NOW KING ARTHUR TOOK every opportunity to bring Guinevere and Sir Launcelot together, for he admired Launcelot above all men in the world, whereas he believed that Guinevere despised that greatest of all knights, and it is natural for a husband to wish that his wife be at one with him in his enthusiasms.
But the queen showed more public disdain for Sir Launcelot than she had ever done, and not only because by this means she sought to avoid suspicion, but also for the reason that she could not understand the admiration which two men might feel for each other without being either of them sexually unnatural. For Sir Launcelot notwithstanding that he had cuckolded his king held Arthur in great reverence, and whilst Guinevere insofar as she was a queen believed this was as it should be with a knight and his sovereign, as a woman she did wonder whether it was unmanly.
And so we leave them all in this situation, the which existed for many years.
But meanwhile Mordred the bastard was growing up in the Orkneys, those isles at the northernmost limits of the world, beyond which is the realm of the ice-monsters. And even as a wee child Mordred was wicked and when playing with wooden swords he sharpened his blade and hardened it over coals, so that it would not splinter when he smote his playfellows, and he wounded so many of them that the children of noblemen were kept from him, and therefore he frequented the spawn of serfs, the which if he hurt or even killed them had no recourse, for a prince will be a prince the world over (except in Arthur’s Britain where there were none, for his only offspring was Mordred).
Now Mordred’s mother was Queen Margawse, and his foster-father (who believed he was his real one) was King Lot, and though neither of them was better than they should have been, they recognized in Mordred a malignancy to which they could never attain, and it being generally true of all bad people that they dislike being in the proximity of someone worse (for this maketh them feel stupid, whereas in the company of good people they feel cunning), Margawse and Lot decided when Mordred was ten years of age to expose him in a waste land where a wyvern was known to roam and to devour all things that were quick.
Therefore they had their knights take Mordred to this remote place, which was on the mainland, in the pretense that a tournament would be held there. But even at this tender age Mordred was quite clever enough to see this as a ruse by means of which he would be disposed of.
Therefore when he was tied to a great rock by these knights and then they rode away, and next the loathsome wyvern came to devour him, he did not quaver in fear, though this ferocious beast had the body of a serpent with great leathern wings and a head like an horse’s (if that horse were ten times larger than naturally), and the nail on the claw it thrust towards Mordred for to probe him, as it always first did to its meat, was longer than his childish body.
But Mordred, who knew that no beast was a match for a man in shrewdness, said, “My lord Wyvern, think you it is good husbanding of your resources to eat me, a mere morsel of four stone, when more than fifteen hundred pounds of fresh fat knights are beyond yon hill?”
And the wyvern retracted its talons and in a trice flew over the hill and ate those knights along with their horses and armor, and then with a heavy belly it lay down and slept for three weeks, which gave Mordred more than enough time to loosen his bonds and to void that region.
Now he had traveled some distance afoot and he was hungry and weary, for this place was arid, but then coming over the brow of a hill he saw in a valley a beautiful palace of which the towers were made of spun sugar. And when he arrived before its portal he saw that the stones of which the walls were built were actually sweet cakes, and the trees which grew near by were weighted down with sugarplums.
Then the gate swung open, as if of itself, and Mordred went into the palace, which within was a place that any normal boy would have found jolly, with the pillars so many great peppermint sticks and merry music being played by elves on rebecs and flutes.
And a beautiful lady came to him, and she said, “Welcome, sweet boy.” And then she sat down upon a silken couch, and she took him into her lap, and she did caress him dearly.
But in a moment she screamed and sprang up, and Mordred would have fallen to the floor had he not been so agile.
“Vile little bastard!” cried the lady. “Thou didst pinch my tit!” And she rubbed herself at her bosom.
“Well,” said Mordred, “I am not so easily gulled, lady. There is but one reason why such a palace as this would be found in a desert, and that is to lure children within for to eat them.”
And the lady raised her eyebrows. “Thou art an interesting child,” said she. “If indeed thou art a child and not an imp in the temporary guise of one. If the latter, knowest thou who I am? I am in thy service, which is to say, evil.”
“Lady,” said he, “I am Mordred, and I am ten years old. Having lately been exposed by my parents, I owe no fealty to anyone. If this evil which you serve will give me an home, I shall be its willing vassal.”
