. Britomart he took for Sir Artegall, chiefly by reason of the page Talus, with the iron flail, whom he had seen in his company. The next day, so soon as it was light, Britomart departed. And when the two knights would have stayed her going, and this on the bridge where Artegall had fought Pollenté, she vanquished them. And one she caught up in her arms, and carrying him to the bridge end, cast him into the water, where he perished miserably.
After journeying awhile, Britomart, with Talus her guide, came to the city of Queen Radigund. The queen, when she was advised of her coming, was greatly rejoiced, for she had not had the great joy of battle for many days, and it always pleased her greatly to have experience of a new adversary. She commanded that a pavilion should be set up outside the city gate for the new-comer. There Britomart rested that night, Talus keeping watch, as was his wont, at the door. The townsfolk also kept watch upon the walls. At sunrise the queen caused a trumpet to be blown to warn the stranger that the hour of battle was come. Such warning Britomart needed not, for she had slept but ill, so troubled was she in heart with jealousy and anger. Then the two made ready for the combat. But first the queen would have her adversary bind herself to perpetual service if the fortune of the day should go against her.
But Britomart cried: “I will have no such conditions, no terms will I accept but such as are prescribed by the laws of chivalry!” Then the trumpets sounded again, and the two ran at each other with great fury. It seemed to them who looked on that both the one and the other had forgotten all their skill in arms, so possessed were they with rage. They sought not to ward off blows, but only to strike. And, indeed, none could have said who struck the harder.
At last Radigund, thinking that she had her adversary at a disadvantage, dealt her a blow with all her might, saying at the same time: “You love this man; here then is a token of your love, which you may show him; for what could be a surer proof than to die for him?”
But Britomart answered: “Have done with idle words about my love,” and though she was sorely wounded by the stroke, for the blade, breaking through the shoulder-plate of her armour, bit to the bone, she gave in return even more than she had received. The sharpness of the pain gave a new force to her arm, and she struck the queen so fierce a blow on the head that it broke through her helmet and laid her senseless on the ground. Nor did Britomart wait for her adversary to recover herself; but, urged by injured love and pride, and the fresh smarting of her wound, with one blow cleft both helmet and head. When her guards perceived this dreadful sight, they fled headlong to the city, but did not so escape, for Talus, taking up his flail, entered at the gate along with the rout of fugitives, and dealt death in every direction. Small need had they, I ween, of a physician on whom one of his strokes had lighted. Verily he had destroyed them all, but that the heart of Britomart was moved to see such great slaughter.
“Hold your hand,” she cried; “it is enough!” Then she commanded that someone should lead her to the prison where Sir Artegall was kept in bonds. Much was she moved to see these knights in their womanish attire, plying distaff and spindle. But when she espied Sir Artegall himself, and saw how pale and wan and wasted he was, her heart was well-nigh broken in her breast. Bitterly did she repent of her unkind suspicions: this was no lover of women whom she saw before her in so sad a plight!
Then she bade take him to a chamber where he might put off these uncomely garments, and put on the apparel that belonged to a knight, and take again his arms and armour, of which there was a great store in the place. Not a little rejoiced was she when she saw how he became again like to the knight whom she had seen long since in the magic mirror.
For a while they tarried in the city, for he needed to rest, and she had wounds which it was well to heal. And she, being now queen of the land in the place of the dead Radigund, wholly changed the form of the commonwealth. She did away with this same monstrous rule of women, and ordered all things according to the ordering of nature, and showed such justice and wisdom that the people gladly made submission to her government. The knights whom she found in the prison-house she set free, and made them rulers in the city, having first caused them to take an oath to be loyal to Sir Artegall. There was but one thing that troubled her: to wit, that her lover must now proceed on the errand to which he was bound.
