Chapter: Pelleas and Ettarre

  King Arthur made new knights to fill the gap
  Left by the Holy Quest; and as he sat
  In hall at old Caerleon, the high doors
  Were softly sundered, and through these a youth,
  Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields
  Past, and the sunshine came along with him.

     'Make me thy knight, because I know, Sir King,
  All that belongs to knighthood, and I love.'
  Such was his cry:  for having heard the King
  Had let proclaim a tournament--the prize
  A golden circlet and a knightly sword,
  Full fain had Pelleas for his lady won
  The golden circlet, for himself the sword:
  And there were those who knew him near the King,
  And promised for him:  and Arthur made him knight.

     And this new knight, Sir Pelleas of the isles--
  But lately come to his inheritance,
  And lord of many a barren isle was he--
  Riding at noon, a day or twain before,
  Across the forest called of Dean, to find
  Caerleon and the King, had felt the sun
  Beat like a strong knight on his helm, and reeled
  Almost to falling from his horse; but saw
  Near him a mound of even-sloping side,
  Whereon a hundred stately beeches grew,
  And here and there great hollies under them;
  But for a mile all round was open space,
  And fern and heath:  and slowly Pelleas drew
  To that dim day, then binding his good horse
  To a tree, cast himself down; and as he lay
  At random looking over the brown earth
  Through that green-glooming twilight of the grove,
  It seemed to Pelleas that the fern without
  Burnt as a living fire of emeralds,
  So that his eyes were dazzled looking at it.
  Then o'er it crost the dimness of a cloud
  Floating, and once the shadow of a bird
  Flying, and then a fawn; and his eyes closed.
  And since he loved all maidens, but no maid
  In special, half-awake he whispered, 'Where?
  O where? I love thee, though I know thee not.
  For fair thou art and pure as Guinevere,
  And I will make thee with my spear and sword
  As famous--O my Queen, my Guinevere,
  For I will be thine Arthur when we meet.'

     Suddenly wakened with a sound of talk
  And laughter at the limit of the wood,
  And glancing through the hoary boles, he saw,
  Strange as to some old prophet might have seemed
  A vision hovering on a sea of fire,
  Damsels in divers colours like the cloud
  Of sunset and sunrise, and all of them
  On horses, and the horses richly trapt
  Breast-high in that bright line of bracken stood:
  And all the damsels talked confusedly,
  And one was pointing this way, and one that,
  Because the way was lost.

                           And Pelleas rose,
  And loosed his horse, and led him to the light.
  There she that seemed the chief among them said,
  'In happy time behold our pilot-star!
  Youth, we are damsels-errant, and we ride,
  Armed as ye see, to tilt against the knights
  There at Caerleon, but have lost our way:
  To right? to left? straight forward? back again?
  Which? tell us quickly.'

                          Pelleas gazing thought,
  'Is Guinevere herself so beautiful?'
  For large her violet eyes looked, and her bloom
  A rosy dawn kindled in stainless heavens,
  And round her limbs, mature in womanhood;
  And slender was her hand and small her shape;
  And but for those large eyes, the haunts of scorn,
  She might have seemed a toy to trifle with,
  And pass and care no more.  But while he gazed
  The beauty of her flesh abashed the boy,
  As though it were the beauty of her soul:
  For as the base man, judging of the good,
  Puts his own baseness in him by default
  Of will and nature, so did Pelleas lend
  All the young beauty of his own soul to hers,
  Believing her; and when she spake to him,
  Stammered, and could not make her a reply.
  For out of the waste islands had he come,
  Where saving his own sisters he had known
  Scarce any but the women of his isles,
  Rough wives, that laughed and screamed against the gulls,
  Makers of nets, and living from the sea.

     Then with a slow smile turned the lady round
  And looked upon her people; and as when
  A stone is flung into some sleeping tarn,
  The circle widens till it lip the marge,
  Spread the slow smile through all her company.
  Three knights were thereamong; and they too smiled,
  Scorning him; for the lady was Ettarre,
  And she was a great lady in her land.