Now the lady did exclaim, “Mordred! I am thine aunt, Morgan la Fey. And though I am much pleased to see thee, do not expect an embrace, for I never touch another except to gain power over him and work his ruin.”
“And for mine own part,” said Mordred, “I always pinch or prick anyone who touches me in affection. But I am very happy to be with you, for I have always heard your name mentioned with loathing, and if people detest you so much, you must be altogether admirable.”
“Thou hast the right instincts,” said Morgan la Fey. “But these are not sufficient in themselves, for all children have a natural attraction towards evil, the race of mankind being a monstrosity upon the earth, but persons are often distracted when they grow older. I must undertake thy tutelage, so that as thou dost mature, thou remainest as rotten as thou wert born.”
“Well,” said Mordred, “methinks there is little danger of my acquiring any decency, though I might well hypocritically pretend to be a sweet child at times so as to gull certain persons into a belief that I am harmless.”
“Splendid,” said Morgan la Fey. “’Tis a means which I myself use sometimes, and one of the most effective, for the reason that mortals, who live in fear, tend to dismiss from their attention him of whom they are not afraid, and therefore he can accomplish a great deal of wickedness without being detected. Whereas if he doth boast openly of his devilry, all will be on guard against him.”
“My dear aunt,” said Mordred, “you are the only human being with whom I have ever felt a common cause. Indeed, until this moment I have felt quite alone in the world, for though my parents can not be called good folk, methinks the evil they have done is largely a result of fecklessness and not a devotion to the bad. For example, exposing me to the ravages of the wyvern might be seen as wicked, for I am their child. But if they were malefactors of true mettle, they would have murdered me outright and not submitted me to an ordeal which might well go awry and fail in its purpose—as indeed it hath. And furthermore, it were the better service to evil to preserve me, for never since being born have I displayed the least decent trait.”
“Yea,” said Morgan la Fey, “thou seest these matters very clearly, Mordred, and though I have ever detested the thought of being a mother, I do wish I were thine, for thou art all I could ask of an offspring. My sister Margawse doth not deserve thee.”
“Not to mention my father King Lot,” said Mordred.
And Morgan la Fey did look sharply at her small nephew. “Dost speak ironically, Mordred?” she asked.
“Never to you, dear Aunt,” said he. “But I see from your reaction that I have been naïve. Lot is not my father?”
“Now, Mordred,” said his aunt, “doth it seem likely that thou wouldst be born in wedlock?”
“Then,” happily asked Mordred, “my mother was a strumpet?”
“Nay,” said Morgan la Fey. “She doth lack the imagination for that. Thy mother, Mordred, is merely an adulteress.”
“These are nevertheless good news to me,” said Mordred. “I trust my natural father is a more effectual rogue than Lot, whom I have ever despised.”
“Thou art thoroughly indecent, I am pleased to say,” said Morgan la Fey. “Yet thou art withal yet a child. The great purpose in doing evil is to defy the good, dear boy! Therefore thou shouldst be at a terrible disadvantage if thy father were a notable felon—indeed thou couldst have no choice in such a case but (unhappy thought!) to serve virtue. For the rule of human life, which can never be abrogated, is that the son will necessarily oppose the father, at least in principle if not in person, so that the issue of great lechers are prudes, the wise man is the scion of the foolish stalk, the hero generates a coward, and a criminal like thyself comes from the loins of King Arthur.”
Now Mordred, who was yet a boy of ten, however vicious, here fell to weeping uncontrollably, and Morgan la Fey regretted that she could not touch him in tenderness, for despite her wickedness there was still some femininity in her. However she soon (and guiltily) repressed this obnoxious feeling and commanded her nephew to do the same to his grief, for in the service of evil such demonstrations of negative emotion are confessions of failure, and only positive gloating is permitted, as when one watches the excruciating torture of a helpless victim and screams in glee while he howls in agony.
Therefore Mordred dried his eyes and regained command of himself, and he begged the pardon of his aunt Morgan la Fey. “I shall not soon weep again,” said he, “for nothing worse could possibly happen to me than to learn that I am the son of the finest king in the world.”
“Well,” said the wicked Morgan la Fey, “it is not however as unfortunate as it could be. Thou art not his legitimate son, but rather his bastard. Take comfort in the knowledge that thy very existence is a thing of shame to him, and that engendering thee is his sole stain. Were he as wicked as thou and I, he would put thee to death. But being good, he shall feel obliged to love thee.”