This he did in not many days’ time, Talus travelling with him as before. After a while they saw a damsel on a palfrey, flying as fast as she could, and two knights pursuing her also at their utmost speed; they saw also how another knight was riding after these two. Each was intent on his own business, the two knights on chasing the damsel, the single knight on chasing the two, the damsel seeking if, by any means, she could escape. But when she saw Sir Artegall, being at her wits’ end, she turned her course towards him, hoping that he might give her help. The foremost of her pursuers—pagan knights both of them—continued his course, and with his spear in rest charged Sir Artegall. But there he had met more than his match; the Christian was both stronger and more skilful in arms, and drove him out of the saddle full two spears’ length, and it so chanced that in falling he lighted on his head, and so was killed outright.
Meanwhile his companion had fared as ill, for the single knight overtaking him, had compelled him to stand and do battle, in which battle he was defeated and slain. This done, he still followed, and taking Sir Artegall for the other pagan, charged him at full tilt. They met with a great crash, and both their spears were broken, and though neither was driven from his saddle, yet they tottered as two towers which an earthquake makes to rock. But when they drew their swords to renew the combat, the damsel, seeing that her two friends were like to come to as ill an end as had her two foes, ran up, crying out: “Oh, sirs, stay your hands till I shall tell you how the matter stands. ’Tis I that have been wronged, and you have brought me help, slaying these two pagans who were pursuing me. These lie dead upon the ground; what quarrel have you against each other? If there be still any wrongdoer or cause of trouble, truly it is I.”
When the two heard these words, they held their hands, and, lifting up the visors of their helmets, looked each in the other’s face. And when Sir Artegall saw the last comer, who was no other than Prince Arthur, he was sure that he was a very noble knight, and said: “Pardon me, fair sir, that I have erred in lifting my hand against you. I will make what amends you will.”
“Talk not of amends,” answered the prince; “I was in equal error, taking you for this dead pagan.” So they swore friendship, and made a covenant of mutual help.
Then said Sir Artegall, “Tell me, sir, who were these knights that have come by this bad end?”
“That I know not,” answered the prince, “but know that this damsel was in distress, and that I sought to succour her. But doubtless she herself will unfold the whole matter to us.”
Then the damsel told her story. “Know, sirs,” she said, “that I serve a maiden queen of these parts, Mercilla by name, a lady known far and wide, and envied also, for her prosperity and her goodness. Enemies she has, and chief among these is a pagan prince, who is bent on overthrowing her kingdom, yea, verily, and on slaying her sacred self. To this wickedness he is stirred up by his evil wife, Adikia[2] by name. ’Tis she who, trusting in her power, moves him to all kinds of wrong. Now my liege lady, being desirous of peace, and willing for sake of it to give up something of her just right, sent me to make a treaty with this same Adikia, so that there might be quietness in the land. Now, as you know, it has been a custom of all time that such messengers have liberty to come and go without hindrance or harm. But this evil woman, without any offence given on my part, broke forth in railing upon me, and not only this, but thrust me from her door as if I were a dog. Yea, and when I had departed, she sent these two knights after me to take me prisoner. To you, therefore, for myself and for the queen, whose messenger I am, I render you most hearty thanks.”
When they had heard the damsel’s story, the two knights, Sir Artegall and Prince Arthur, counselled together what should be done in this matter. Of which consultation the conclusion was that they should punish those who were guilty of this wrongdoing, that is to say the sultan and his wife and the knights who lent themselves to do their evil will. Further, they concluded to carry out this purpose in the way now to be described. Sir Artegall should disguise himself in the accoutrements of one of the dead pagan knights, and should take with him the damsel to the sultan’s court, making as though she was his prisoner.
Sir Artegall therefore having donned the armour of one of the two knights, took the damsel with him, as being a prisoner, and so came to the sultan’s court. And the sultan’s wife, who chanced to be looking from the window, saw them, and did not doubt but that her errand had been performed, and sent a page who would show the knight what he should do. The page therefore brought them to the place appointed, but when he would have eased Sir Artegall of his armour, the knight refused, for he feared to be discovered.
Meanwhile Prince Arthur, coming to the gate of the city, sent to the sultan this message: “I demand that there be delivered to me the Lady Samient”—this was the damsel’s name—“being the ambassador of Queen Mercilla, whom you wrongfully detain in custody.”
