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SIR LANCELOT AND SIR TARQUIN, MARTIN MERE

FRED: Sir Lancelot, you may be surprised to hear, has a close association with the county. ‘Lanc’ is the Celtic term for a spear, and ‘lot’ refers to the people of the land, hence ‘Lancelot’s shire’ or as it is known today ‘Lancashire’. Lily will tell his tale …

In the turbulent times following the Roman withdrawal, marauding bands laid waste the land and its people, until King Arthur emerged as a commanding leader to fill the power vacuum and subdue the marauders.

In the north, the remnant of British knights invited the Saxons to help repulse the violent incursions of Picts and Scots, but the perfidious Saxons appropriated the land for themselves and turned the British knights out of their castles.

The greatest, cruellest and most treacherous of the Saxon knights was Sir Tarquin, who dwelt in a castle of great strength, which he had gained by treachery from a British knight. The castle was surrounded by vast ramparts, flanked by high and stately towers. Sir Tarquin was a knight of brutal aspect, gigantic stature and prodigious strength. It is so fabled that each day for his morning repast he devoured an infant child, its little legs still thrashing as they slid between his pitiless lips.

To contend with the marauding bands, and later the usurping Saxons, King Arthur commissioned a force of brave knights, spearheaded by his Knights of the Round Table, foremost of whom was named Sir Lancelot du Lac.

As an infant, Lancelot had been overlooked by his mother Queen Helen while she cradled her dying husband King Ban of Benoit in her arms. King Ban lay dying of grief to see his besieged, beloved castle in flames.

With the far-sightedness given by living his life backwards, Merlin the Magician knew there was a time of terror and turmoil to come. He conjured deep and powerful magic to prepare the land for this time, aided by his mistress, the nymph Viviane.

With Queen Helen despairing and distracted, Viviane spirited the infant Lancelot away and bore him over the seas to the deep, wide waters of Martin Mere, and down into its fabulous subterraneous caverns, where she held her court. There she raised him, tutoring him to be the finest, bravest knight in all the land, against the chaotic and tumultuous times to come. At the age of eighteen she raised him from the waters of the lake and presented him at the court of King Arthur.

The young warrior quickly proved his mettle and was invested with the badge of knighthood. His person, prowess, and unparalleled gallantry won the heart of many a fair damsel in this splendid abode of chivalry and romance. He was acknowledged as the finest, bravest knight in all the land, and fulfilled his prophetic name Lancelot du Lac, ruler of Lancelot’s shire, the one who had emerged from the lake of Martin Mere, to face this time of trial.

In the bloody war between King Arthur’s knights and the Saxons, the country was ravaged by fire and sword, and many puissant knights were slain or incarcerated. Sir Tarquin boasted of no mean success – he had threescore and four British knights held in thrall, chained to the walls of his deepest, darkest dungeon.

Sir Lancelot du Lac was at Shrewsbury’s fair town, in mortal combat with Sir Carados, a ferocious giant of a Saxon knight and brother to Sir Tarquin. After seven hours of battle, Lancelot hewed Carados down like a blasted elm. Lancelot, casting himself upon the ground exhausted, was carried from thence by enchantment, and on waking found himself in an unknown forest, where he sojourned a while.

At the forest edge was a vast trackless wilderness, devoid of birdsong or habitation, where he saw a damsel of such inexpressible and ravishing beauty that none might behold her without the most heart-stirring delight and admiration. To this maiden did Sir Lancelot address himself, but she hid her face and fell a-weeping. He then enquired the cause of her dolour, when she bade him flee, for his life was in great jeopardy.

‘Oh, Sir Knight!’ uncovering her face as she spoke, ‘The giant Tarquin, who liveth hereabout, like the dragon of yore entailed a desert round his dwelling. So fierce and rapacious is he that no man durst live beside him, save that he hold his life and property of too mean account, and too worthless for the taking. Thou wert as good as dead should he espy thee so near his castle. Flee! Flee!’

Lancelot had heard of how this Sir Tarquin was playing the eagle in its eyrie amongst his companions and brethren of the Round Table: gaining from the powerful and the wealthy, and watching and biding his time before an attack.

‘What!’ said the knight, ‘and shall Sir Lancelot du Lac flee before this false and cruel tyrant? To this purpose am I come, that I may slay and make an end of him at once, and deliver the captive knights from his dungeon.’

‘Art thou, indeed, Sir Lancelot?’ said the damsel, joy suddenly starting through her tears, ‘Then is our deliverance nearer than we dared hope. Thy fame is gone before thee into all lands, and thy might and thy prowess none may withstand. This evil one, Sir Tarquin, hath taken captive many a true knight who betook himself to this adventure, and now lieth in chains and foul ignominy, without hope of release, till death break off his fetters.’

‘Beshrew me,’ said Lancelot, ‘but I will deliver them presently, and cut off the foul tyrant’s head, or lose mine own by the attempt.’

He followed the maiden to a river’s brink, near to where, as tradition still reports, Knott Mill now stands. Having mounted her upon his steed, she pointed out a path over the ford, beyond which he soon espied the castle, a vast and stately building of rugged stone, like a huge crown upon the hilltop, presenting a gentle ascent from the stream.