     Again she said, 'O wild and of the woods,
  Knowest thou not the fashion of our speech?
  Or have the Heavens but given thee a fair face,
  Lacking a tongue?'

                    'O damsel,' answered he,
  'I woke from dreams; and coming out of gloom
  Was dazzled by the sudden light, and crave
  Pardon:  but will ye to Caerleon?  I
  Go likewise:  shall I lead you to the King?'

     'Lead then,' she said; and through the woods they went.
  And while they rode, the meaning in his eyes,
  His tenderness of manner, and chaste awe,
  His broken utterances and bashfulness,
  Were all a burthen to her, and in her heart
  She muttered, 'I have lighted on a fool,
  Raw, yet so stale!'  But since her mind was bent
  On hearing, after trumpet blown, her name
  And title, 'Queen of Beauty,' in the lists
  Cried--and beholding him so strong, she thought
  That peradventure he will fight for me,
  And win the circlet:  therefore flattered him,
  Being so gracious, that he wellnigh deemed
  His wish by hers was echoed; and her knights
  And all her damsels too were gracious to him,
  For she was a great lady.

                           And when they reached
  Caerleon, ere they past to lodging, she,
  Taking his hand, 'O the strong hand,' she said,
  'See! look at mine! but wilt thou fight for me,
  And win me this fine circlet, Pelleas,
  That I may love thee?'

                        Then his helpless heart
  Leapt, and he cried, 'Ay! wilt thou if I win?'
  'Ay, that will I,' she answered, and she laughed,
  And straitly nipt the hand, and flung it from her;
  Then glanced askew at those three knights of hers,
  Till all her ladies laughed along with her.

     'O happy world,' thought Pelleas, 'all, meseems,
  Are happy; I the happiest of them all.'
  Nor slept that night for pleasure in his blood,
  And green wood-ways, and eyes among the leaves;
  Then being on the morrow knighted, sware
  To love one only.  And as he came away,
  The men who met him rounded on their heels
  And wondered after him, because his face
  Shone like the countenance of a priest of old
  Against the flame about a sacrifice
  Kindled by fire from heaven:  so glad was he.

     Then Arthur made vast banquets, and strange knights
  From the four winds came in:  and each one sat,
  Though served with choice from air, land, stream, and sea,
  Oft in mid-banquet measuring with his eyes
  His neighbour's make and might:  and Pelleas looked
  Noble among the noble, for he dreamed
  His lady loved him, and he knew himself
  Loved of the King:  and him his new-made knight
  Worshipt, whose lightest whisper moved him more
  Than all the ranged reasons of the world.

     Then blushed and brake the morning of the jousts,
  And this was called 'The Tournament of Youth:'
  For Arthur, loving his young knight, withheld
  His older and his mightier from the lists,
  That Pelleas might obtain his lady's love,
  According to her promise, and remain
  Lord of the tourney.  And Arthur had the jousts
  Down in the flat field by the shore of Usk
  Holden:  the gilded parapets were crowned
  With faces, and the great tower filled with eyes
  Up to the summit, and the trumpets blew.
  There all day long Sir Pelleas kept the field
  With honour:  so by that strong hand of his
  The sword and golden circlet were achieved.

     Then rang the shout his lady loved:  the heat
  Of pride and glory fired her face; her eye
  Sparkled; she caught the circlet from his lance,
  And there before the people crowned herself:
  So for the last time she was gracious to him.

     Then at Caerleon for a space--her look
  Bright for all others, cloudier on her knight--
  Lingered Ettarre:  and seeing Pelleas droop,
  Said Guinevere, 'We marvel at thee much,
  O damsel, wearing this unsunny face
  To him who won thee glory!'  And she said,
  'Had ye not held your Lancelot in your bower,
  My Queen, he had not won.'  Whereat the Queen,
  As one whose foot is bitten by an ant,
  Glanced down upon her, turned and went her way.