When the sultan heard this message, he was filled with anger, and commanded that his armour should be brought. This he straightway put on, and mounted his chariot. This same was armed in dreadful fashion with iron hooks and scythes, and was drawn by savage horses, whom he was wont to feed on the flesh of men. The poor wretches whom in his cruelty he slew, he was wont to give when they were but half dead to these beasts. In this guise he came forth from the city gates, where he found Prince Arthur awaiting him, mounted on his steed, with Talus standing at his stirrup.
The sultan drove straight at his adversary, thinking to overthrow him by the rush of his chariot, and that his horses would trample him in the dust. But the prince perceiving his design, withdrew himself a pace, and so escaped the danger. Nor was he hurt by the dart which the sultan cast at him as he passed; this also he avoided, and it was well that he did so, else of a certainty it had pierced either him or his horse from side to side. But when Prince Arthur sought to approach the sultan, the horses carried the chariot out of his reach, so swift of foot were they. On the other hand, the sultan, having a store of darts ready to his hand in the chariot, cast them at the prince, and with one of them pierced the prince’s cuirass, and made a grievous wound in his side. So did the combat rage between these two, the prince being at this disadvantage also, that his horse could not endure the look of the sultan’s horses, so fierce and fiery of aspect were they. At the last, finding that all other means were of no avail, he drew the covering from his shield—a thing which he was not wont to do save in the last extremity—and held it so that the light shining from it fell full on the eyes of the sultan’s horses. As a flash of lightning did it fall upon them, and they straightway turned and fled. Nor could the sultan stay their flight. The reins were of no avail; they heeded them not; and when he called to them, they would not hear. Over hill and dale they carried him, he vainly dragging at the reins, and cursing aloud; while the chariot, swaying from side to side, tossed him to and fro. Still the prince followed close behind, but still found no opportunity to strike. Nor, indeed, had he need, for coming to some rocky ground, the horses overset the chariot, and the sultan was torn in pieces by his own contrivance of scythes and hooks. Then the prince took up his shield and armour from where they lay, sorely bent and broken, upon the ground. These he carried back to the city, and hanged them on a tree before the palace door. When the wicked wife saw what had happened, she ran down from her chamber like to one mad, saying to herself, “I will be avenged on that damsel who has brought upon me all this trouble.” And she ran, knife in hand, to the place where she had been put. But Sir Artegall stayed her hand. And she, being made yet more furious, ran forth into the woods, and there abode, in the form—so some men said—of a tigress. Sir Artegall meanwhile vanquished the sultan’s knights, and established a new order in the city.
The two knights delivered the city, when they had ordered it anew, to the Lady Samient, to hold for Queen Mercilla. This done, they would have departed on their own business, but Samient was not content that they should depart without seeing the queen, and this, overborne by her entreaties, they consented to do. As they journeyed, the damsel said to them: “There abides in this region a very sturdy villain, who is wont to rob all the country round about; and carries the spoil to a rock which he makes his dwelling, and to this place no man can get, so hard of access is it. Also he is marvellously light of hand and nimble of foot, smooth of face, and so subtle in his talk that he can deceive well-nigh anyone.”
When the two knights heard this tale, they desired with one accord that the damsel should take them to the place where this villain abode.
“That would I willingly do,” said she, “only that the going thither would hinder your journey to Queen Mercilla.”
“Let not that stay you,” said the prince, and Sir Artegall gave also his consent.
So they travelled onwards together. After a while the damsel said to the knights: “We are close to the place!” Then Sir Artegall and Prince Arthur consulted together what was best to be done. They agreed that the damsel should sit by the robber’s cave, and raise a great uproar, and that when he should come to see what was the cause of the disturbance, they should set upon him, and hinder his return. So the Lady Samient went to the cave, and there threw herself upon the ground, and then made a great uproar, with much wailing and many cries of grief. When the villain heard it he came forth from his den, thinking that something had come in his way. A dreadful creature he was to see, with hollow eyes, and long curling hair which fell over his shoulders, and a most uncouth and ragged garment. In his hand he carried a long staff with iron hooks at the end of it, and on his back he bore a wide net. This he used, not for fishing in the brook, but to catch such prey as he desired on the dry land, taking them unawares.
