Chapter 11

'And do thou,' he said to his wife, 'rise and apparel thyself, and cause thy horse to be prepared, and do thou wear the oldest riding-robe thou hast. And thou wilt come with me.'

So Enid arose and clothed herself in her meanest garments.

Then Geraint went to his father and said, 'Sir, I am going upon a quest into the land of Logres, and I do not know when I may return. Do thou therefore keep our kingdom till I return.'

'I will do so, my son,' said Erbin, 'but thou art not strong enough to go through the land of Logres alone. Wilt thou not have a company with thee?'

'But one person shall go with me,' said Geraint, 'and that is a woman. Farewell.'

Then he put on the old and rusty suit of armour, and took the shield with no device, and a sword and a lance, and then mounting his horse he took his way out of the town. And Enid went before him on her palfrey, marvelling what all this might mean.

Geraint called unto her and said sternly:

'Go thou and ride a long way before me. And whatever ye see or hear concerning me, say naught, and turn not back. And unless I speak to thee, speak not thou to me.'

All day they rode thus, and deeper and deeper they sank into a desolate land, where huge rocks jutted from the starved soil, and there was no sound or sight of living thing, except it was the wolf looking from his lair beneath a stone, or the breaking of a branch, as the brown bear on a distant hillslope tore at a tree to get a honeycomb, and blinked down at them, marvelling, maybe, to see a knight and a lady in his desolate domain.

When, late in the afternoon, their long shadows marched before them down a broad green road which they had struck upon, Enid's heart suddenly lifted to see the white walls and roofs of what looked like a rich town; for she knew not what was in her lord's mind, and feared lest his strange anger should push him to go on through the night, and so become a prey to robbers or wild animals. But she marvelled that there was no sight or sound of people; no carters or travellers going to or coming from the city, and no smoke rose above the housetops.

When they came nearer, she saw the wall of the gate was broken down, and that along the broad road beyond the wall the grass waved high across the street, and the little wooden booths and cabins beside the road were rotting and decayed. Anon they rode into a broad market-place or forum, where white buildings rose above them, the windows gaping, grass growing on the roofs or in the crannies of the walls, and the doorways choked with bushes. And out of the broad hallway of the basilica she saw the grey form of a wolf walk and slink away in the shadows.

With a sinking heart she knew that this was one of the fair cities which the Romans had built, and when they had left Britain this town had been deserted and left desolate, to become a place where the wolf and the bear made their lairs, where the beaver built his dam in the stream beneath the wall of the palace, and where robbers and wild men lay hid, or the small people of the hills came and made their magic and weaved their spells, with the aid of the spirits haunting the desolate hearths of the Romans.

And as Enid checked her horse and waited for Geraint to come up, that she might ask him whether it was his pleasure to pass the night there, she saw, down the wide street before her, the forms of men, creeping and gathering in the gloom. Then, fearing lest they should fall upon her husband before he was aware of them, she turned her horse and rode towards him and said:

'Lord, dost thou see the wild men which gather in the shadows there in the street before us, as if they would attack thee?'

Geraint lifted up his angry eyes to hers:

'Thou wert bid to keep silent,' he said, 'whatsoever thou hast seen or heard. Why dost thou warn one whom thou dost despise?'

Even as he spoke, from the broken houses through which they had crept to assail the single knight, dashed ten robbers, naked of feet, evil of look, clothed in skins. One leaped at the knight with a knife in his hand, to be cut down, halfway in his spring, by Sir Geraint's fierce sword-stroke. Then, while Enid stood apart, terror in her heart, prayer on her lips, she saw him as if he were in the midst of a pack of tearing wolves, and in the silent street with its twilight was the sudden clash of steel, the howls and cries of wounded men.

Then she was aware that six lay quiet on the road, and the remaining four broke suddenly away towards the shelter of the houses. But two of these Sir Geraint pursued, and cut down before they could reach cover.

He rejoined her in silence and sought for a place of lodging; and in a small villa they found a room with but one door. Here they supped from the scrip of food and the bottle of wine which Enid had brought, and there they slept that night.