     But after, when her damsels, and herself,
  And those three knights all set their faces home,
  Sir Pelleas followed.  She that saw him cried,
  'Damsels--and yet I should be shamed to say it--
  I cannot bide Sir Baby.  Keep him back
  Among yourselves.  Would rather that we had
  Some rough old knight who knew the worldly way,
  Albeit grizzlier than a bear, to ride
  And jest with:  take him to you, keep him off,
  And pamper him with papmeat, if ye will,
  Old milky fables of the wolf and sheep,
  Such as the wholesome mothers tell their boys.
  Nay, should ye try him with a merry one
  To find his mettle, good:  and if he fly us,
  Small matter! let him.'  This her damsels heard,
  And mindful of her small and cruel hand,
  They, closing round him through the journey home,
  Acted her hest, and always from her side
  Restrained him with all manner of device,
  So that he could not come to speech with her.
  And when she gained her castle, upsprang the bridge,
  Down rang the grate of iron through the groove,
  And he was left alone in open field.

     'These be the ways of ladies,' Pelleas thought,
  'To those who love them, trials of our faith.
  Yea, let her prove me to the uttermost,
  For loyal to the uttermost am I.'
  So made his moan; and darkness falling, sought
  A priory not far off, there lodged, but rose
  With morning every day, and, moist or dry,
  Full-armed upon his charger all day long
  Sat by the walls, and no one opened to him.

     And this persistence turned her scorn to wrath.
  Then calling her three knights, she charged them, 'Out!
  And drive him from the walls.'  And out they came
  But Pelleas overthrew them as they dashed
  Against him one by one; and these returned,
  But still he kept his watch beneath the wall.

     Thereon her wrath became a hate; and once,
  A week beyond, while walking on the walls
  With her three knights, she pointed downward, 'Look,
  He haunts me--I cannot breathe--besieges me;
  Down! strike him! put my hate into your strokes,
  And drive him from my walls.'  And down they went,
  And Pelleas overthrew them one by one;
  And from the tower above him cried Ettarre,
  'Bind him, and bring him in.'

                               He heard her voice;
  Then let the strong hand, which had overthrown
  Her minion-knights, by those he overthrew
  Be bounden straight, and so they brought him in.

     Then when he came before Ettarre, the sight
  Of her rich beauty made him at one glance
  More bondsman in his heart than in his bonds.
  Yet with good cheer he spake, 'Behold me, Lady,
  A prisoner, and the vassal of thy will;
  And if thou keep me in thy donjon here,
  Content am I so that I see thy face
  But once a day:  for I have sworn my vows,
  And thou hast given thy promise, and I know
  That all these pains are trials of my faith,
  And that thyself, when thou hast seen me strained
  And sifted to the utmost, wilt at length
  Yield me thy love and know me for thy knight.'

     Then she began to rail so bitterly,
  With all her damsels, he was stricken mute;
  But when she mocked his vows and the great King,
  Lighted on words:  'For pity of thine own self,
  Peace, Lady, peace:  is he not thine and mine?'
  'Thou fool,' she said, 'I never heard his voice
  But longed to break away.  Unbind him now,
  And thrust him out of doors; for save he be
  Fool to the midmost marrow of his bones,
  He will return no more.'  And those, her three,
  Laughed, and unbound, and thrust him from the gate.

     And after this, a week beyond, again
  She called them, saying, 'There he watches yet,
  There like a dog before his master's door!
  Kicked, he returns:  do ye not hate him, ye?
  Ye know yourselves:  how can ye bide at peace,
  Affronted with his fulsome innocence?
  Are ye but creatures of the board and bed,
  No men to strike?  Fall on him all at once,
  And if ye slay him I reck not:  if ye fail,
  Give ye the slave mine order to be bound,
  Bind him as heretofore, and bring him in:
  It may be ye shall slay him in his bonds.'

     She spake; and at her will they couched their spears,
  Three against one:  and Gawain passing by,
  Bound upon solitary adventure, saw
  Low down beneath the shadow of those towers
  A villainy, three to one:  and through his heart
  The fire of honour and all noble deeds
  Flashed, and he called, 'I strike upon thy side--
  The caitiffs!'  'Nay,' said Pelleas, 'but forbear;
  He needs no aid who doth his lady's will.'