When the damsel saw this strange creature standing close by her she was not a little dismayed, and cried out for help in good earnest. But he, with guileful words, would have persuaded her that she had nothing to fear; and then, while she listened, as she could scarce refrain from doing, suddenly he threw his net about her, and lifting her from the ground ran with her to his cave. But when, as he came near to the cave mouth, he saw the two knights barring the way, he threw down on the ground his net with its burden, and fled away: like to a wild goat did he leap from rock to rock, and he ran along the cliff-side without fear, into places where Sir Artegall, for all his courage, durst not follow him. So the knight sent his iron man, Talus, to follow him. And when the knave saw that the new-comer was not less swift of foot than he was himself, and did not grow weary or scant of breath, then he left running on the hills and came down again to the plain. And here he had recourse to a new device, changing himself into various shapes. First he made himself into a fox, but Talus was not slow to hunt him as a fox is hunted; then into a bush, but the iron man beat the bush with his flail; and from the bush he made himself into a bird, but Talus threw stones at the bird, and with so sure an aim that he soon brought it to the ground, as if it had been itself a stone. This Talus took from the ground and brought it to the knights, and gave it to Sir Artegall, saying at the same time: “Take it, Sir Knight, but beware! Hold it fast!” And lo! even while he held it fast, it was changed into a hedgehog, and pricked the knight’s hand so sorely that he threw it away. And the villain returned to his own shape and would have fled. But when Talus perceived it, he followed and overtook him and led him back. Then did he change himself into a snake; but this Talus struck so heavily with his iron flail that he broke all his bones, and left him dead for the fowls of the air to devour.
After this they came to the palace of Queen Mercilla, as fair and noble a palace as was ever seen upon the earth. The porch stood open day and night, so that all comers might enter in. But a warder of giant form sat there, to keep from entering all that harboured guile or malice, and such as with flattery and dissembling work such harm in the courts of kings. The warder’s name was Awe. Such as were permitted to pass in were marshalled in the hall by another warder, whose name was Order. There they saw many noteworthy things, and chief of all the Queen Mercilla herself, where she sat on her throne, with a sceptre in her hand, a pledge of peace and clemency. And under her feet lay a great lion, very fierce of nature, but wholly tamed in that presence. So then the two did obeisance, and stood aside while the queen judged affairs of state, and ministered justice and equity to her people. Of all these affairs the chiefest was the trial of a great lady who stood before the throne, most fair and royally arrayed. Many accusations were brought against this lady, the prosecutor being one Zeal. Nor could this be wondered at, for this great lady was no other than the false Duessa. It was surely proved against her that she had deceived knights, and brought them to shame, and even to death; also that she had wrought upon two vain knights, Blandamour and Paridell, to devise hostility against Queen Mercilla herself. Sir Artegall was so moved by these accusations that, being a lover of justice, he was firm in taking the contrary part against her. Prince Arthur, on the other hand, was not a little touched by the pleadings on her behalf. When all had been heard on either side, Queen Mercilla gave judgment, and although Duessa’s guilt was clear beyond all doubt, yet she, being true to name and nature, did not adjudge the extreme penalty of death, but ordered that she should be so kept as not to do any mischief more.