Now did Sir Lancelot alight, as well to assist his companion as to bethink himself what course to pursue. However, the damsel showed him a high tree, about a stone’s throw from the ditch before the castle, whereon hung a goodly array of accoutrements, with many fine and costly shields, on which were displayed a variety of fair and fanciful devices, the property of the knights then held in durance by Sir Tarquin. Below them all hung a copper basin, on which was carved the inscription: ‘Who valueth not his life a whit, Let him this magic basin hit.’

This so enraged Sir Lancelot that he drove at the vessel violently with his spear, piercing it through and through, so vigorous was the assault. The clangour was loud, and anxiously did the knight await some reply to his summons. Yet there was no answer, nor was there any stir about the walls or outworks. It seemed as though Sir Tarquin was his own castellan, skulking there alone, like the cunning spider watching for his prey.

Silence, with her vast, unmoving wings, appeared to brood over the place, and the echo, which gave back their summons from the walls, seemed to labour for utterance through the void by which they were encompassed – a stillness so appalling might needs discourage the hot and fiery purpose of Sir Lancelot. But this knight, unused but to the rude clash of arms and the mêlée of battle, did marvel exceedingly at the forbearance of the enemy.

Yet he still rode round about the fortress, expecting that someone should come forth to inquire his business, and this he did, to and fro, for a long space. As he was just minded to return from so fruitless an adventure, he saw a cloud of dust at some distance, and presently he beheld a knight galloping furiously towards him. Coming nigh, Sir Lancelot was aware that a captive knight lay before him, bound hand and foot, bleeding and sore wounded.

‘Villain!’ cried Sir Lancelot, ‘and unworthy the name of a true and loyal knight, how darest thou do this insult and contumely to an enemy, who, though fallen, is yet thine equal! I will make thee rue this foul despite, and avenge the wrongs of my brethren of the Round Table.’

‘If thou be for so brave a meal,’ said Tarquin, ‘thou shalt have thy fill, and that speedily. I shall first cut off thy head, and then serve up thy carcase to the Round Table, for both that and thee I do utterly defy!’

‘This is over-dainty food for thy sending,’ replied Sir Lancelot hastily, and with that they couched their spears.

The first rush was over, but man and horse had withstood the shock. Again they fell back, measuring the distance with an eager and impetuous glance, and again they rushed on, as if to overwhelm each other by main strength, when, as fortune would have it, their lances shivered, both of them at once, in the rebound. The end of Sir Lancelot’s spear, as it broke, struck his adversary’s steed on the shoulder, and caused him to fall suddenly, as if sore wounded. Sir Tarquin leaped nimbly from off his back, which Sir Lancelot espying, cried out, ‘Now will I show thee proper courtesy, for, by mine honour and the faith of a true knight, I shall not slay thee at this foul advantage.’

Alighting with haste, they betook themselves to their swords, each guarding the opposite attack warily with his shield. That of Sir Tarquin was framed of a bull’s hide, stoutly held together with thongs and, in truth, seemed well-nigh impenetrable, whilst the shield of his opponent, being of more brittle stuff, did seem as though it would have cloven asunder with the desperate strokes of Sir Tarquin’s sword.

Nothing daunted, Sir Lancelot broke ofttimes through his adversary’s guard and smote him once until his blood gushed forth. At this sight, Sir Tarquin waxed ten times more fierce, and summoning all his strength for the blow, wrought so lustily on the head of Sir Lancelot that he began to reel, which Tarquin observed, by a side blow struck the sword from out his hand, with so sharp and dexterous a jerk that it shivered into a thousand fragments.

‘Now yield thee, Sir Knight, or thou diest,’ and with that the cruel monster sprang upon him to accomplish his end. Still Sir Lancelot would not yield, nor sue to him for quarter, but flew on his enemy like the ravening wolf to his prey. Then were they seen hurtling together like wild bulls, Sir Lancelot holding fast his adversary’s sword, so that in vain he attempted to make a thrust therewith.

‘Thou discourteous churl! Give me but the vantage of a weapon like thine own, and I will fight thee honestly and without flinching.’

‘Nay, Sir Knight of the Round Table, but this were a merry deed withal, to help thee unto that wherewith I might perchance mount some goodly bough for the crows to peck at,’ replied Tarquin.

Terrible and unceasing was the struggle, but in vain the giant knight attempted to regain the use of his sword. Then Sir Lancelot, with a wary eye, finding no hope of his life, save in the use or accomplishment of some notable stratagem, bethought him of the attempt to throw his adversary by a sudden feint. To this end he pressed against him heavily and with his whole might, then darting suddenly aside, Sir Tarquin fell to the ground with a loud cry. Sir Lancelot leapt joyfully upon him, thinking to overcome his enemy, but the latter, too cunning to be thus caught at unawares, kept his sword firmly holden, and his enemy was still unprovided with the means of defence.

Now did Sir Lancelot begin to doubt what course he should pursue, when suddenly the damsel, who, having bound up the wounds of the captive knight as he lay, and now sat a little way off watching the event, cried out, ‘Sir Knight, the tree, a goodly bough for the gathering.’