     So Gawain, looking at the villainy done,
  Forbore, but in his heat and eagerness
  Trembled and quivered, as the dog, withheld
  A moment from the vermin that he sees
  Before him, shivers, ere he springs and kills.

     And Pelleas overthrew them, one to three;
  And they rose up, and bound, and brought him in.
  Then first her anger, leaving Pelleas, burned
  Full on her knights in many an evil name
  Of craven, weakling, and thrice-beaten hound:
  'Yet, take him, ye that scarce are fit to touch,
  Far less to bind, your victor, and thrust him out,
  And let who will release him from his bonds.
  And if he comes again'--there she brake short;
  And Pelleas answered, 'Lady, for indeed
  I loved you and I deemed you beautiful,
  I cannot brook to see your beauty marred
  Through evil spite:  and if ye love me not,
  I cannot bear to dream you so forsworn:
  I had liefer ye were worthy of my love,
  Than to be loved again of you--farewell;
  And though ye kill my hope, not yet my love,
  Vex not yourself:  ye will not see me more.'

     While thus he spake, she gazed upon the man
  Of princely bearing, though in bonds, and thought,
  'Why have I pushed him from me? this man loves,
  If love there be:  yet him I loved not.  Why?
  I deemed him fool? yea, so? or that in him
  A something--was it nobler than myself?
  Seemed my reproach?  He is not of my kind.
  He could not love me, did he know me well.
  Nay, let him go--and quickly.'  And her knights
  Laughed not, but thrust him bounden out of door.

     Forth sprang Gawain, and loosed him from his bonds,
  And flung them o'er the walls; and afterward,
  Shaking his hands, as from a lazar's rag,
  'Faith of my body,' he said, 'and art thou not--
  Yea thou art he, whom late our Arthur made
  Knight of his table; yea and he that won
  The circlet? wherefore hast thou so defamed
  Thy brotherhood in me and all the rest,
  As let these caitiffs on thee work their will?'

     And Pelleas answered, 'O, their wills are hers
  For whom I won the circlet; and mine, hers,
  Thus to be bounden, so to see her face,
  Marred though it be with spite and mockery now,
  Other than when I found her in the woods;
  And though she hath me bounden but in spite,
  And all to flout me, when they bring me in,
  Let me be bounden, I shall see her face;
  Else must I die through mine unhappiness.'

     And Gawain answered kindly though in scorn,
  'Why, let my lady bind me if she will,
  And let my lady beat me if she will:
  But an she send her delegate to thrall
  These fighting hands of mine--Christ kill me then
  But I will slice him handless by the wrist,
  And let my lady sear the stump for him,
  Howl as he may.  But hold me for your friend:
  Come, ye know nothing:  here I pledge my troth,
  Yea, by the honour of the Table Round,
  I will be leal to thee and work thy work,
  And tame thy jailing princess to thine hand.
  Lend me thine horse and arms, and I will say
  That I have slain thee.  She will let me in
  To hear the manner of thy fight and fall;
  Then, when I come within her counsels, then
  From prime to vespers will I chant thy praise
  As prowest knight and truest lover, more
  Than any have sung thee living, till she long
  To have thee back in lusty life again,
  Not to be bound, save by white bonds and warm,
  Dearer than freedom.  Wherefore now thy horse
  And armour:  let me go:  be comforted:
  Give me three days to melt her fancy, and hope
  The third night hence will bring thee news of gold.'

     Then Pelleas lent his horse and all his arms,
  Saving the goodly sword, his prize, and took
  Gawain's, and said, 'Betray me not, but help--
  Art thou not he whom men call light-of-love?'

     'Ay,' said Gawain, 'for women be so light.'
  Then bounded forward to the castle walls,
  And raised a bugle hanging from his neck,
  And winded it, and that so musically
  That all the old echoes hidden in the wall
  Rang out like hollow woods at hunting-tide.