While the two knights tarried at the court of Queen Mercilla, being entertained by her in the most liberal fashion, there came two youths from a foreign land, praying for help for their mother, the Lady Belgé. It was a piteous story that they told before the Queen Mercilla and all the knights and ladies of her court. The Lady Belgé had been in former days among the most fortunate of women. She had to husband a most worthy and noble prince, of wide dominions and great wealth; she had also a very fair progeny, even seventeen sons, fair children, and of great promise. Anyone who saw them in those days would surely have said that not Niobé herself, before she moved the wrath of Apollo and Diana, was more blessed in her progeny. Now the beginning of troubles to this honourable lady was that her husband died in his prime, before any of his children had come to such an age that they could fill his place. And because the times were ill-suited to a woman’s rule, she was constrained to look for someone who should give her help and protection. Now there was in those parts a monstrous creature, Geryoneo by name, son of that Geryon who was slain by Hercules. He was terrible to look upon, and marvellously strong, for he had three bodies joined in one, the legs and arms of three men, as it were, to help him in the fighting. He, feigning himself to be just and kind, proffered his service to the Lady Belgé while she was yet in the first trouble of her widowhood, undertaking to defend her against all enemies both from within and from without. This proffer she gladly accepted, and he, for a time, kept the promise which he had made well and loyally. But having established himself in the country, and Belgé having given into his hands all the power, he began to bear himself most cruelly. Many wrongs did he do to this most unhappy lady, but of all the wrongs the worst was this, that he took of her children, one after another, to offer up in sacrifice to a horrible idol which he had made of his father Geryon. Twelve had he taken, one by one, so that now there were left to the unhappy mother but five only. And now, all other hope having been lost, she bethought her of the gracious Queen Mercilla, and sent her two eldest sons to entreat her help.
When they had told their story there was for a while silence in the court, no one caring to take this adventure upon himself. And when Prince Arthur saw that no one offered himself, he stood forth and said: “Grant me leave, gracious queen, to succour this distressed lady!”
“Readily do I grant it,” said the queen. Thereupon he began straightway to prepare himself for his journey, for he would not lose time; even on the morrow would he start on this adventure. And so it was. So soon as the next morning came the prince set forth, not without gifts from the queen. Sir Artegall he left to follow his own business, but the two young sons of the Lady Belgé went with him, guiding him on his way.
It was but a short journey to the place where the Lady Belgé dwelt. The tyrant had shut her out from the cities of her land, and from all the pleasant spots; she had her abode in the midst of marshes and fens, and was glad to find shelter in them from the cruelty of her oppressor. In such a dismal region did Prince Arthur find her, living quite alone, for her children had left her, seeking safety elsewhere. And she herself, when she caught sight of a man clad in armour, made ready to fly. But then, spying her own two sons, she took heart, and looked up joyfully, for she knew that the stranger was come to give her help. Then she threw her arms round the necks of the two lads as they knelt before her, crying, “Oh, my sweet boys, now I seem to live again, so joyful a thing is it to see you! Surely the sun shines brighter than its wont, thanks to your coming and to the presence of this noble knight.” Then turning to Prince Arthur she said: “Noble sir, who have taken all this trouble to help a miserable woman, may heaven reward you for your goodness. Reward have I none to give, for all that is left to me is bare life, and that life so full of misery that it is more like to a lingering death!”
The prince was not a little moved at these sorrowful words, and sought to comfort her. “Take heart, dear lady,” he said, “for help is at hand, and these, your troubles, will have an end. But now come with me, and find some spot where you may more conveniently dwell than in this miserable place.”
“Ah sir,” she answered, “to what place shall I go? The enemy dwells in my palaces, my cities are sacked, my towers are levelled with the ground, and what were abodes of men are fields where the wild flowers grow. Only these marshes, the abode of efts and frogs, are left to me.”
“Nay, good lady,” answered the prince, “think better things than these. We will find some place to harbour us. And if it yield not itself willingly, then will we compel it; for all that your adversary may do, we will purchase it with spear and shield; and if not, then the open field shall give us welcome; earth has a lodging for all its creatures.” With such words did the prince encourage her, so that she made ready to go with him.
They set out therefore and came to a city which once had been the Lady Belgé’s own, but had been taken from her by her enemy. He had pulled down its stately towers, closed its harbour, marred the trade of its merchants, and brought its people to poverty. And he had built a great fort from which he dominated the place. For a while the city had resisted his tyranny, but had now submitted itself to him, so purchasing life, but losing all else that is worth the having. Many things did it suffer from his tyranny, but of all that it endured the worst was this, that it was compelled to offer sacrifices of human life to a hideous idol which the tyrant had set up in a chapel which he had built and adorned with costliest fittings of gold and ivory. In this city he had put a strong garrison, and in command of this garrison he had set a seneschal, a very stalwart knight, who had vanquished hitherto all the knights that had ventured to come against him. He had vanquished them, and when he had them in his power he had dealt with them in the most shameful fashion.
