All this while the Lady Belgé watched the fortunes of the fight from the city wall, with her two sons standing on either hand. And when she saw the issue she hastened to greet him; the people of the city also, who had waited to see to whom the victory should fall, hastened to do him homage. Right glad were they to be rid of the giant’s tyranny.
When the Lady Belgé had rendered the prince her thanks, which he received with due modesty—“’Tis not the strength nor courage of the doer,” said he, “but the justice of his deed that should be looked to”—she said: “O noble sir, you have freed me from my chief foe; nevertheless there remains yet something to be done. I pray you not to stay your victorious arms till you have rooted out all that remains of this vile brood, and established my peace for ever.”
“Tell me, lady,” he answered, “what is this that remains?”
“Sir,” she answered, “in this temple hard by there is, as you have heard, a monstrous idol which this tyrant set up, and to which he offered up sacrifices, taking, alas! of my dear children, and many children also of this people. Now in a cavern underneath this idol there lies a most hideous monster, which is wont to feed upon the flesh of these sacrifices. No man, they say, has ever looked upon its shape, so fearful is it, and lived.”
When the prince heard this he was occupied with a great desire to deal with this same monster, and demanded that the queen should show him the place where it abode. “It is beneath the altar,” said she; and he uncovered his shield, for the need was such as to demand the help. The idol he saw, but not the monster. Then he took his sword, and with the naked blade he struck three times, as if in defiance, and at the third time the monster came from out its hiding-place. Hideous it was to see, huge of size, as long, it seemed, as the whole chapel, with the face of a woman and the body of a dog; its claws were like to lion’s claws; it had a tail with a deadly sting, and eagle’s wings. Nevertheless, for all its strength, it was dismayed to see the knight, and especially the burning brightness of his shield. It would have fled again to its hiding-place, but that the prince would not suffer. Seeing, then, that it had to fight, the monster flew at the prince’s shield, and caught it with its claws, purposing either to break it, or, if that might not be, to wrench it out of his hands. Long did they struggle together, but at the last the prince, with a stroke of his sword, shore off the monster’s claws. Exceeding loud was the bellowing which it made, seeming to make the whole chapel rock to its foundations. Next it struck at the prince with its great tail, and well-nigh brought him to the ground; but before it could strike a second blow, he had severed the last joint with his sword. Last of all, it raised itself on its great wings and flew at his head; doubtless it had hurt him sore but that he held his shield between. While he so warded off the attack, he struck full at the monster’s belly, and so did it to death.
Great was the rejoicing in the city when the people knew that the creature which had oppressed them so long was slain. They crowned the prince with bays, and led him through the streets with solemn pomp. After this he tarried awhile in the city, establishing Queen Belgé on her throne, and setting all things in due order, till the time came when he had to depart for the completing of his task.
While these things were doing, Sir Artegall set forth to accomplish his task, having Talus with him as before. After he had journeyed awhile, he overtook an old man who was travelling alone, and perceived that he was the same that had attended the Lady Irene when she came to the court of Queen Gloriana. He had been a famous knight in his day, but had long since foregone the use of arms, being stricken with age.
“Hail, Sir Sergis,” he cried, “there lives no truer knight, I know; but tell me, what is your errand? How fares the Lady Irene? How comes it that you have left her? Is she in prison? Does she yet live?”
“She lives,” answered the old knight, “but she is in sore trouble. Trusting to your promise that you would come to be her champion, and do battle with him who was oppressing her, she came at the appointed time, but found you not. And now Grantorto has thrown her into prison, and has appointed her a day, saying that if by that time no champion shall appear to justify her and prove her clear of the crimes of which she is accused, she shall suffer death.”
Sir Artegall was sorely troubled to hear these words, knowing that she suffered these things through his default. “Verily,” he said, “I am to blame for this fair maiden’s trouble, in that I was not present to maintain her cause; but, as you know, I was not wholly to blame for that which hindered me. But tell me, how many days has the tyrant allowed for the finding of this champion?”
“Ten days he has given,” answered the old knight, “but he knows that ’tis only a form, for he guards all the coasts and approaches by which such a champion might come. Indeed, he counts her to be already dead.”
“Turn again, dear knight,” said Sir Artegall; “surely, if I live, she shall have the champion whom she needs within the appointed time!” So they two went on together.