     Up ran a score of damsels to the tower;
  'Avaunt,' they cried, 'our lady loves thee not.'
  But Gawain lifting up his vizor said,
  'Gawain am I, Gawain of Arthur's court,
  And I have slain this Pelleas whom ye hate:
  Behold his horse and armour.  Open gates,
  And I will make you merry.'

                             And down they ran,
  Her damsels, crying to their lady, 'Lo!
  Pelleas is dead--he told us--he that hath
  His horse and armour:  will ye let him in?
  He slew him!  Gawain, Gawain of the court,
  Sir Gawain--there he waits below the wall,
  Blowing his bugle as who should say him nay.'

     And so, leave given, straight on through open door
  Rode Gawain, whom she greeted courteously.
  'Dead, is it so?' she asked.  'Ay, ay,' said he,
  'And oft in dying cried upon your name.'
  'Pity on him,' she answered, 'a good knight,
  But never let me bide one hour at peace.'
  'Ay,' thought Gawain, 'and you be fair enow:
  But I to your dead man have given my troth,
  That whom ye loathe, him will I make you love.'

     So those three days, aimless about the land,
  Lost in a doubt, Pelleas wandering
  Waited, until the third night brought a moon
  With promise of large light on woods and ways.

     Hot was the night and silent; but a sound
  Of Gawain ever coming, and this lay--
  Which Pelleas had heard sung before the Queen,
  And seen her sadden listening--vext his heart,
  And marred his rest--'A worm within the rose.'

     'A rose, but one, none other rose had I,
  A rose, one rose, and this was wondrous fair,
  One rose, a rose that gladdened earth and sky,
  One rose, my rose, that sweetened all mine air--
  I cared not for the thorns; the thorns were there.

     'One rose, a rose to gather by and by,
  One rose, a rose, to gather and to wear,
  No rose but one--what other rose had I?
  One rose, my rose; a rose that will not die,--
  He dies who loves it,--if the worm be there.'

     This tender rhyme, and evermore the doubt,
  'Why lingers Gawain with his golden news?'
  So shook him that he could not rest, but rode
  Ere midnight to her walls, and bound his horse
  Hard by the gates.  Wide open were the gates,
  And no watch kept; and in through these he past,
  And heard but his own steps, and his own heart
  Beating, for nothing moved but his own self,
  And his own shadow.  Then he crost the court,
  And spied not any light in hall or bower,
  But saw the postern portal also wide
  Yawning; and up a slope of garden, all
  Of roses white and red, and brambles mixt
  And overgrowing them, went on, and found,
  Here too, all hushed below the mellow moon,
  Save that one rivulet from a tiny cave
  Came lightening downward, and so spilt itself
  Among the roses, and was lost again.

     Then was he ware of three pavilions reared
  Above the bushes, gilden-peakt:  in one,
  Red after revel, droned her lurdane knights
  Slumbering, and their three squires across their feet:
  In one, their malice on the placid lip
  Frozen by sweet sleep, four of her damsels lay:
  And in the third, the circlet of the jousts
  Bound on her brow, were Gawain and Ettarre.

     Back, as a hand that pushes through the leaf
  To find a nest and feels a snake, he drew:
  Back, as a coward slinks from what he fears
  To cope with, or a traitor proven, or hound
  Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter shame
  Creep with his shadow through the court again,
  Fingering at his sword-handle until he stood
  There on the castle-bridge once more, and thought,
  'I will go back, and slay them where they lie.'

     And so went back, and seeing them yet in sleep
  Said, 'Ye, that so dishallow the holy sleep,
  Your sleep is death,' and drew the sword, and thought,
  'What! slay a sleeping knight? the King hath bound
  And sworn me to this brotherhood;' again,
  'Alas that ever a knight should be so false.'
  Then turned, and so returned, and groaning laid
  The naked sword athwart their naked throats,
  There left it, and them sleeping; and she lay,
  The circlet of her tourney round her brows,
  And the sword of the tourney across her throat.