Prince Arthur slaying the Seneschal.
When the Lady Belgé knew the place, she said to the prince, “Oh, sir, beware what you venture; very many knights have been undone at this place.” To this warning he paid no heed, but riding up to the wall of the city, called to the watchmen, “I challenge to single combat the seneschal of this fortress.” Nor did the man delay to come, but donning his armour, rode forth from the city gate. The two combatants met in full tilt in the open field, charging each the other with his spear full upon the shield. But the spear of the seneschal made no way, of so pure and well-refined a metal was the prince’s shield. Broken was it into pieces without number. But the spear of the prince passed through the pagan’s cuirass, and made a deep wound in his body, so that he fell from his horse to the ground. There the prince left him to lie, for he was dead almost before he touched the ground, and rode straight to the fortress seeking entrance. But as he rode he spied three knights advancing towards him at the top speed of their horses. All three charged him at once, all aiming their spears at one place in his armour. But the prince did not swerve from his straight seat in his saddle, no, not by a hair’s-breadth. Firm as a tower he sat, and with his spear he smote that one of the three who had the middle place. Nor was his smiting in vain, for he drove the spear through the shield and through the side of the man, so that he fell dead straight-way on his mother-earth. When his fellows saw how easily he had been overcome, they fled away as fast as their steeds could carry them. But the prince followed yet faster, and overtook them hard by the city gate. There, as they hasted to enter, one hindered the other, and the prince slew the hindmost. The third, striving to shut the gate in his adversary’s face, was hindered by the carcase of his companion, for it lay in the way. So he fled into the hall which stood at the entering in of the gate, hoping so to save himself, but the prince following hard after him, slew him there. When they that were left of the garrison saw how it had gone with these three, they were sore afraid, and fled in great terror, escaping by a postern door. When the prince found no more to oppose him, he returned to the Lady Belgé, and brought her into the city, her two sons being with her. Many thanks did she render for the good service which he had done her.
When the tidings of what had befallen the seneschal and his knights came to the sultan, he was carried out of himself with rage. Nevertheless there was something of fear mingled with his rage, for his conscience smote him with the thought that the recompense of his evil deeds was at hand. Nevertheless he comforted himself with this: “There is but one of them, and he cannot always prevail.” Therefore he armed himself: also he took with him all the followers that he had, and marched to the gate of the city, and there demanded entrance, saying, “Yield me up this place straightway, for it is my own.”
To this summons the prince made no answer, but rode forth through the gate, ready armed for battle. And being on the farther side he said, “Are you he that has done all this wrong to the noble Lady Belgé, exiling her from her own land in such fashion that all the world cries shame on you?”
The tyrant answered, “I stand on my own right; what I have done, that will I justify!” So saying he ran furiously at the prince, beating upon his armour with a great battle-axe as if he would have chopped it in pieces. So fierce was his onset that the prince was constrained to give place awhile. So heavy were his strokes, one had thought they would have riven a rock asunder. Also he had the advantage of his threefold form. Three pairs of hands he had, and he could shift his weapon from one to the other as occasion served. So crafty was he and so nimble, that an adversary scarce could know where and when he should defend himself. But the prince was his match and more. Ever he watched the motion of his hands, and parried the blow wherever it might fall. And the tyrant, being thus baffled again and again, roared for very rage, till, at the last, gathering up all the strength of the three bodies into one stroke, he thought to fell his adversary to the ground. What had happened had the stroke come upon the man none can say, but it lighted on the horse and brought him to the ground. So now the prince was constrained to fight on foot, and the giant laughed aloud to think that he had him at a disadvantage. But the fortune of the fight went not so. Now this arm and now that did the prince shear away with his good sword, and he himself was sheltered safe under his shield; so faultless was its temper, that no blow could shatter it. And ever the giant was more and more carried away by his rage, till, at the last, offering his whole side to the attack of the prince, he was brought to the ground a corpse, nay, three corpses, for all were smitten to death by the one stroke, and lay a bloody heap upon the plain.