“Now, my dear aunt,” said Mordred, “is it not just that which will make it worst?”
“Nay,” said Morgan la Fey, “for the pain that comes from love is the greatest on earth, and he who is loved hath the most effective instrument of torture that can be used on the lover, whom he can torment with impunity. The cunning device of the Christian religion is to maintain that love bringeth joy, while it is precisely the reverse which is true: that love doth bring only agony to the lover.”
“Yea,” said Mordred, “already I have divined that that is true of ardent passion, which is all pain if unsatisfied but boring if surfeited, but what of the paternal and other forms of familial love, and the loving-kindness of friendship? For though I am incapable of feeling any of those (except towards thee, my dear wicked aunt, but methinks our exchange of affection is due to a community of interest more than to blood), I am aware that banal humanity makes much of them.”
“That these are feelings professed to by the rascal many,” said Morgan la Fey, “should in itself be evidence of their falsity. A child ‘loves’ his father because he is afraid of him, and this fear is the other face of hatred. Whereas a father ‘loves’ a son while the boy is small, because he as yet has no fear of him, and this so-called love is therefore disguised contempt. Then the boy grows up, and he and his father arrive at a kind of equilibrium of power, and this truce is again called ‘love.’ Finally the elder becomes a dotard, which is to say that through age he has become as weak as a child, and in power (which is the only quality worth considering on earth or in Heaven) the father hath become a son, and he fears his new parent and is in turn despised by him. And once again this is called filial-paternal love.”
And Mordred was enraptured by the brilliant intellect of his aunt. “I regret only,” said he, “that because there is no such thing as love, I can not love thee.”
“And be assured that thou dost please me quite as much,” said Morgan la Fey, “and that at such a time I regret that I am not capable of sexual feeling, for on principle ’twould be a jolly thing to take thee into my bed and commit at once two crimes of which I greatly approve: incest and unnatural congress with an infant person. And ’twould only be improved upon were you rather my niece, thus affording the possibility of a third viciousness: female sodomy.”
But then Morgan la Fey did smile merrily. “I jest with thee, dear Mordred. For the sexual appetites (though they might be used as means) are never ends in the celebration of evil.”
“Indeed?” asked Mordred in wonderment. “In my innocence I supposed them amongst the very best.”
“Well,” said Morgan la Fey, “in a fight between two knights, when one kills the other has it been done by the sword or by the hand that wields it?”
“Both,” said Mordred.
“And then again, in a fundamental sense, neither,” said Morgan la Fey. “For oft the winner’s hand is not so strong as that of the loser, nor is his sword as long, as in the celebrated combat between Sir Tristram and the Morholt. Nay, Mordred, ’tis the will that makes the difference. So with the sexual desires, for the encounters of lust are very like fights, and their outcome is determined by the wills of the participants and whether they conflict with the ethic of their respective peoples. By which I mean that for example the Morholt in good conscience misused sexually all manner of men, women, children, and animals (for this practice is permitted to a giant among the bawdy Irish), yet incest was an horror to him owing to its proscription by his people, and he avoided it. But amongst the Russkies all fathers swyve their daughters from the time of infancy, yet sodomy is abominable to them, whereas with the Greeks buggery is applauded by the men of greatest worship and it is performed publicly by philosophers and soldiers and priests, but carnal converse with animals is punished by death. And in Egypt men sluice only their female relatives and never a stranger, and any sexual association but incest is looked upon as a foul crime.
“The Vandals couple with mules, the Berbers with dromedaries, and the Copts with jackals. And the worst criminal offense in Rome during its Golden Age was for anyone, man, woman, or child, to deny his pudendum to anyone else who sought access to it. Therefore, ’tis not the nature of the deed but rather the attitude towards it of the doer, namely the will, which determines the interest served, whether it be good or evil.”
“There is, then,” asked Mordred, “no standard that is universally observed amongst mankind?”
“Only,” said Morgan la Fey, “as pertains to power, the having of which is always desirable, however obtained and for whatever uses. And oft this is a matter of great subtlety, for there are those who enjoy being victims of extreme pain. Yet a keen eye will detect that oft the true power is in the possession of the victim and not his apparent master. Thus the Christian slaves destroyed the Roman Empire.”
“Ah,” said Mordred, “already thy tutelage hath done wonders for me, dear Aunt.”