     And forth he past, and mounting on his horse
  Stared at her towers that, larger than themselves
  In their own darkness, thronged into the moon.
  Then crushed the saddle with his thighs, and clenched
  His hands, and maddened with himself and moaned:

     'Would they have risen against me in their blood
  At the last day?  I might have answered them
  Even before high God.  O towers so strong,
  Huge, solid, would that even while I gaze
  The crack of earthquake shivering to your base
  Split you, and Hell burst up your harlot roofs
  Bellowing, and charred you through and through within,
  Black as the harlot's heart--hollow as a skull!
  Let the fierce east scream through your eyelet-holes,
  And whirl the dust of harlots round and round
  In dung and nettles! hiss, snake--I saw him there--
  Let the fox bark, let the wolf yell.  Who yells
  Here in the still sweet summer night, but I--
  I, the poor Pelleas whom she called her fool?
  Fool, beast--he, she, or I? myself most fool;
  Beast too, as lacking human wit--disgraced,
  Dishonoured all for trial of true love--
  Love?--we be all alike:  only the King
  Hath made us fools and liars.  O noble vows!
  O great and sane and simple race of brutes
  That own no lust because they have no law!
  For why should I have loved her to my shame?
  I loathe her, as I loved her to my shame.
  I never loved her, I but lusted for her--
  Away--'
         He dashed the rowel into his horse,
  And bounded forth and vanished through the night.

     Then she, that felt the cold touch on her throat,
  Awaking knew the sword, and turned herself
  To Gawain:  'Liar, for thou hast not slain
  This Pelleas! here he stood, and might have slain
  Me and thyself.'  And he that tells the tale
  Says that her ever-veering fancy turned
  To Pelleas, as the one true knight on earth,
  And only lover; and through her love her life
  Wasted and pined, desiring him in vain.

     But he by wild and way, for half the night,
  And over hard and soft, striking the sod
  From out the soft, the spark from off the hard,
  Rode till the star above the wakening sun,
  Beside that tower where Percivale was cowled,
  Glanced from the rosy forehead of the dawn.
  For so the words were flashed into his heart
  He knew not whence or wherefore:  'O sweet star,
  Pure on the virgin forehead of the dawn!'
  And there he would have wept, but felt his eyes
  Harder and drier than a fountain bed
  In summer:  thither came the village girls
  And lingered talking, and they come no more
  Till the sweet heavens have filled it from the heights
  Again with living waters in the change
  Of seasons:  hard his eyes; harder his heart
  Seemed; but so weary were his limbs, that he,
  Gasping, 'Of Arthur's hall am I, but here,
  Here let me rest and die,' cast himself down,
  And gulfed his griefs in inmost sleep; so lay,
  Till shaken by a dream, that Gawain fired
  The hall of Merlin, and the morning star
  Reeled in the smoke, brake into flame, and fell.

     He woke, and being ware of some one nigh,
  Sent hands upon him, as to tear him, crying,
  'False! and I held thee pure as Guinevere.'

     But Percivale stood near him and replied,
  'Am I but false as Guinevere is pure?
  Or art thou mazed with dreams? or being one
  Of our free-spoken Table hast not heard
  That Lancelot'--there he checked himself and paused.

     Then fared it with Sir Pelleas as with one
  Who gets a wound in battle, and the sword
  That made it plunges through the wound again,
  And pricks it deeper:  and he shrank and wailed,
  'Is the Queen false?' and Percivale was mute.
  'Have any of our Round Table held their vows?'
  And Percivale made answer not a word.
  'Is the King true?'  'The King!' said Percivale.
  'Why then let men couple at once with wolves.
  What! art thou mad?'