As they rode they were aware of a great rout of people who seemed to be looking on at some affray. Coming nearer, they perceived a number of rude fellows setting on a single knight, and chasing him to and fro as if they would make him prisoner. And he, on the other hand, sought to make his way to a lady who might be seen in another part of the field, holding up her hands and praying for help. Wheresoever he turned they gave way before him, yet ever returned and renewed their attack, and, so great were their numbers, pressed him sorely. So harassed was he with their assailing, that he threw away his shield, a most dishonourable thing for any knight to do, and one that marks him with shame without end. When Sir Artegall saw in what an evil plight the man stood, he rode forward to his help, yet he was himself so rudely assailed that he was constrained to give place for a while. But when Talus began to use his iron flail, then the multitude fled for their lives, being scattered as the wind scatters the chaff on a threshing-floor. When the knight had given thanks for his deliverance, Sir Artegall said to him:
“What is the occasion of this uproar? Who are you, and who are these villains that attacked you so furiously?”
The knight answered: “My name is Burbon; I have won honour as a knight, and have been in good repute till of late trouble has overtaken me. This lady is by name Fleur de Lys; my love she is, though of late she has scorned me; I know not whether by her own choice or by constraint of others. It cannot be denied that she was once betrothed to me of her own free choice; but a certain tyrant, whom men call Grantorto, won her by gifts and lying words. This host of villains he sent to take her away from me by open force.”
Then said Sir Artegall: “I see, Sir Knight, that you have suffered grievous things, yet not without fault of your own. But let us first rid you of these villains. That done, we can make a settlement of other matters.”
This then they did, Talus greatly helping with his flail. But when they came to the lady, who had been left by them who had taken her prisoner, they were in no little doubt in what mind she was, for she seemed to be neither glad nor sorry. One thing was certain, to wit, that she was wondrous fair and clad in splendid robes. When Sir Burbon, lighting from his horse, ran to her and would have clasped her in his arms, she turned from him in high disdain. “Begone,” she cried, “and touch me not.” Then said Sir Artegall: “Fair lady, you cast a very great blemish on your beauty, if you change a plighted faith. Is there aught on earth so dear and so precious as faith and honour? Love surely is dearer than life, and fame is more to be desired than gold; but a plighted troth is more to be honoured than even love or fame.” At this rebuke the lady seemed much abashed, and Sir Burbon, lifting her in his arms, set her on her steed, nor did she repulse him. So they rode away, but whether wholly agreed or not, no one can say.
These matters being accomplished, Sir Artegall with Sir Sergis pursued his journey till they came to the seashore. There by good fortune they found a ship ready equipped for sailing. This they hired, that it should take them whither they would, and embarking in it, found wind and weather serve them so well that in a single day they came to the land which they sought. There they saw drawn up on the shore great hosts of men who should hinder them from landing. But they did not for this forego their purpose. So soon as they approached so near to the shore that they could see the bottom beneath the waves, Talus leapt from the ship into the sea. The enemy sought to overwhelm him with stones and darts, but he heeded them not at all. Wading through the waves he came to the shore, and once having put his foot upon the land, chased all the multitude away, even as an eagle chases a flock of doves. The way being thus made clear, for there was now no one to hinder them, Sir Artegall and the old knight landed, and made their way to a city that was hard by. The tyrant Grantorto, being made aware of their coming by some of those that had fled from Talus, gathered a host of men and came against them. But these also did Talus discomfit with his flail, pursuing them till Artegall himself bade him hold his hand, for he would settle the quarrel in more orderly fashion. Therefore he called a herald and bade him take a message to King Grantorto to this purport:
“I came not hither to fight against your people, but to maintain the cause of the Lady Irene against you in single combat. Do you therefore call your people back that they may suffer no further damage, but fix a time and place for us two to fight together in the cause of the Lady Irene.”
That night he pitched his tent outside the city, and would suffer none to come near him; only Sir Sergis kept him company, and gave such services as were needful. Now the Lady Irene had not heard of the coming of Sir Artegall, and this being the day on which, lacking a champion who should defend her cause, it was appointed for her to die, she arrayed herself in squalid garments, fit for such occasion, and prepared herself for her doom. But her mood was changed to joy when, coming to the appointed place, she found Sir Artegall ready to do battle for her.
And now, the lists having been made ready, Grantorto came forth prepared for battle. He was clad in armour of iron, with a steel cap, rusty brown in colour, on his head, and in his hand he carried a huge pole-axe. He was of mighty stature, standing up as a giant among other men, and hideous of aspect. Very expert in arms was he, and of great strength; no man had ever stood against him in fight and held his own.