“But perhaps ’tis yet a finer game than thou dost appreciate,” said Morgan la Fey, “for having said all of that, I confess to using lust (for I am beautiful) to ruin lesser men so that with their help I can destroy the king, who since his lone encounter with thy mother is immune to desire.”
“But what can destroy King Arthur?” asked Mordred.
“His death, alone,” said Morgan la Fey, “and brought about by some great shame such as by the machinations of a blood-relative.”
Now at this moment Mordred made a sad reflection. “Well, dear Aunt,” said he, “we too, you and I, shall die. Is evil then worth doing? What then doth it achieve that is greater than good: both are transitory.”
And Morgan la Fey said in answer, “There are those of us to whom bringing pain to others is a remarkable satisfaction, dear Mordred. And do we not thereby serve Life? For only the dead are anesthetic, and whereas pleasant feelings are short-lived and never are vivid enough to escape a consciousness of the passing of Time, in the degree to which it is intense pain doth give at least the illusion of being eternal. And to a great man the greatest (and perhaps the only) pain be shame.”
Then Morgan la Fey smiled upon little Mordred, and she said, “And now I shall demonstrate the sort of pain felt by persons without principles of virtue, such as thee, dear Mordred, and also I shall repay thee for pinching my dug earlier (though thou didst that in ignorance of mine identity, and whilst I have great admiration and affection for thee as a pestilent little fellow, it is my absolute obligation as an evildoer always to seek revenge).”
And with the sharp toe of her slipper she kicked Mordred full hard in the stones, from which savage blow he sank to the floor and writhed in agony for a time that seemed indeed eternal.
But finally he arose, saying, “I thank thee for this valuable lesson, dear Aunt. Now may I assure thee that I shall furnish myself with a dagger and that, with all respect, if you do assail me again, now that we are quits, I shall rip out your belly.”
“As thou shouldst do,” said Morgan la Fey with great approval. “At the tender age of ten years, Mordred, thou art the vilest little swine that could be imagined even in my venomous fancy, I am pleased to say. I can teach thee few more things, methinks, but perhaps I might assist thee to evoke some of the evil which, owing to extreme youth, as yet lies dormant in thy black heart.”
And to celebrate their foul pact, Mordred and Morgan la Fey did go to the cellars of that castle, where a number of rats had been kept separate from one another and starved, and they brought them together in a cage and watched them devour one another with murderous fangs, much blood, and hideous noises.
And now we leave these vassals of Satan for to go with Mordred’s half-brother (and full brother to Gawaine, Agravaine, and Gaheris), and he was a fine young man named Gareth, and he came to King Arthur’s court for to become a knight of the Round Table.
But Gareth, who was King Arthur’s nephew, did not wish to have this relationship known before he had proved himself, nor did he wish to be recognized by his three brothers who were knights, until he could join them as a full equal at the Round Table, for he was a young man of great independence and probity, having spent the years of his later childhood (by reason of his older brothers’ absence and Mordred’s infancy) by himself.
Now reaching Camelot at the time of Pentecost, when King Arthur was obliged to grant any boon asked of him by a person not a felon, Gareth went to the court and finding a moment when none of his brothers was there he asked the king to grant him three gifts.
“Well,” said King Arthur, “these are two more than I am pledged to grant. Is thy need thrice as great as that of any other petitioner?”
And Sir Kay was present and he heard this and being already in a peevish mood owing to the many miscarriages in the preparations for the Pentecostal feast (for a great lot of cutlery had been ill polished by the feckless footmen and fifty firkins of clotted cream had got lost, &tc.), he said to Gareth, believing him an impudent knave, “Fellow, begone.”
“Nay,” said King Arthur smiling to Gareth, “I would hear thy requests.”
Now Sir Kay, who did dislike things not done by the book, made a grimace, but of course he held his peace.
“I thank you, Sire,” said Gareth, “and I beg your pardon for my discourtesy, which was not intentional, but I have been reared rudely and I am ignorant of the customs at Camelot.”
“Thou art a comely youth,” said King Arthur, “and from thy speech and carriage it can be seen that thou wert not basely born. And from thy white hands one could not say that thine upbringing was too rude. For I did myself have a rustic rearing, as my dear Kay doth remember, and mucked out the stables and slept oft with the hounds, and I think it was no loss to me.” And here he looked fondly at his foster-brother and seneschal, and Sir Kay, who had not the same pleasure in remembering bucolic Wales, did scratch his nose.
