KING ARTHUR AND THE KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE.
“In twelve great battles overcame
The heathen hordes, and made a realm and reigned.”
HE light burns low on our pageant, and the scene grows dim and confused; yet we know only too well that a desperate struggle is going on. The battle-cries of warriors and the shrieks of the wounded are ever in our ears. The glare of blazing roof-trees lights up for a moment the ghastly scene, and reveals the pitiless work of slaughter. As it flickers out all is gloom and silence; it is the only peace that the stricken land knows.
The scene shifts, but the drama is ever the same. There seems to be no end to the hordes of attackers. They come by sea and they come by land; most terrible of all are they whose serpent-headed ships are now seen faintly on the strand. The tide of war sets in their favour, though they are beaten back from time to time before the despairing onset of the Britons.
Now you see amidst the press the noble form of that gallant British prince who is the very soul of the island defence. Arthur, the peerless knight, steps before us, “every inch a king.” He shines like a star in the gloom. Legend, song, and story have so woven themselves about his name and fame, so many fables have been told about him, so many wondrous deeds and miracles have been ascribed to him, that historians dispute his very existence.
What do the old chroniclers tell us of him? They tell us that he was the son of Uther Pendragon, a valiant British king, who kept the Saxons at bay through many hard-fought years. Arthur’s birth had been kept a secret, and the child had been placed by the great wizard Merlin in the care of a knight named Sir Ector, who brought him up as his son. The ruin of the country seemed to be at hand, when Merlin induced the Archbishop of Canterbury to summon a meeting of all the great barons and nobles in London on Christmas Eve, in order that a king might be chosen. To this meeting came Sir Ector, his son Sir Kay, and Arthur.
While they were at prayers a huge block of marble uprose in the churchyard. On the top of it was an anvil of solid steel, in which was embedded by the point a sword of marvellous brightness, bearing on its jewelled hilt these words, “Whoso pulleth me out of this stone and anvil is rightwise king born of England.” In vain did ambitious knights and squires, day after day, strive to draw forth the magic sword. All failed, and men despaired of discovering the rightful king. Now it chanced that on New Year’s Day a tournament was held, and amongst the knights who rode to take part therein was Sir Kay, who was accompanied by Arthur as his squire. As they rode towards the field, Sir Kay discovered that he had left his sword behind him at his lodging. He prayed Arthur to ride back for his sword, and Arthur, as a dutiful squire, obeyed. When, however, he came to the lodging he found it closed, for all who dwelt there had gone to the jousting.
On his way Arthur had passed the churchyard where the sword was upstanding in the anvil. Thither he rode, and, seizing the sword, easily pulled it out and carried it to Sir Kay, who did many warlike feats with it. Then he showed it to his father, who knew the secret of Arthur’s birth, and guessed what had taken place. The sword was replaced, but Arthur drew it forth as easily as before. On this the old knight and his son knelt before Arthur, and acknowledged him as “rightwise king born of England.”
On Twelfth Day, in the presence of all the kings and lords of the land, Arthur again drew the sword from the anvil, though no one else could move it. Still the great lords were loath to recognize the boy as king; and Merlin, seeing that Arthur’s right would not be admitted without bloodshed, gathered as many as he could of the best knights of the realm, and used all his magic arts to aid the good cause. On one occasion the kings and barons besieged Arthur in a strong tower, but when he was in the direst peril he sallied forth and attacked his besiegers. His horse was slain under him, and he was at the mercy of his foes. Then he drew the magic sword which he had taken from the anvil, and the fortune of war instantly turned in his favour. His sword—the far-famed Excalibur—gleamed like the radiance of thirty torches. Its flashing beams half-blinded Arthur’s foes—they could not see to strike; and so he vanquished them, and gained his first victory.
Battle after battle was fought before Arthur was acknowledged as king by all men in the land, but at length the hour arrived when no one dared to dispute his title to supremacy. Then he wedded the beauteous but false Guinevere, and set up again the Round Table which his father Uther had founded. Around it were a hundred and fifty seats, and on the seats sat Arthur’s knights, all of equal degree, none first and none last. The chronicle of their deeds is too long to tell: many were the brave deeds they did together, many were the battles they fought, many were the distressed ladies they succoured, and great was the fame and glory that enshrined them. “Britain for the Britons” was their cry, and they haughtily sang:——
“Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May;
Blow trumpet, the long night hath rolled away!
Blow through the living world. Let the king reign!
“Shall Rome or heathen rule in Arthur’s realm?
Flash brand and lance, fall battle-axe on helm;
Fall battle-axe and flash brand! Let the king reign!”
So Arthur leads on the Britons, with the image of the Virgin on his shield, and points his sword Excalibur towards the swarming foe. Twelve great battles he fights with the English, and for a time holds them at bay. Then some of his followers desert to the enemy, and he is sore beset. One by one his knights fall around him, and then he, too, is stricken to the ground. Sore wounded, Arthur calls the last of his knights, and bids him throw Excalibur into a lake. The sword is flung high into the air, and as it falls, lo, a hand comes out of the water and catches the magic brand by the hilt. Three times it is brandished, and then it vanishes for ever beneath the waves.