Then did Sir Lancelot remember the weapons that were there, along with the shields and the body armour of the knights Sir Tarquin had vanquished. Starting up, ere his enemy had recovered himself, he snatched a broad falchion from the bough, and again defied him to the combat. But the fight was fiercer than before, so that being sore wounded, and the day exceeding hot, they were after a season fain to pause for breath.

‘Thou art the bravest knight I ever encountered,’ said Sir Tarquin, ‘I would crave thy country and thy name, for, by my troth and the honour of my gods, I will give thee thy request on one condition, and release thy brethren of the Round Table. For why should two knights of such pith and prowess slay each other in one day?’

‘And what is thy condition?’ inquired Sir Lancelot.

‘There liveth but one, either in Christendom or Heathenesse, unto whom I may not grant this parley, for him have I sworn to kill,’ said Sir Tarquin.

‘‘Tis well,’ replied the other, ‘but what name or cognisance hath he?’

‘His name is Lancelot du Lac!’

‘Behold him!’ was the reply, Sir Lancelot at the same time brandishing his weapon with a shout of defiance.

When Sir Tarquin heard this he gnashed his teeth for very rage.

‘Now one of us must die,’ said he, ‘thou slewest my brother Sir Carados at Shrewsbury, and I have sworn to avenge his defeat. Thou diest. Not all the gods of thy fathers shall deliver thee.’

So to battle they went with more heat and fury than ever, and a marvel was it to behold, for each blow did seem as it would have cleft the other in twain, so deadly was the strife and hatred between them.

Sir Lancelot pressed hard upon his foe, though himself grievously wounded, and in all likelihood would have won the fight, but, as ill-luck would have it, when dealing a blow mighty enough to fell the stoutest oak in Christendom, he missed his aim, and with that stumbled to the ground. Then did Sir Tarquin shout for joy, and would have made an end of him, but that Sir Lancelot, as he lay, aimed a deadly thrust below his enemy’s shield where he was left unguarded, and quickly turned his joy into tribulation, for Sir Tarquin, though not mortally wounded, drew back and cried out lustily for pain. Sir Lancelot leapt again to his feet, eager and impatient for the strife.

The contest was again doubtful, neither of them showing any disposition to yield or in any wise to abate the rigour of the conflict. Night, too, was coming on apace, and seemed like enough to pitch her tent over them, ere the issue was decided. But an event now fell out which, unexpectedly enough, terminated this adventure. From some cause arising out of the haste and rapidity of the strokes, one of these so chanced that both had their swords suddenly driven from out of their right hands. Stooping together to retrieve their swords, by some error or enchantment, they exchanged weapons.

Then did Sir Lancelot soon find his strength to increase, whilst his adversary’s vigour began to abate, and in the end Sir Lancelot slew him, and with his own sword cut off his head. He then perceived that the giant’s great strength was by virtue of his sword, and that it was through his wicked sorcery therewith he had been able to overcome, and had wrought such disgrace on the Knights of the Round Table.

Sir Lancelot forthwith took the keys from the giant’s girdle and proceeded to the release of the captive knights, first unbinding the prisoner who yet lay in a piteous swoon hard by. But there was a great outcry and lamentation when he saw ’twas his own brother Sir Erclos in this doleful case, for it was he whom the cruel Tarquin was leading captive when he met the just reward of his misdeeds.

After administering to his relief, Sir Lancelot rode up to the castle gate but found no entrance thereby. The drawbridge was raised, and he sought in vain the means of giving the appointed signal for its descent.

But the damsel showed him a secret place where hung a little horn. On this he blew a sharp and ringing blast, when the bridge presently began to lower, and instantly to adjust itself across the moat. Whereon, hastening, he unlocked the gate. But here he had nigh fallen into a subtle snare, by reason of an ugly dwarf that was concealed in a side niche of the wall. He was armed with a ponderous mace, and had not the maiden drawn Sir Lancelot aside by main force, he would have been crushed in its descent, the dwarf aiming a deadly blow at him as he passed. It fell, instead, with a loud crash on the pavement, and broke into a thousand fragments. Thereupon, Sir Lancelot smote him with the giant’s sword, and hewed the mischievous monster asunder without mercy.

Turning towards the damsel, he beheld her form suddenly change, and she vanished from his sight. Then was he aware that it had been the nymph Viviane who accompanied him through the enchantments he had so happily subdued. He soon released his brethren, and great was the joy at the Round Table when the Knights returned to the banquet.

Thus endeth the chronicle of Sir Lancelot and Sir Tarquin, still a notable tradition in Lancelot’s shire, the remains of Tarquin’s castle being shown to this very day.

FRED: Leaving Martin Mere behind, with regret, we take horse to Parbold, near Ormskirk, and register at an eighteenth-century inn with a curious name, The Eagle and Child. The inn sign shows an eagle with spread wings perched above a baby in a cradle. After a couple of jars of Southport Brewery Golden Sands best bitter and a fine meal of local produce, Lily tells us the story of The Eagle and Child.