“Sire,” said Gareth, “with all respect, I should not like to tell you at this time of my provenance, nor to give you my name. As to the boons I would ask of you, the first is that I be permitted to stay here at Camelot for one year and to be put to service in whatever function you should choose, however mean or servile. Then, having proved my good intent, at the end of that twelvemonth I shall come to you and ask the remaining two boons.”
Now Sir Kay was offended again, and he cried, “Sirrah, this is gross insolence to represent thyself as nameless. It is contumacious towards the king, and discourteous to the knights.”
“Well,” said King Arthur to Gareth, “what hast thou to say in self-justification of this peculiarity?” But the king was not angered but rather amused by the young man’s strange ways, for he recognized that he was highborn (those of royal blood being ever able to identify their own kind), even though he did not suspect he was his own nephew.
“Sire,” said Gareth, “I would prove myself with deeds, not words.”
“Yet is it not thy word which thou wouldst have me to take now?” asked King Arthur. But he smiled and he said, “But I do like to encourage the zeal of youth. Most young men who come here apply for to become knights. Thou art unique.”
“And base, methinks,” said Sir Kay looking disagreeable.
“Very well, then,” said King Arthur to Gareth. “I shall grant thy first request, if thou dost understand that at Camelot a man is asked to do nothing but to live up to his pledge. Thou canst leave at this moment with no loss of honor. But if thou dost remain, be assured that I will take thee at thy word, and for one full year thou must work, without complaint, as a kitchen-lackey.”
Now Sir Kay was offended that King Arthur had so little respect for the royal kitchens that he would send there a man for a taxing trial of character. But he must needs submit to the royal command, and therefore in ever worse humor he led Gareth to the kitchens and took him to the scullery, where there were countless dirty pots rising in stacks to the ceiling, and some of these vessels were so large that they could stew an entire sheep.
“Now,” said Sir Kay, “these vessels must be cleaned and then polished to such a fine gloss that they might be used as looking-glasses. And when that hath been done they will be filled and put again onto the fires, and before thou hast got to the end of this lot, the first of it shall be back again, and so on ad infinitum.”
And even as he spake, into the scullery came two cooks, in greasy singlets and running with sweat (for great fires burned all day in the kitchens, and those who worked there had skin the color of bricks), and these two men carried a great pot between them, the which had been used for breakfast porridge for an hundred and fifty knights. And this pot they hurled down with a great noise, and foully cursing as is the wont of cooks they went away, and though Sir Kay did not like this he could do little about their ways, for persons who work with food must needs be humored, else spitefully they may pollute the dishes.
And giving Gareth a pail of sand and a scrubbing-brush Sir Kay left him there and then he went to speak with the head cook about the menu for the feast of Pentecost, for which there were thirty-two courses, each separated from the next by the serving of an ice flavored with another fruit, and some of the fruits for these sorbets came from the ends of the earth, and there were no names for them, yet sometimes they were easier to find than certain local foods owing to the fecklessness of those who grew them conjoined with that of those who made deliveries, and Sir Kay continued to be in a bad mood throughout the day, and when in the middle of the afternoon he happened to be in that part of the kitchen where the lackeys peeled potatoes, and he espied Gareth there with a paring knife, he waxed wroth.
“Fellow,” said he, “thou hast defied mine order, and never have I known such frowardness.”
“Nay, my lord, with all respect,” said Gareth. “I have followed your orders to the letter. But having polished all the pots I thought I should not sit idle, and therefore I came here to lend a hand.”
“O mendacious varlet!” cried Sir Kay.
But Gareth asked him to look at the shining vessels which were mounted in great stacks against the walls, and Sir Kay went to them and he saw his mirror-image in their gloss.
But he was yet suspicious, and he had Gareth take every pot out from the stacks, and in every one the interior was bright as a looking-glass.
Yet by no means was Kay mollified. “Who saw thee at this work?” he asked. “Methinks thou hadst secret helpers, for this is a task which previously required six scullions, who took all day at it.”
“My lord,” said Gareth, “sometimes one man may do what many together can not, owing to his lack of distraction.”