Then the trumpets sounded and the two met. Fast and furiously did Grantorto rain his blows upon his adversary. This was his manner of fighting, to wit, to overbear his foe by the fierceness of his attack, giving him no respite or breathing-time. But of this Sir Artegall was well aware, and bore himself accordingly. It was as when a sailor sees a storm approaching and strikes his sails and loosens his main-sheet. So did Sir Artegall stoop his head, shunning the great shower of blows. Small shame it is to stoop if a man shall thereafter raise his head the higher. For a time, indeed, it might seem that the tyrant would prevail, so heavy was the shower of blows that he poured upon him, and so many the wounds which the great pole-axe made even through his armour. But ere long the occasion came for which the knight had waited. When the tyrant raised his arm high to strike what should be, he hoped, a mortal blow, Sir Artegall smote under his guard and drove his sword deep into his flank, so that the blood gushed forth in a great stream. Meanwhile the blow of the pole-axe had fallen, and, despite the shield which the knight had raised to defend his head, had bitten so deep that the giant could by no means loose it again. Then Sir Artegall let go his shield, and struck Grantorto on the head with such strength that he brought him to the ground, and, as he lay, with yet another stroke severed his head from his body.
Then all the people, glad to be rid of the tyrant, joyfully hastened to pay their homage to Queen Irene. So she was established on her throne. Sir Artegall tarried awhile to order all things in peace and justice, Talus helping much in the seeking out and punishment of offenders.
As Sir Artegall was returning from his latest enterprise, he met a certain Sir Calidore, who was in high repute among the knights and dames of Fairyland for his courtesy and honesty. These two had been friends in old time, and now were right glad to meet.
“Hail, noble sir,” said Sir Calidore, “tell me, I pray you, how you have prospered in your enterprise.”
And when the other had unfolded the whole matter in order, what hindrances he had encountered, and what success he had achieved in the end, “Happy man,” he said, “that have accomplished so great an enterprise! You are at the end of your labours, but I am but beginning mine, nor do I know where to begin; the way is all untried. I know not what dangers await me, nor what provision I must make.”
“What, then, is this enterprise of yours?” said Sir Artegall.
“I pursue,” answered the other, “the Blatant Beast, a monster that, having been nurtured in the regions below, has now come forth on the earth to be the plague and bane of men. My task is to follow him, if need be, all over the world, till I can destroy him.”
“Such a creature I myself saw,” said Sir Artegall, “after that I left the Savage Island. It seemed to have full a thousand tongues, and with all of these it bayed and barked at me; I heeded him not, and this seemed to move him to still greater rage.”
“Doubtless,” answered Sir Calidore, “that is the monster which I follow.”
“Go on and prosper,” said Sir Artegall; and so they parted in all friendship and amity.
After Sir Calidore had travelled a mile or so, he came upon a squire, a comely youth to behold, whom his enemies had bound to a tree. The same loudly called on him for help, which he, without waiting to ask questions, promptly rendered. When he had loosed his bonds he said: “Tell me, unhappy man, how you came into this evil plight; who was it that captured you and bound you in this fashion?”
“Sir Knight,” said the man, “be assured that it was by misfortune only, not by fault committed, that I came into this condition. Not far from this place there is a very strong castle, where they keep this evil custom. No man may pass along the road—and the road so lies that none may pass without leave obtained from them who hold the castle—without payment of toll. And the toll is this—from every lady her hair, and from every knight his beard.”
“As shameful a custom as ever came to my ears!” cried Sir Calidore, “and one speedily to be overthrown! But tell me how it came about, and what was its beginning?”
“In this castle,” the squire made reply, “there dwells a certain lady, Briana by name; there is no one on earth more proud, and it vexes her sorely that she loves a certain Sir Crudor, and that he will not deign to return love for love, until she shall make for him a mantle lined with the hair of ladies and the beards of knights. And she to gain this end uses the castle, having for her minister in the matter a certain Maleffort, who, indeed, does her will in the most cruel fashion. This very day, as I journeyed by the road with the lady whom I love, this Maleffort made an assault upon us. Me first he took prisoner, for I could not withstand him, so strong was he. This done, he pursued the damsel, binding me to this tree until he should come back. But whether he has found her or not, I know not.”
While he was yet speaking, they heard a loud shriek from hard by, and looking to the place saw the knave holding a lady by her garments and about to shear the tresses from her head. When Sir Calidore saw this he was greatly moved with wrath; the squire he left, and turned to pursue the villain. “Hold!” he cried, “leave that evil doing, and turn to answer me!”