On the morrow they pursued their way, and followed the green road out of the ruined city until they reached the forest. And in the heat and brightness of the high noon the green and coolness of the forestways were sweet, and the sound of tiny streams hidden beneath the leaves was refreshing.

Then they came upon a plain where was a village surrounded by a bank of earth, on which was a palisade. And there was a wailing and weeping coming from between the little mud-cabins therein; and as they approached they saw in the middle green four knights in armour and a crowd of poor frightened folk about them.

As they passed the gate of the village a poor man ran from the group, and threw himself before Sir Geraint.

'O sir knight,' he cried full piteously, 'if thou art a good knight and a brave, do thou see justice done here. For these four lords would cut my father's throat if he say not where his money is hid.'

'Are they his proper lords?' asked Geraint.

'Nay, sir knight,' said the man. 'Our land is Geraint's, and these lords say that he sleeps all day, and so they will be our masters. And they do ever oppress us with fine and tax and torture.'

Therewith Sir Geraint rode through the gate of the village and approached the group. He saw where the four knights stood cruelly torturing a poor old man whom they had tied to a post, and the sweat stood upon the peasant's white face, and the fear of death was in his eyes.

'Lords! lords,' he cried in a spent voice, 'I have no money, for you did take all I had when you told us our lord Geraint was become a court fool.'

'Thou miser!' jeered one of the knights, 'that was two months agone, and thou hast something more by now. Will this loose thy secret, carrion?'

At the cruel torture the man shrieked aloud, and by reason of the pain his head sank and he slid down the post in a swoon. And a young woman rushed forth, threw her arm about the hanging body, and with flashing eyes turned and defied the knights.

Next moment it would have gone ill with her, but the voice of Sir Geraint rang out.

'Ho, there, sir knights,' he cried, 'or sir wolves--I know not which ye are--have ye naught to do but to squeeze poor peasants of mean savings?'

The knights turned in rage, and laughed and sneered when they saw but one solitary knight in old and rusty armour.

'Ah, sir scarecrow!' cried one, leaping on his horse, 'I will spit thee for thy insolence.'

'Knock him down and truss him up with this starveling peasant,' cried another.

All now had mounted, and the first prepared to run at Sir Geraint, who backed his horse through the gateway into the open plain. Anon the first knight came, hurling himself angrily upon him. But deftly Sir Geraint struck the other's lance aside with his sword, and as the rider rushed past him, he rose in his stirrups, his blade flashed, and then sank in the neck of the felon knight, who swayed in his saddle and then crashed to the ground.

Then the second horseman attacked him furiously, being wroth at the death of his companion. But Sir Geraint couched his lance, and caught the other on the edge of his shield, and the spear passed through his body.

And by good hap also he slew the other two, one with his lance, the other with his sword on foot.

Enid, full of fear while the fight was raging, felt gladness and sorrow when she saw how nobly her husband had smitten these torturers with justice, and she said that of a truth she had been wrong, and that there was no sloth in his heart, no weakness in the strong arm of her lord.

Then Sir Geraint took off the armour from each of the four knights and piled them on their horses, and tied them together, and bade her drive them before her.

'And do thou go forward some way,' said he sternly, 'and say not one word to me unless I speak first unto thee.'

As he mounted his horse, the man that had been tortured came forward with his people and knelt before him, and kissed the mail-clad shoe in his stirrup, and in rude few words they thanked him tearfully, asking for his name, so that they could speak of him in their prayers.

'I am called Sir Slothful,' said Sir Geraint, 'and I deserve not your worship. But, hark ye, if other evil lords come upon these marches and seek to oppress thee, tell them that though Sir Geraint sleeps now, he will soon awake and they shall not stand before his vengeance.'

And so he rode on, leaving the poor folks marvelling but happy.

Then in a little while they came upon a highroad, and the lady went on first, and for all his anger, Geraint was sorry to see how much trouble Enid had in driving the four horses before her, yet how patient she was.

Soon they beheld a wide valley below them, the fairest and richest in homesteads and farms that they had yet seen. A river ran through the middle of it, and the road on which they passed ran down to a bridge over the river, beyond which was a castle and a walled town.

Sir Geraint took the road towards the bridge, and soon a knight came cantering towards them.