Now hearing this some other scullions who were peeling potatoes as slowly as possible, and who would steal away from their work as soon as they were not under the eye of Sir Kay or the cooks, began to hate Gareth with all their hearts, for already he had peeled twice as many potatoes as they had all together, and they determined to take revenge upon him. And their own hands were gnarled and of a dark hue (a deal of which was dirt), whereas those of Gareth, even after his labors, were fine and long-fingered and white as a lady’s.
And Sir Kay noticing Gareth’s hands found them an additional impudence, and he said, “Sirrah, how can thine hands have remained so white if thou didst labor so much? There is something about thee which is not honest, and I do not like it at all.”
And Sir Kay went away then, but he determined to keep a watch on this varlet, whom he did suspect of trickery. And from that time forward he called him Beaumains, which is to say, Fair Hands.
Now when Kay had gone the other scullions gathered around Gareth, and they said to him, “Is it thy purpose to mock us, shitpot?”
But Gareth replied sweetly, “Nay, my friends, I would work amicably amongst ye.”
“Then,” said they, “thou must reduce thine effort by four-fifths, for our rule is that we each of us peel sufficient potatoes to fill but one pail per day.”
“But by working regularly one can fill at least two pails every hour,” said Gareth.
And this speech was so offensive to them that they found some sticks and set upon him, for to beat him senseless. But Gareth was marvelous strong, and he seized each pair of them by the necks and he cracked their heads together until they begged for mercy.
And then Gareth released them all, and he said sweetly (for he was a gentle man and even when fighting he seldom felt ire), “I would not disturb your arrangements, for I am newly come here, nor do I expect to remain forever.” And he did not say what he then thought, which was that they would all be here until they died, for he was a kind man. “Meanwhile, it is more interesting for me to work than to be idle, and though I have eaten many potatoes I have never before known how they were prepared for the cooking.”
Now these scullions believed he was a great liar to say that, as if he were a nobleman and not as basely born as they, and they would have tried to beat him again did they not fear his strength.
“Therefore,” said Gareth, “what I propose is this: that I peel all the potatoes, thus freeing all of ye to find more rewarding jobs, or indeed to go on holiday.”
Now at first this proposal seemed attractive to them, for the negative reason that they should have to do no work, because none intended to look for another job in the kitchen or anywhere else. But soon the cleverer ones amongst them began to think of the consequences, for they had no idea what a holiday was except a time at which the noble folk ate a more elaborate meal than ordinarily, and therefore the kitchen-lackeys had to work harder than they usually did.
“Well,” said they, “if we were found doing no work, we should be whipped, and if we sought other jobs, they would either be more taxing than potato-peeling, in which case we do not want to do them, or they would be easier, in which case the lackeys who now perform them would never surrender them to us. Therefore thou wouldst bring to us nothing but discomfort or pain.”
And seeing the reason in this, Gareth knew shame. “I see I have intruded where I am out of place,” said he, putting down his paring knife. “I hope I have not damaged ye much, and I thank ye for the lesson I have been taught.”
But now Gareth wondered what job he might do at once well enough to satisfy his own need to allay boredom and yet not so well as to attract the resentment of those whose regular employment it was: for they would be sure to see what they did as dreary labor, while for him it would be amusement.
And he arrived near one of the great fireplaces where whole beeves were turning on spits, and a varlet held a long ladle, with which he gathered up the hot juices which fell from the meat into an huge copper pan, and these he poured back onto the roasting beeves, the which were all the while being turned slowly by another scullion, who held the handle of the spit.
And as Gareth came near and felt the heat of the fireplace upon his face, the varlet who held the basting-ladle dropped it and he fell fainting to the hearth.
And the other, he who turned the spits, cried to Gareth, “Wet him down, there’s a good fellow.” And taking one hand from his task he pointed at a pail near by. So Gareth fetched this pail and he emptied the water thereof onto the face of the varlet who had collapsed, but though he came to his wits he confessed to being sore ill, and he seized the empty pail and was sick into it.
“Well,” said Gareth fetching up the great ladle, which was marvelous heavy whereas the boy who yielded it was a frail lad of no more than twelve years in age, “methinks the heat hath been too much for thee. Go to some cool place and rest, and I shall do this job.”