The fellow, trusting in his strength, which, indeed, had never failed him, answered him scornfully. “Who,” said he, “are you that defy me in this fashion? You take this maiden’s part; will you then give your beard, though it be but little, for her locks? Nay, nay, you may not purchase them so cheaply.” So saying he ran at Sir Calidore in a mighty rage, and rained upon him a great shower of blows. The knight, who was well skilled in arms, held back awhile, standing on his defence, and let him spend his strength. But when he perceived that he was failing somewhat, then he began to press him; the more he gave way the more strongly he assailed him. At last the fellow lost heart, and turned to fly, hoping to gain the castle and find shelter. So he fled, Sir Calidore pursuing; and now he had reached the gate and cried aloud that they should open to him without delay. This indeed they who were within, seeing in what extremity he was, made haste to do, but even as he stood in the porch Sir Calidore dealt him a mighty blow with his sword, and cleft his head from the crown to the chin. He fell down dead where he stood, and when they would have shut the gate, they could not, for the carcase blocked the way, and Sir Calidore entering in, slew the porter where he stood. Then all who were in the castle set at him, but in vain; he swept them aside full easily, as an ox, standing in a meadow on a summer day, sweeps away the flies which trouble him. So he passed from the porch into the hall, where the Lady Briana met him, and assailed him with angry words, calling him villain because he had slain her steward, and was now come to rob her of her possessions.
“Nay, nay, fair lady,” he made answer, “I deserve not these reproaches. I came to abate an evil custom that you wot of. Such things do dishonour to the laws of courtesy. I pray you, therefore, of your own accord, to do away with this evil. Rather show kindness and hospitality to all such as pass by this way; so shall you gain a glory that is better far than earthly love.”
These words did but make her wrath more strong. “Know, sir,” she cried, “that I disdain all this talk of kindness and courtesy, and defy you to the death.”
“I hold it no shame,” answered Sir Calidore, “to take defiance from a lady; but were there one here who would abide the trial with his sword, gladly would I prove my words upon him.”
Then the lady in great haste called to her a dwarf who served her, and taking from her hand a ring of gold, gave it to him, saying: “Take this with all speed to Sir Crudor; and tell him that there is a knight here who has slain my steward and done much damage to my people;” for it had been agreed between them, that when urgent need should arise she should send this ring. So the dwarf departed with the ring, and travelled all that night. Meanwhile Sir Calidore abode in the castle, the lady being now scornful, now angry, and he enduring her moods with all patience and courtesy.
The next day, before the sun rose, came the dwarf, bringing a message from Sir Crudor that he would come to her help before he had broken his fast, and would deliver to her the enemy alive or dead; and he sent his helmet as a true token. Greatly did the Lady Briana rejoice to have such news, and behaved herself more scornfully than ever to Sir Calidore. He took no heed of her ways, rather rejoicing that he should have someone with whom to settle this quarrel. So he donned his arms, and waited for the coming of Sir Crudor. Nor did he wait long. Right soon did he espy a knight riding across the plain. “This,” said he to himself, “is the Lady Briana’s champion,” and without staying to ask of anyone who this new-comer might be, he rode forth to meet him. The two came together in the middle of the plain with so strong a shock that both were rolled upon the ground, each rider with his horse. Sir Calidore rose lightly from the ground, while his adversary still lay without sense or speech, but he disdained to do him any damage; it would ill become a courteous knight to strike a sleeping foe. But Briana, where she stood upon the castle walls, thought that her champion was dead, and loudly bemoaned him, and made as if she would throw herself from the walls to the earth.
After a while Sir Crudor raised himself from the ground, but in listless fashion, like to one who can scarcely rouse himself from sleep. But when he saw his adversary, his spirit returned to him as before, and he renewed the fight, hoping that he would fare better on foot than he had fared on horseback. Long did they fight, dealing each to other fearful blows. Not once, so fierce were they, did they pause to take rest. At the last, when, as if by common consent, both lifted their swords high in the air to deal what might be a final blow, and so finish the fight, either for this champion or for that, Sir Calidore, being more nimble and quicker of sight than his adversary, was beforehand with him, and struck him with so sharp a blow upon his helmet that he brought him to his knee. Nor did he fail to follow up his advantage, but redoubling the fierceness of his strokes, brought him altogether to the ground. As he lay there he would have unlaced his helmet, and given him his death-blow, but the vanquished man begged for mercy. Then Sir Calidore, mastering his anger, such was his courtesy, said: “Mercy I grant with all goodwill. Do you learn not to treat strangers with such rudeness. This ill befits a knight, for his first duty is to conquer himself. And now I give you your life on these conditions, that you help to the best of your power all wandering knights, and also give aid as you can to all ladies in need.”