“Alas!” cries Arthur, “my end draws near. Carry me to the edge of the water.” The knight does so, and there, awaiting the dying king, is a black barge, his destined bier. On the deck are three queens, with black hoods and crowns of gold. “Now, put me in the barge,” says Arthur; and when this is done, the queens receive him with great mourning and wailing, and one of them cries, “Ah, my dear brother, why hast thou tarried so long?” Then Arthur bids the knight farewell, and the barge slowly moves across the water. Sad and lonely, the knight watches it disappear
“Down that long water, opening on the deep,
Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go
From less to less, and vanish into light,
And the new sun rose bringing the new year.”
So fades Arthur from our view, a dim and mystical figure in life, a vision of undying splendour in death. Let the historians say what they will, men will still believe in him; they will still see the wearer of his mantle in every true knight, and still hold him a shining example to all who “bear without abuse the grand old name of gentleman.”
Sir Tristram at the Court of Arthur.
(From the fresco by William Dyer, R.A., in the King’s Robing-Room in the Houses of Parliament.)
“The blue-eyed race
Whose force rough-handed should renew the world.”
What warriors be these who now pass by? Tall, big-boned, blue-eyed men they are, with long yellow hair falling upon their shoulders from beneath their winged helmets.
Their home is a sad, barren, overcrowded country, and their poverty drives them to a life of plunder on the seas and to the shores of more favoured lands. They love fighting as the breath of their nostrils; and now, in their long ships, these dreaded pirates harry Britain at a hundred points. Death frights them not, for he who falls gloriously in battle rides Odin’s horse to Valhalla, where his days will be spent in cleaving the helmets and hacking the limbs of like heroes with himself, and his nights in feasting on a great boar whose flesh never grows less and in drinking great draughts of mead out of the skulls of his enemies. For the “niddering” coward who dies ingloriously in his bed these English pirates have nothing but scorn and contempt. To avoid the shame of a peaceful death they will hurl themselves from the cliffs, or push out in a frail craft into tempestuous seas, and perishing amidst the wind and the waves, win the right to enter Odin’s halls. A Roman poet says of them: “Fierce are they beyond other foes; the sea is their school of war and the storm their friend; they are sea-wolves that live on the plunder of the world.” Such are the foes against whom Arthur fights and falls.
The warriors whom we now greet are Hengist and Horsa, the two English chiefs who first won a foothold for themselves on the soil of Britain. An old legend tells us that they were scouring the coasts of Kent what time Vortigern, the British king, was sore beset by the Picts and Scots. Half beside himself with terror at their raids, he calls on these adventurers to aid him. If they will drive back the northern barbarians, they shall have food and pay for their services. The bargain is struck. Hengist and Horsa beach their keels on the gravel spit at Ebbsfleet and land their warriors. The Picts and Scots are driven back, and the victorious English return from the fray. Then they ask a whimsical boon—namely, as much land as a bull’s hide can encompass. The request is granted, and Hengist cuts his bull’s hide into long strips, and with them engirdles a rocky place, whereon he erects a fortress. Thus the English secure their first foothold in Britain.
The news is wafted across the sea, and a new swarm of “sea-wolves” appears. They come in seventeen ships, and on the stern of the leading vessel the banner of the White Horse waves in the breeze. With the newcomers arrives a new conqueror, wearing no helmet and carrying no battle-axe, but armed only with a pair of beautiful blue eyes and a face of surpassing loveliness. She is Hengist’s fair daughter Rowena, the English princess who is destined to win more British acres by her bright glances than the “sea-wolves” have won by their swords and numberless forays. Vortigern feasts with her father, and she hands him the cup of greeting which she has kissed, and bids him “Waes hael.” He falls a willing victim to her charms; he woos and wins her, and as a marriage gift Vortigern bestows upon her brothers a large part of his kingdom.
Bitterly resenting this gift, the jealous Britons gather in arms and attack the English. Horsa is slain at the battle of the Fort-of-the-Eagles, and for a time the banner of the White Horse is trailed in the dust. Hengist, driven to his ships, returns with reinforcements, offering peace to the British chiefs, whom he invites to a feast. Both sides are to come unarmed to the hospitable board; but Hengist orders his followers to conceal their swords beneath their garments, and when the wine-cup has gone round, the fatal signal is given, and they fall upon their guests and slaughter every Briton present save Vortigern. The legends vary, but the truth remains that the English mastered the Britons on the south and east coasts, and established large settlements. Hengist’s success was the signal for a host of other English adventurers to put their fortune to the test. They swarmed across the North Sea, and the work of conquest and settlement began.
Little boots it to tell of the savage and gory strife that raged in this island during the century and a half which followed. “Some of the Britons,” says an old chronicler, “were caught in the hills and slaughtered; others were worn out with hunger, and yielded to a life-long slavery. Some passed across the sea; others trusted their lives to the clefts of the mountains, to the forests, and to the rocks of the sea.” One hundred and fifty years after Hengist and Horsa landed on the Isle of Thanet the English ruled in this land from the North Sea to the Severn, and from the English Channel to the Firth of Forth.
Britain had become England. No longer was it the land of the Britons but the land of the English. In the wild, rugged western part of the island the Britons alone remained independent. Gradually their land was shorn from them till only the hills and valleys of Wales were left to them. There they remain to this day, speaking the speech of Arthur, and singing the lays of those far-off ages when the whole fair land of Britain was theirs from sea to sea.