'Fair sir,' said Sir Geraint, 'canst thou tell me who is the owner of this fair valley and that walled city?'

'Of a truth,' said the other, 'these are the lands of King Griffith, whom men call the Little King. He holds them of King Erbin, whose son, that was so famous, men say has become a worthless court dandy.'

'I thank thee for thy words, fair sir,' said Geraint, and would pass on.

'I would counsel thee not to attempt to cross the bridge,' said the knight, 'unless thou dost intend to fight the little king. For armed strangers he will not suffer to pass, and I doubt me if thy arms are of much use to thee.'

And the knight smiled at the rusty arms and shield of Sir Geraint.

'Nevertheless,' said Sir Geraint, 'though my arms are old, I will go this way.'

'If thou dost so,' said the knight, 'thou wilt meet with shame and defeat. For the little king is a man of giant strength.'

But Sir Geraint passed down towards the bridge and crossed it, and went along the road beyond towards the town. Presently Sir Geraint heard the sound of hoofs behind him, and looking round he saw a knight following him upon a great black horse, tall and stately and stepping proudly. The knight was the smallest that Sir Geraint had ever seen.

When the stranger had come up to him, he said:

'Tell me, fair sir, is it by presumption or by ignorance that thou comest armed along this road?'

'I knew not that in any of the lands of King Erbin, a peaceful man, though he be armed, could not go without hindrance,' replied Sir Geraint.

'That was so,' replied the knight, 'when King Erbin's son Sir Geraint was a man of prowess, not a soft fool. Then his name alone kept his borders clean of robber lords and bandit knights; but now that he is less than naught, I myself must keep my land clean of thieves in rusty armour that would frighten and oppress poor folk.'

'Nevertheless,' said Sir Geraint, 'I will travel by this road, and ye hinder me at your peril.'

'Have at thee, then,' said the little knight, and together they spurred towards each other.

Sir Geraint marvelled to feel how powerful were the lance-strokes of the little man, while, as for himself, so high was the little knight's horse and so small was the rider, that he was hardly able to get a good blow at him. But they jousted until at the third bout the little king's lance broke short, and then they dismounted, and lashed at each other with their swords.

At first Sir Geraint thought it was nigh unseemly that one so strong and tall as himself should have to do with so small a knight; but if he thought that he had advantage in his longer reach and greater strength he quickly saw his error.

For the little king was a man of marvellous strength and agility, and for all Sir Geraint's knowledge and strength, the other's strokes were so boldly fierce, so quick and powerful, that it was not long ere Sir Geraint found he had need of great wariness.

Soon their helmets were cracked and their shields dented and carved and their hauberks in rags, and hardly could they see between the bars of their vizors for the sweat and blood in their eyes.

Then at last Sir Geraint, enraged that one so small should give him so much trouble to conquer, gathered all his strength in one blow, so that the little king was beaten to his knees, and the sword flew from his hand ten yards away.

'I yield me!' cried King Griffith, 'and never have I fought with so valiant and strong a knight. Have mercy and spare me, and I will be thy man.'

'Be it so!' said Sir Geraint, 'but thou hast already sworn to be my man.'

And he lifted up his vizor and showed his face, whereat the little king did off his own helm quickly and came and kneeled humbly before him.

'Sir Geraint,' he said, 'forgive me my words concerning thee, but men told me that ye had forgotten that you had once been so glorious a man, and were softening to a fool.'

'Nay,' said Sir Geraint, 'they were the fools that said so. And now I will depart, for I see these marches are in safe keeping in your hands, fair king.'

But the little king wished Geraint to come to his castle to be rested and healed of his wounds, and Geraint and Enid went and abode there a few days. But ever Sir Geraint was cold and stern to his wife, for he was still angry at her disbelief in him.

Sir Geraint would not stay longer, though his wounds were but half healed, and on the third day he commanded Enid to mount her horse and to go before him with the four other horses.

While the sun climbed up the sky they rode through the wilderness, by tangled woods, deep valleys and quaking marshes, until they reached a deep dark forest. Suddenly as they rode they heard a great wailing of distress, and bidding Enid stay, Geraint dashed through the trees towards the crying, and came out upon a great bare upland, and beside the wood were a knight, dead in his armour, and two horses, one with a woman's saddle upon it.