These things the knight, being thus delivered beyond all hope from the fear of death, promised to do, and swore fealty to Sir Calidore as being his liege lord for all his life. All this time the Lady Briana was looking in great dismay and trouble of mind; and now Sir Calidore, bidding her to approach, told all that had been agreed between him and Sir Crudor. She was overcome by so great a courtesy, and thanked him with all her heart, for indeed it was in her inmost heart that she was moved. She threw herself at his feet, and declared herself to be wholly bound to him. After this they all betook themselves to the castle, where the lady entertained them in most joyous fashion.
The banquet ended, she said: “Sir Calidore, I do bestow this castle upon you freely and without price, by way of token of how great is my debt to you.”
Then answered Sir Calidore: “Lady, I thank you for this gift; but I am not minded to take any hire or reward for any good deed that it may be given me to do.” So he gave the castle to the squire, that he and the damsel might dwell there. And when he had tarried there certain days, and was now made whole of his wounds, he went forth again on his quest.
As Sir Calidore went on his way he saw a young man of great stature fighting on foot with a knight on horseback. Not far from these two stood a lady, clad in very poor array. Sir Calidore would have inquired of her the cause of the strife, having it in his mind to part the two combatants, if this might be done. But before he could come at the place, the youth had slain the knight, a thing at which he wondered not a little. This same youth was very goodly to look at, slender in shape, and of but seventeen years or so, as it seemed, but tall and fair of face. He was clad in a woodman’s jacket of Lincoln green, embroidered with silver, with a huntsman’s horn hanging by his side. He had a dart in his right hand, and in his left a boar-spear.
“What means this?” said Sir Calidore. “You, who are no knight, have slain a knight, a thing plainly contrary to the law of arms.”
“I would not wish,” answered the youth, “to break the law of arms; yet would I break it again, sooner than suffer such wrong as I have of this man, so long as I have two hands wherewith to defend myself. The quarrel with him was not of my seeking, as this lady can testify.”
“Tell me therefore,” said Sir Calidore, “how things fell out.”
“Sir Knight,” answered the lad, “I was hunting in the wood, as I am wont to do for lack of graver employment, for which my years are not fit, when I saw this knight, who lies dead yonder, passing over the plain, with this lady in his company. He was on horseback, but she followed on foot, and when she lagged behind, as she must needs do, so rough was the ground, then he smote her with the butt of his spear, taking no heed of her tears and prayers. This sight I saw with no small indignation, and being moved with wrath said: ‘Surely, Sir Knight, you should rather takeup this lady to ride behind you than make her travel so uneasily.’ To this he answered in angry words, bidding me hold my peace, nor meddle with things that concerned me not. ‘Or,’ said he, ‘I will whip you as a malapert boy should be whipped!’ So after some angry talk, he struck me twice with his spear, and I threw at him a dart, fellow of this which you see here in my hand; nor did I throw it in vain, for it struck him beneath the heart so hard that presently he died.”
Sir Calidore was not a little pleased with his manner of speech, so bold and honest was it, and he admired also the sturdiness of the stroke which had broken to such effect the coat of mail. And when, after question put to the lady, he found that it was even as the lad had told, he said: “I do not condemn this youth, but rather hold him free of blame. ’Tis the duty of knights, and indeed of all men, to bear themselves kindly and courteously to women, and he did well to maintain this good custom. But now I would have you tell me, lady, if you will, how it came about that the man whom he slew treated you in so unseemly a fashion?”
“Sir Knight,” answered the lady, “I am loath to bring accusations against the dead; yet I must needs declare the truth. This day, as this knight and I were passing on our way, we came upon a glade in the wood where there sat two lovers, a comely knight and a fair lady. The knight my companion being taken with the lady’s beauty, bade me dismount. And when I was unwilling to do so, thrust me out of my seat with violence. Which when he had done, he said to the other: ‘Now, yield me up that dame!’ And when the other—though, indeed, he was not prepared for battle—refused, then he wounded him sorely with his spear. This he did, though the other had proffered to do battle with him, if only he would appoint a day when they might try their strength on equal terms. Meanwhile the lady had fled into the wood, and had hidden herself to such good purpose, that when my knight sought to find her, he spent all his labour in vain. At this baulk he was greatly enraged. He would not set me on his horse again, but constrained me to follow on foot, smiting me with his spear if ever I lagged behind, and taking no heed of my tears and complaining. So we went on till we fell in with this young man, and he, being moved with pity at my evil plight, rebuked the knight. How the matter ended you have seen for yourself.”