                      But Pelleas, leaping up,
  Ran through the doors and vaulted on his horse
  And fled:  small pity upon his horse had he,
  Or on himself, or any, and when he met
  A cripple, one that held a hand for alms--
  Hunched as he was, and like an old dwarf-elm
  That turns its back upon the salt blast, the boy
  Paused not, but overrode him, shouting, 'False,
  And false with Gawain!' and so left him bruised
  And battered, and fled on, and hill and wood
  Went ever streaming by him till the gloom,
  That follows on the turning of the world,
  Darkened the common path:  he twitched the reins,
  And made his beast that better knew it, swerve
  Now off it and now on; but when he saw
  High up in heaven the hall that Merlin built,
  Blackening against the dead-green stripes of even,
  'Black nest of rats,' he groaned, 'ye build too high.'

     Not long thereafter from the city gates
  Issued Sir Lancelot riding airily,
  Warm with a gracious parting from the Queen,
  Peace at his heart, and gazing at a star
  And marvelling what it was:  on whom the boy,
  Across the silent seeded meadow-grass
  Borne, clashed:  and Lancelot, saying, 'What name hast thou
  That ridest here so blindly and so hard?'
  'No name, no name,' he shouted, 'a scourge am I
  To lash the treasons of the Table Round.'
  'Yea, but thy name?'  'I have many names,' he cried:
  'I am wrath and shame and hate and evil fame,
  And like a poisonous wind I pass to blast
  And blaze the crime of Lancelot and the Queen.'
  'First over me,' said Lancelot, 'shalt thou pass.'
  'Fight therefore,' yelled the youth, and either knight
  Drew back a space, and when they closed, at once
  The weary steed of Pelleas floundering flung
  His rider, who called out from the dark field,
  'Thou art as false as Hell:  slay me:  I have no sword.'
  Then Lancelot, 'Yea, between thy lips--and sharp;
  But here I will disedge it by thy death.'
  'Slay then,' he shrieked, 'my will is to be slain,'
  And Lancelot, with his heel upon the fallen,
  Rolling his eyes, a moment stood, then spake:
  'Rise, weakling; I am Lancelot; say thy say.'

     And Lancelot slowly rode his warhorse back
  To Camelot, and Sir Pelleas in brief while
  Caught his unbroken limbs from the dark field,
  And followed to the city.  It chanced that both
  Brake into hall together, worn and pale.
  There with her knights and dames was Guinevere.
  Full wonderingly she gazed on Lancelot
  So soon returned, and then on Pelleas, him
  Who had not greeted her, but cast himself
  Down on a bench, hard-breathing.  'Have ye fought?'
  She asked of Lancelot.  'Ay, my Queen,' he said.
  'And hast thou overthrown him?'  'Ay, my Queen.'
  Then she, turning to Pelleas, 'O young knight,
  Hath the great heart of knighthood in thee failed
  So far thou canst not bide, unfrowardly,
  A fall from him?'  Then, for he answered not,
  'Or hast thou other griefs?  If I, the Queen,
  May help them, loose thy tongue, and let me know.'
  But Pelleas lifted up an eye so fierce
  She quailed; and he, hissing 'I have no sword,'
  Sprang from the door into the dark.  The Queen
  Looked hard upon her lover, he on her;
  And each foresaw the dolorous day to be:
  And all talk died, as in a grove all song
  Beneath the shadow of some bird of prey;
  Then a long silence came upon the hall,
  And Modred thought, 'The time is hard at hand.'