And looking further Geraint saw three small dark shaggy trolls making swift way up the hill towards a great green mound, and in the arms of one of them was a damsel, who shrieked as she was borne away.

Fiercely Sir Geraint spurred his horse up the slope, bidding the trolls to stop, but they only ran with an exceeding great swiftness. But he pursued them, and when they were within a few steps of a small door in the hillside, the one dropped the maiden, and the three of them turned at bay. And the damsel ran shrieking away down the hill.

The trolls had dark thin faces, with curly black hair and fierce black eyes, and their rage was horrible to see. They were lightly clothed in skins, and in their arms they held, one a bar of iron, another a great club, and the third a long sharp stick.

Sir Geraint commended his soul to Heaven, for he knew he was to battle with evil dwarfs who lived in the hollow hills, and whose strength was greater than any man's, and whose powers of wizardry were stronger than Merlin's.

He dashed with his lance at the one with the iron bar, but the hill-troll slipped away, and brought the great bar with a heavy blow upon his lance, so that it snapped in twain. Then one leaped like a wild cat upon the arm that held the rein, but happily Sir Geraint had drawn his sword, and with one stroke slew him. Then the two others leaped towards him, but the blows of the bar and club he caught upon his shield and slew the troll with the club.

Ere Sir Geraint could draw his sword back from this blow, he felt his horse fall under him, for the dwarf with the iron bar had with one blow broken the beast's back. Quickly avoiding the horse, Sir Geraint dashed at the dwarf, who ran towards the hole in the hill, but ere he could reach it Sir Geraint gave him a blow on the crown of his head, so fierce and hard, that the skull was split to the shoulders.

So then Sir Geraint turned and walked slowly down the hill, for he was dazed, and his old wounds had broken afresh. But he came to where Enid stood comforting the damsel mourning over the dead knight, and when he was there, straightway he fell down lifeless.

Enid shrieked with the anguish of the thought that he was dead, and came and knelt beside him and undid his helm and kissed him many times. And the sound of her wailing reached an earl named Madoc, who was passing with a company along the road from a plundering expedition, and he came and took up Geraint and the dead knight, and laid them in the hollow of their shields, and with the damsels took them to his castle a mile along the road.

Now the earl was a tyrant and a robber, and had done much evil on the borderlands of Geraint, in burning, plundering and slaying, since he had heard that Geraint was become soft and foolish. And he had recognised Sir Geraint while he lay in the swoon, and rejoiced that now he was like to die.

As he rode along he thought that if he could prevail upon the Lady Enid to wed him, he might get much land with her, as the widow of the dead Sir Geraint, future King of Cornwall. And he determined to make her marry him.

When, therefore, he and his host had reached his castle, he ordered the dead knight to be buried, but Sir Geraint he commanded to be laid in his shield on a litter-couch in front of the high table in the hall. So that Sir Geraint should die, he commanded that no leech should be sent for.

While his knights and men-at-arms sat down to dine, Earl Madoc came to Enid and begged her to make good cheer. But, thinking to gain more from secrecy, he did not tell her that he knew who she was, nor did he show her that he knew who was her lord.

'Take off thy travelling clothes, fair lady,' he said, 'and weep not for this dead knight.'

'I will not,' she said, and hung over Geraint, chafing his hands and looking earnestly into his pallid face.

'Ah, lady,' the earl said, 'be not so sorrowful. For he is now dead, and therefore ye need no longer mourn. But as ye are beautiful, I would wed thee, and thou shalt have this earldom and myself and much wealth and all these men to serve thee.'

'I tell you I will rather die with my dead lord, if indeed he be dead,' cried Enid, 'than live in wealth with you or any one.'

'Come, then,' said the earl, 'and at least take food with me.'

'Nay, I will not,' said Enid, 'and never more will I eat or be joyful in life.'

'But, by Heaven, thou shalt,' said Madoc, furious at her resistance to his will.

And he drew her from beside the litter, and forced her to come to the table where his knights sat eating, and commanded her to eat.