“This boor has received his due,” said Calidore. Then turning to the lad, he said: “Tell me now who you are, and how you came to be in this place. Never did I see greater promise in anyone, and I would help you to bring it to as good fulfilment as may be.”
“Sir Knight,” the youth made answer, “it may be that the revealing of my name and lineage may be to my hurt, for of such danger I have been warned; nevertheless, so courteously have you borne yourself to me, that I will tell you the whole truth. I am a Briton, Tristram by name, son of good King Meliogras, who once reigned in the land of Cornwall. He dying while I was yet of tender years, his brother took the kingdom. Thereupon my mother, Queen Emiline, conceiving me to be in danger from this same uncle, thought it best to send me into some foreign land, where I should not be within his reach, if the thought of doing me a mischief should arise in his heart. So, according to the counsel of a wise man of whom she inquired in her perplexity, she sent me from the land of Lyonesse, where I was born, to the land of Fairy, where, no one knowing who or what I was, none would seek to do me wrong. I was then ten years of age, and I have abode in this land ever since, not wasting my days in vain delights, but perfecting myself in all the arts of hunting. But now it is time, I hold, to look to higher things. Therefore, this being such an occasion as might not again befall, I would entreat of you that you advance me, unworthy though I be, to a squire’s degree, so that I may duly learn and practise all the use of arms. And for this I have this beginning, to wit, the arms of this knight, whom I slew in fair encounter.”
Sir Calidore answered, “Fair child, I would not by any means baulk this your honourable desire to follow the profession of arms; only I could wish that I could set you to some service that should be worthy of you. Kneel therefore and swear that you will be faithful to any knight whom you shall serve as squire, and be true to all ladies, and never draw back from fear of any deed that it may be fitting for you to do.” So Tristram knelt down upon his knees, and took his oath to do according to these words.
Thereupon Sir Calidore dubbed him a squire, and he bloomed forth straightway in all joy and gladness, even as a bud opens into a flower. But when Tristram besought him that he might go with him on his present adventure, vowing that he would follow him to the death, Sir Calidore answered: “I should be right glad, most courteous squire, to have you with me, so that I might see the valour which you have show itself in honourable achievement, but this may not be. I am bound by vow to my sovereign, who set me this task to accomplish, that I would not take anyone to aid me. For this reason I may not grant your request. But now, seeing that this lady is left desolate, and is in need of safe convoy, you will do well to succour her in this her need.”
This service the youth gladly undertook, and Sir Calidore, taking leave of him and the dame in courteous fashion, set forth again on his quest. He had not travelled far before he came to the place where the knight who had been so discourteously treated by him whom Tristram had slain, lay in a most sorrowful plight. He was bleeding from many wounds, so that all the earth about him was red; and the lady sat by him weeping, and yet doing all that she could with careful hands to dress his wounds and ease his pain. Sir Calidore, when he saw this sorry sight, was well-nigh moved to tears; from which, scarce refraining himself, he said: “Tell me, sad lady, if your grief will suffer you, who it was that with cruel hand wrought such mischief to a knight unarmed, for surely, if I may but come near him, I will avenge this wrong upon him.”
The lady answered: “Fair sir, this knight whom you see here and I sat talking in lover’s fashion, and this man charged him, unarmed as he was, and dealt him these deadly wounds. And if you would know what manner of man he was, he was of tall stature, clad in gilded armour, crossed with a band of blue, and for device on his shield he had a lady rowed in a summer barge across rough waves.”
When Sir Calidore heard this, he was assured that this indeed was the knight whom Tristram had slain, and he said: “Lady, take to yourself this comfort, that he who so foully wronged your knight lies now in yet more evil case. I saw him with my own eyes lying dead upon the earth, a just recompense for the foul wrong that he did to your fair knight. And now bethink you what we may best do for this wounded man, how you may best convey him hence, and to what refuge.”