 King Arthur knights new men to fill the gaps in the Round Table caused by the quest for the Holy Grail. Among the chosen? A youngster named Pelleas... who's not exactly worldly. Pelleas has recently been made lord of his lands. While riding through his countryside, he pauses to rest in a beech grove by a hillside and whispers to himself about how much he wants to fall in love. At that moment, a group of young women led by the most beautiful lady Pelleas has ever seen asks him for directions to Camelot. Pelleas is straight up speechless. Did we mention this woman is the most beautiful lady he's ever seen? And it doesn't help that he's a young lord of a remote place and has never been around any women but his sisters. The woman, Ettarre, is a great lady. And by great, we mean she looks down her quite comely nose at poor Pelleas. But she's also smart. And because she really wants to have a knight win the tournament for her, she pretends to return his love. Poor Pelleas. Ettarre promises to grant Pelleas her love if he wins the prize of the tournament--a golden circlet--for her. Arthur, looking out for his newly minted knight, keeps his older knights out of the tournament so that Pelleas can win. He does, and immediately gives his prize to Ettarre. Oh this should be interesting. After she receives the circlet, Ettarre snubs Pelleas. Figures. When Pelleas follows her home, she tells her ladies to keep him away from her. She even locks him out of her castle. Harsh. Poor Pelleas just thinks that Ettarre is testing his love, so he sets up camp outside he walls, fully armed and mounted, all day long, every day. Needless to say, Ettarre isn't exactly please she's got a stalker camped right outside her front door. So she instructs her knights to drive him away. When they are unable to, she tells them to bind him and bring him into her. Hearing these instructions, Pelleas relents. The minute he sees Ettarre, he declares himself prisoner of her will. But Ettarre throws him out again. The whole camp-out situation begins all over again. Luckily, Sir Gawain happens by just as the knights are trying to throw out Pelleas again. Gawain tries to intervene, but Pelleas tells him to let the knights bind him. Before Ettarre again, he tells her that her lack of love bothers him less than the spite marring her beauty. Wow. Judgy much? He tells her that although she has finally succeeded in fending him off, he'll always love her. Even then, Ettarre has her knights kick him to the curb again. And yet, this has got her thinking. Ettarre wonders why she can't love Pelleas. He's a really good guy, after all. So what gives? Well, she thinks that if Pelleas really did get to know her, he wouldn't want her anymore. Hmm. Looks like our girl's got a case of the insecurity blues. Meanwhile, outside the castle, Gawain sets Pelleas free from his bindings. When he learns why Pelleas allowed himself to be tied up, he offers to try to convince Ettarre to accept Pelleas. Yes, because meddling in the romantic affairs of others always works out. Thrilled to play host to the renowned Gawain, Ettarre lets him in her castle immediately. He promptly delivers the news: Pelleas is dead. Really, Pelleas wanders nearby for three days and nights, wondering what's taking Gawain so long and struck by a premonition of a "worm" in his "rose." On the third night, Pelleas rides into the castle and finds three pavilions pitched in the courtyard. In the third, Gawain and Ettarre lie in bed together. Hate it say it, P-man, but Shmoop saw that coming a mile away. Mortified, Pelleas creeps away in shame. Then he resolves to go back and kill Gawain and Ettarre. Because they didn't have therapy back then. When he stands over them, however, his knightly vows stop him. He leaves his naked sword at their throats. Just to send a message. As Pelleas rides away, he wishes an earthquake would swallow Ettarre's castle and everyone in it. He also thinks that the oath of the Round Table has made liars of all who swore it, since most men are no better than beasts. He realizes that although he lusted after Ettarre, but never truly loved her. When Ettarre awakes to Pelleas's sword, she realizes that Gawain lied to her. She promptly falls in love with Pelleas and is now doomed to a life of pining for him in vain. Bummer. Pelleas falls asleep by the tower where Percivale dwells as a monk. When Percivale wakes him the next morning he cries out, "I held thee true as Guinevere!" This exclamation prompts Percivale to ask Pelleas if he's delusional. Has he really not heard about Lancelot and Guinevere? True? His left foot. Shocked, Pelleas asks Percivale if the queen is false, and if any of the knights of the Round Table have upheld their vows. Percivale's only response is silence. Well that really says it all, right? The suggestion that the king might be false, too, prompts Percivale to ride away in a rage. As he approaches Camelot, he crashes into Lancelot. When Pelleas declares that he rides to expose the shame of the Round Table, and Lancelot and the queen, he challenges him. Lancelot quickly defeats Pelleas, but lets him go anyways. They arrive in Camelot at the same time. When Guinevere asks Pelleas why he is so morose, he hisses at her, "I have no sword," and darts away. All talk in the hall dies as a strange premonition of impending doom falls upon them. Mordred, observing all that occurs, thinks to himself that the time is near. Oh, the suspense is killing Shmoop.