'I will not eat,' she cried, straining from his hold towards where Geraint lay, 'unless my dear lord shall eat also.'

'But he is dead already, thou mad woman,' cried the earl. 'Drink this goblet of wine,' he commanded, 'and thou wilt change thy mind.'

'I will not drink again until my dear lord drink also,' said Enid, and strove to free herself from the grasp of the earl.

'Now, by Heaven!' said Madoc wrathfully, 'I have tried gentle means with thee. Let this teach thee that I am not to be baulked of my will.'

With that he gave her a violent blow on the ear, and tried to drag her away out of the hall. And Enid shrieked and wept and cried for help, but none of the knights that sat there dared to oppose their lord.

But suddenly men started up from their seats in terror to see the corpse of Geraint rise from the hollow of the shield. Enid's cries had roused him from his swoon, and his hand as he raised himself felt the hilt of the sword beside him.

He leaped from the litter, and, drawing his sword, he ran towards the earl, who by now had almost dragged Enid to the door. Raising the sword, Geraint struck him with so fierce a blow that he cleft his head in twain.

Then, for terror at seeing what they thought was a dead man rise up to slay them, the knights ran from the hall and left Geraint and Enid alone.

Enid threw her arms about Geraint, her face bright with happiness.

'My dear lord, I thank God thou art not dead, as this man said thou wert. And I pray thy forgiveness for doubting that thou hadst forgotten thy manhood, for of a truth none is so brave, so good as thou art.'

Geraint kissed his wife, smiling wanly the while.

'Sorry I am, my dear wife,' he said, 'that I was swooning when thou hadst need of me. And as for any doubts thou hadst of me, why, let us both forget them from this time forth. And now we must away, ere this lord's men recover their fright and pursue us.'

Enid led him instantly to the stalls where she had seen the horses had been led, and Geraint took the spear and the horse of the knight whom the trolls had slain, and, when he had mounted, he took up Enid from the ground and placed her before him.

Thus they rode out of the castle, and away as rapidly as they could. And now that they were reconciled, much joyful and loving talk was between them.

But night was coming on, and Geraint was weak from his wounds and loss of blood, and Enid was full of trouble for the pain her husband suffered. She prayed fervently that soon they might reach a town where she could obtain help for him.

Suddenly she heard far away in the distance the tramp of horses, and Enid could have wept for sorrow. But she kept her face calm, though her lips trembled, Geraint also heard the beat of the hoofs, and turning in his saddle he looked up, and saw on the skyline of the narrow road the glint of spears between them and the sky.

'Dear wife,' he said, with a faint brave smile, 'I hear some one following us. I will put thee in hiding behind this thicket, and should they slay me, do thou make thy way homeward to my father Erbin, and bid him avenge my death.'

'O my dear Geraint!' said Enid, sobbing, for all her bravery, as she thought that he would surely be slain, and that, after all their trouble, they were not to be allowed to enjoy the happiness of their reconciliation. 'I would liefer die with thee, my dear, dear lord. Let them kill us both, if it is to be.'

'Nay, dear wife,' said Geraint, 'I would not have thee slain. Revenge my death if they slay me.'

So, with many lingering kisses, he set her down upon the road, and saw her hide in the thickets.

By now the gloom of evening had settled upon them, and the sound of trampling horses had rapidly approached. And painfully, by reason of his stiff wounds, Geraint dressed his armour as best he could, and laid spear in rest, and drew his shield before him, and so waited in the dark road.

He heard a single knight riding before the others, and soon saw his figure issue from the gloom with couched lance. And Sir Geraint made him ready also, resolved to sell his life dearly at the last.

But as they began to spur their horses, there came the voice of Enid from the hedgerow beside them. And she cried out piteously in the dark:

'O chieftain, whoever thou art, what renown wilt thou gain by slaying a dead man?'

The stranger stopped his horse, and called out:

'O Heaven, is it my lord, Sir Geraint?'

'Yes, in truth,' said Enid, 'and who art thou?'

'I am the little king!' said the other, and rode swiftly towards Sir Geraint. Then he leaped from his horse and came to the stirrup of his chief.