She thanked him for his courtesy and friendly care, yet knew not what to say, for being a stranger in that country she could not think of a fitting place, nor could she ask him to carry the wounded man. This he did not fail to perceive, and said: “Fair lady, think not that I deem it a disgrace to carry this burden; gladly will I help you.” Taking therefore his shield, and first pouring the healing balm, which he always carried with him for such needs, into the knight’s wounds, he put him thereon, and bare him, the lady helping, to a castle that was hard by. And it so chanced that the lord of this castle was father to the wounded knight, a man far advanced in years, who had been a famous man-at-arms in the days gone by, and was of most courteous and hospitable temper. Aldus was his name, and his son’s name was Aladine. Great was his grief when he saw his dear son brought home in such a plight.
“Dear boy,” he cried, “and is the pleasure with which I thought to welcome you to this your home turned to such sorrow!” Nevertheless he put a brave constraint upon his sorrow, and turned himself to entertain his guests with all hospitality. To this welcome Sir Calidore made a courteous return, but the lady, whose name was Priscilla, could not by any means be cheered. She was daughter to a noble lord that dwelt hard by, and had seen and loved this same Aladine, though he was of meaner birth and smaller estate; and now she was much troubled, thinking both of her lover’s perilous state and of how her father would take the matter. So, while Sir Aldus entertained Sir Calidore, she sat and tended the wounded man, and at the last, with infinite pains, brought him out of the swoon in which he lay, and restored him to himself.
The next day, when Sir Calidore came to see how the wounded man was faring, he found him not a little bettered in state of body, but anxious in mind, especially for his lady’s sake, because of the displeasure which her father might have concerning her love for him. Thereupon he told to Sir Calidore the whole story of his love, and besought his help, which he, much moved by pity for their sorrowful case, gladly promised that he would give. This promise he most fully did perform. First he went to where the carcase of that misbehaved knight lay upon the ground, and shore the head from the body. This he took in his hand, and brought the lady to her father’s house. He, indeed, was greatly troubled to think what had befallen his child, and was much rejoiced to see her again safe and sound.
Then said Sir Calidore: “Your daughter was like to suffer wrong from an evil knight; but he suffered for his evil intent—lo! here you see his head.”
Then did the noble lord most gladly receive her again to her home, and Sir Calidore, after a short sojourn, departed again upon his quest.
As Sir Calidore passed on his way he came upon two lovers, Sir Calepine and the Lady Serena, as they sat talking together. They were abashed to see him, and he, being the very soul of courtesy, made most humble apology for so disturbing them. Then said Sir Calepine: “Sit down and rest awhile, and let us talk together;” to which Sir Calidore courteously assented. While they talked, the Lady Serena, tempted by the fairness of the place, and seeking to make a garland of flowers, of which there was great store, wandered away.
Thereupon the Blatant Beast, the same monster which Sir Calidore had it in charge to seek, rushed out of a wood that was hard by, caught her in his mouth, and carried her away. She cried aloud to the two knights for help, and they, hearing her voice, started up to succour her. Sir Calidore, being the more swift of foot of the two, overtook the beast before it had gone far. Thereupon it cast down the lady out of its mouth and fled. Nor did Sir Calidore delay to pursue the beast. “The lady,” said he to himself, “will be cared for by her own knight; but as for me, I must not abandon my quest.” How he fared in the pursuit will be told hereafter; but we will follow in the meanwhile the fortunes of the two lovers.
Sir Calepine found the lady in very sad plight, being sorely wounded on both sides by the monster’s teeth, so that she lay upon the ground in a swoon, as if she were dead. With much ado he brought her back to life, and, setting her on his horse, held her up with his arms, till they could find some place where she might rest and be healed of her wounds. So they journeyed till they came to a river, on the other side of which stood a fair castle, in which he hoped that he might find shelter. But when he came to the water’s edge he found that the stream could scarce be forded on foot. While he doubted what it were best to do, there came a knight to the river’s side, with a lady riding on a palfrey by his side. Thereupon Sir Calepine, with all due courtesy, made a request of the new-comer, that he would take this wounded lady to the other side.
“Not so,” replied the other; “if you have no horse of your own you shall have no help of mine. Go on foot, and let this lady do the same. Or, if you like it better, carry her on your back, and so prove yourself a man.”
The lady on the palfrey was much displeased at the rudeness of this speech, and, pitying the plight of Serena, would have helped her with her own palfrey. For this courtesy Sir Calepine thanked her, but, being very angry with the knight, would have none of her help. Stepping down, therefore, into the river, he held himself up against the stream with his spear in one hand, and with the other hand stayed the lady on his horse. All the while the discourteous knight stood on the bank jeering and laughing.