And the boy went away and Gareth took up the work, but even though he was strong and fit the heat was hard to bear, and before long the other scullion who turned the spits did faint as well. And Gareth putting his ladle down took the pail and he filled it from a barrel of water and he soaked the scullion with it. And when he did this he saw that this man was a robust fellow of two- or three-and-twenty, and he wondered why he worked at such a job. But then, as the beeves were beginning to char, and the scullion was not quick to rise, Gareth turned the spits himself, and he was forced to use all of his strength to move them, and the handles though made of wood were so hot that they smoked, and the heat was even worse at that job than when doing the basting, for one must needs stand even closer to the fire.
But Gareth was happy to have found a task that required all of his physical strength and attention, for while he was turning the spits, the other scullion crept away and he did not return, and so Gareth did both jobs and you can be sure that he was full occupied.
Now eventually came a burly great cook, who had both the basting-varlet and the spit-turner pinched by the napes, and he put them to their former work. Then he spake to Gareth as follows.
“Fellow, thou hast introduced a disorder here, and though under the laws of King Arthur we can no longer punish mischief-makers so severely as we did once (and as they deserve), we are not obliged to suffer them helplessly.” And so saying he did fetch Gareth a stout kick in the hindquarters, and the king’s nephew went hurtling into a corner of the kitchen where an huge basin of white pudding had lately been put, and Gareth plunged into it headfirst.
Now this was the demesne of the dessert-cook, and when he saw Gareth emerge from the pudding he equipped himself with a keen knife and he said that he would caponize him for polluting his blancmange, and though Gareth was a brave young man upon the field a kitchen was not the place he could defend himself well, nor would his social position allow him to do this, for in his current role he was much inferior to a cook. Therefore covered with pudding he fled and he finally took refuge in a pantry, the which was full of barrels containing tripes, and they were rotten and stank, and they crawled with worms.
Now this first day of Gareth’s experience at Camelot was typical of all that year he spent there working as a scullion, for though his intentions were the best and though he did well at every task he undertook he seldom failed to offend the people with whom he worked cheek by jowl, for the differences in principle (his being noble and theirs, base) were too great, and he came to understand that degrading oneself is a complex matter and does not necessarily serve the cause of modesty: indeed, it might well be more a thing of vanity to pose as a knave when one is by nature a knight.
Nor did he ever fail to annoy Sir Kay, and no matter how filthy the job he did, his hands when washed remained fine and white (and in distinction to all the others who worked in the kitchens he did bathe regularly and he had no fleas).
But finally a year had passed, the longest in Gareth’s life, and the happy day came when he could leave the kitchens, and so he did with no regret, having learned little of value, except never to eat soup (into which the cooks when angered, which was oft, spat loathsomely) and to inspect all dishes served to him for foreign matter (for owing to the intense heat of the kitchen much wine was swallowed there, having been stolen from the cellars, and the staff were usually blind drunk).
Now Gareth had no clothes but those in which he worked as a scullion, and these were none too fresh, nor in his haste to leave the kitchen had he cleaned himself as carefully as he might have done, and he had no access to scents. Therefore when he came before King Arthur, who was again giving audience to those who sought boons, Gareth’s fine figure was clothed meanly. And the guards were at the point of removing him forcibly when the king commanded them to hold, and he asked them why they would expel this varlet.
“It is a nasty dirty thing,” said they, “and stinks, and is not noble but rather churlish.” And these guards themselves were the sons of boors.
Now King Arthur chided them. “Ye know full well that all are admitted on my day for boons, irrespective of the orders to which they belong.” Yet what he did not suspect (for a king in many ways is at the mercy of his retainers) was that most peasants were habitually barred at the gate and by servants who had been born into their class and were sometimes their very children.
Therefore these guards unhanded Gareth and he came to bow before King Arthur in his dirty rags, saying, “Sire, I now ask to be given a quest.”
“Well,” gently said the king, “though on such a day I give consideration even to the plea of a serf (for all my subjects high or low are my children), what is asked must be seemly and appropriate to the condition of the pleader. Thus a quest can properly be sought by a knight or by a squire who would earn his knighthood. For such as thou, my dear knave, I can do only what would be proper to thy station: I might, for example, make thee a kern in mine army, were it not stood down at the moment, owing to the absence of wars. Or wouldst thou work in the kitchens, where Sir Kay’s staff are a kind of army, with him as general?”
“Nay, Sire,” said Gareth with some feeling, “I have had sufficient experience of the kitchens.” And then he reminded the king of his coming to Camelot the year before.