When Sir Calepine had won in safety to the farther bank, he called aloud to the other, saying, “Unknightly man, disgrace to all who bear arms, I defy you. Fight if you dare, or never be bold to bear arms again.” But the fellow took no heed of this challenge, but laughed aloud, as if to say that his adversary was of so mean estate that a man of honour need not trouble to regard his words. So, crossing the stream, he came to the fair house on the farther bank, for indeed this was his house.
To this same house came Sir Calepine, for indeed there was no other house where he could find shelter, and asked admittance for the lady’s sake. But the porter said: “We find no lodging here for any wandering knight, unless he is willing first to fight with the master of the house.”
“And who is he?” said Sir Calepine.
“His name,” answered the porter, “is Sir Turpin; a mighty man and a great fighter; he bears a great grudge against all wandering knights, by reason of some wrong that was done him by such a knight in time past.”
Then said Sir Calepine: “Go your way to your master, and tell him that a wandering knight craves shelter for a wounded lady, and that he is willing to fight, but craves that Sir Turpin will, of his courtesy, postpone this issue till the day following.” To this request no answer other than had first been delivered was made, and Sir Calepine perforce turned away, not knowing what else he could do. All that night he sheltered the lady under a bush as best he could. The next day he went on his way, hoping to find some more hospitable place, and walking as before by the lady’s side.
But he was not suffered to proceed far; for Sir Turpin, filled with hatred and malice, pursued after him and overtook him, and having him at a disadvantage, for he had the charge of the lady on his hands, went near to slaying him. Slain without doubt he had been, but for help that came to him beyond all hope. A savage man, who dwelt in the wood, hearing the lady’s cry, hastened to discover what had befallen. He was as a brute beast, and had never before felt in his breast any touch of pity; but now, seeing the knight so hardly pressed, was moved to help him. Neither armour had he nor arms, being wont to strike with such things as came to his hand, and for protection he had a magic charm, which from his birth had made him proof against all wounds. He took no thought how he could best attack Sir Turpin, but ran at him with great fury. The knight struck him full upon the breast with his spear, but made no wound. And when the wild man’s fury grew greater and greater, and he caught hold of the knight’s shield, and the knight on the other hand perceived that neither spear nor sword availed anything against him, then Sir Turpin left his shield and his spear also and fled. Nor had he then escaped but for the fleetness of his steed, for the savage also was the fastest of runners. So near did he come that Sir Turpin shrieked aloud for fear, a most unbecoming thing for a knight to do; nevertheless, by the speed of his horse he escaped to his castle.
The savage man, therefore, seeing his labour of pursuit to be vain, returned to the place where he had left the knight and the lady. Both he found in very evil case, and tended them with all care, staunching the bleeding of their wounds with juices of healing herbs which he found in the woods. Also he took them to a dwelling which he had in the wood hard by, and gave them such entertainment as he could, beds of leaves on which to sleep, and wild fruits of the wood for food, for the savage man never would slay any living creature.
But now there befell these lovers a great mishap. Sir Calepine, being now whole of his wounds, was wandering in the wood, when he heard the cry of an infant which a bear was carrying off in his mouth. This indeed he rescued, but in the chase went so far that he wholly lost his way, and could not by any means return to the place where he had left the Lady Serena. Long did she wait for his coming, being in great doubt and trouble as to what had befallen him, and when, after many days, he was still absent, she purposed to leave the abode of the Savage Man. He would not suffer her to go alone, but clad himself in Sir Calepine’s armour—his sword the knight had put in some secret place—and so set forth; nor, indeed, was ever a stranger pair seen in company.
They had not journeyed far before, by great good fortune, they met Prince Arthur. To him Serena told all that had befallen her and Sir Calepine, the misdeeds of Sir Turpin, and the wandering away of the knight. And when Prince Arthur had heard her tale, he said: “You I will bestow with a good and wise man, a hermit, who dwells in these parts. My squire also, who has suffered no little damage, I will leave; as for this discourteous knight who calls himself Turpin, I will punish him forthwith.”
And this he did in most effective fashion, slaying him and hanging him after by the heels upon a tree, that others might take warning by his punishment.
And now shall be told what befell the Lady Serena, and how it came to pass that she and her lover were found one of another. It chanced one day as she walked in the wood with Prince Arthur’s squire that he was set upon by two knaves, and she, doubting to what end the battle might come, fled away on her feet, and, losing her way, could not by any means return to the hermit’s abode. Being wearied out with long wandering, she lay down in the wood to sleep.