“Ah, ’tis thee!” said King Arthur. “Yea, I remember now. The lad whom Kay calls Beaumains.” And here the king did smile. “I see that thine hands, despite the labors which have soiled thy clothes, are yet fair. Well, Beaumains, art thou ready yet to tell me thy true name?”
“By your leave, Sire,” said Gareth, “I would first prove myself in some adventure the which would earn me a place at the Round Table.”
“There be no aim more praiseworthy,” said King Arthur. “Yet I have a good many knights any of whom would have prior claim to the next quest, and foremost among them is Sir Launcelot, who doth plead with me to find him a mission appropriate to his gifts. Now who but that great knight would find so taxing the companionship of the queen? Yet I can well understand his keenness for action, being myself condemned to stay here at court.”
For King Arthur had taken a liking to young Gareth, in whom he could see obvious nobility, and since Sir Gawaine had returned from the adventure with the Green Knight (of which he had said little) his nephew had seemed more remote than when he had been the lecher of old. And though King Arthur had formally declared that Sir Launcelot was his best friend, he felt ever less close to him, owing to Launcelot’s habitual distraction by melancholy.
And it is not always understood how lonely a king may be.
“Well, Beaumains,” King Arthur said now, “thou must wait for the moment when thou shalt be summoned to possible glory. Patience in the young is as rare as zeal in the old, and the frequent situation in human affairs is that a man is asked for that of which he hath too little while being denied employment for that of which he hath a surfeit. Now, a knight is more than a warrior, else we are but barbarians.”
“’Twas in that idea that I served as menial,” said Gareth. “But methinks none too well, for though I was willing, nay, eager, my nature was alien to it.”
“Indeed,” said King Arthur, “demeaning oneself, except to God, is oft the mirror-image of vainglory.”
“Yet,” said Gareth, “did you not yourself, Majesty, do stable work as a boy?”
“Certes,” happily said the king, “but I knew no other life at the time, Beaumains. Whereas it is obvious to me that thou hast been reared gently somewhere.”
Now Gareth did not wish to reveal himself as yet and therefore he said nought, and furthermore at just that moment into the hall came a noble maiden who was in distress, for she wept copiously.
And Gareth did step to the side, to allow her to approach the king, which she did with a great plaint.
“Now,” to her said King Arthur, “prithee collect thyself, for never canst thou be furnished succor unless we hear what ails thee.”
“Sire,” said this lady, “know you that my lands and my castle have been seized by a most notable felon and his three brothers, and he hath imprisoned my dear sister as well, and his name is the Red Knight of the Red Lawns, and he hath never been overwhelmed in a passage at arms, and he is the most perilous knight in all the world. Therefore,” said this damsel, “it would seem necessary that no less a force be sent to deliver my sister than at least sirs Launcelot and Tristram and Gawaine, with sirs Bors and Gaheris in support.”
“Lady,” said King Arthur, “be assured that aid will be forthcoming. But, for one, it is not seemly that thou shouldst tell me how to furnish it. For another, any one of those great champions named by thee would be ashamed to have assistance in dealing with but four felons, the which he could manage nicely by himself, for any knight of the Round Table hath more strength than an hundred malefactors. But before I grant that for which thou pleadst, I would know thy name and whence thou comest.”
“Nay,” said the lady, “so much I will not tell you at this time, for I believe it is the boast of your court that any person requiring succor shall be granted it without condition.”
Now King Arthur was nettled by this lady, whom he believed too proud, and he said, “Indeed, that is true, and I shall therefore aid thee to the letter.” And to him he called Gareth, and he said, “My dear Beaumains, thy quest hath come sooner than expected.”
Then King Arthur turned to the lady, and he said, “Here is thy champion. Nor will he tell his name to anyone.”
And Gareth, in his ragged clothes and greasy, bowed to King Arthur and then to the lady, and he said to her, “Lead and I shall follow.”
But the lady drew back from him in disgust, and in anger she said to King Arthur, “Well, this is a pretty boon! I beg you for five knights, and you grant me one filthy knave. If this is the kindness of Camelot then I shall go to hurl myself upon the mercy of the Red Knight.” And she went out of court in a fury.
Therefore Gareth did apply to King Arthur for what he should do.
“Armor and weapon thyself,” said the king. “And follow that damsel and irrespective of her treatment of thee, relieve her of her molesters. For though she be proud to the point of discourtesy, she is a lady in need.”