CHAPTER II

ARCHIMAGE AND DUESSA

So the two, the Knight and the Lady, rode on, the Dwarf following as before. After a while they chanced to meet an old man by the road. He was clothed in black and barefooted, and he had a long white beard, and a book was hanging from his belt. A very wise old man he seemed, sober and even somewhat sad, and as he went along he seemed to be praying; and now and again he would beat upon his breast, saying, “God be merciful to me a sinner!” He made a humble reverence to the Knight, and the Knight in his courtesy made his salute, and said: “Sir, do you know of any adventure that a Christian man may undertake?”

“My son,” said the old man, “how should one who lives in his cell and tells his beads and does penance for his sins know aught of wars and enterprises by which glory may be won? Nevertheless, I can tell of a very evil man who dwells in these forests and wastes all the country-side.”

“Ah!” cried the Knight, “it is for such an adventure, the setting right of wrong, that I seek. Bring me to this villain’s dwelling and I will reward you well.”

“Willingly,” said the old man, “will I guide you thither, but the way is long and painful.”

“And surely,” said the Lady Una, “you are wearied with your late encounter. I take it that he who lacks rest lacks strength, however stout of limb he be. Take your rest then with the sun, and begin your new work with the new day.”

“This is wise counsel, Sir Knight,” said the old man, “and wise counsel ever wins the day. The day is far spent; come, then, and take such poor entertainment as my home can give.”

With this the Knight was well content. So they followed the old man to his dwelling. It was a lowly hermitage, in a valley, close to the forest, with a chapel hard by, and by this chapel a brook crystal clear. Humble was their fare, but the rest after the day’s toil made it sweet enough, as also did the old man’s talk, for he discoursed of many things and many men, saints and popes, and the great deeds which they had done. Then, as the night drew on and sleep began to fall upon their eyes, he showed them the places where they should lodge for the night.

Now this old man, who seemed so pious and good, with his long white beard, and his prayers, and his beating of his breast, was really a wicked magician. So soon as he had taken his guests to their lodgings, he went to his study, where he kept his books of charms with other contrivances of his art, and taking one of these books from the shelf on which it stood, opened it, and began to mutter some dreadful words which it were a great sin for anyone to write or read. With these he brought up from their dwelling-place in the lower parts of the earth a very legion of evil spirits. To these he gave a part of his evil work to do, and some of this work he kept to himself; and the work was this: To cheat the hearts of those whom he wished to deceive with false dreams and visions. What these were, it is best not to tell: let it be enough to say that they wrought such doubts concerning the Lady Una in the heart of the Red-Cross Knight that, as soon as the morning dawned, he rose from his bed, and clothed himself with all haste, and crying for the Dwarf that he should bring him his horse, rode away as fast as the beast could carry him.

He had not ridden many miles before there met him a paynim knight. A tall warrior and a strong he was, armed from top to toe, and carrying a great shield on which were written in scarlet letters the words “_Sans Foy_,” which, being interpreted, mean “Without Faith.” With him there rode a fair lady, clad also in scarlet, with ornaments of gold and necklaces of coral, and on her head a Persian cap set round with crowns of gold. Her horse also had gay trappings, and her bridle was set with bells of gold, which tinkled bravely as she rode. So soon as she saw the Red-Cross Knight she said to her companion, “See now, here comes your enemy; make ready.”

No sooner had she spoken, but he stuck spurs in his horse, and rode at the Red-Cross Knight. Nor did the knight hold back from the fray, for he also put his spear in rest and charged. So the two met fully and fairly, with so fierce a shock that the two horses stood, as it were, struck to stone, and the riders were borne backwards in their saddles, holding each of them in his hand his broken spear. Then the Saracen drew his sword from the scabbard, and addressed himself again to the fray. So did the Christian also; blow for blow did they deal one to the other, till the sparks flew from their shields, and when they chanced to strike home, the blood flowed forth and dyed the earth under their feet. After a while cried the Saracen: “Now curse upon that Cross which keeps your body from harm! You had been dead long since but for that magic power. For all that, I bid you now beware, and keep safe your head if it may be.”

So saying, he dealt a blow so fierce that it shore away half the Christian’s crest, yet glancing down upon the shield harmed him no more. Yet was it not struck in vain, for it roused him of the Red Cross to such rage that he made a more than like reply. Full on the Saracen’s helmet he dealt his stroke. Right through the steel it passed, and cleft the head, so that the Saracen fell a dead man from his horse.

When the lady saw her champion fall, not a moment did she stay to see how it had fared with him, either to tend his wounds, or to weep for his death, but fled away as fast as her horse could carry her. Then the Red-Cross Knight, crying to the Dwarf that he should pick up the dead man’s shield to be a memorial of the fight, rode after her, and overtaking her, bade her halt: “You have no cause to fear, fair lady,” he said.

Then she, turning back, cried aloud: “Fair Sir, have mercy on an unhappy woman!”

Much was he moved to see her humbleness, for she was beautiful to look on, and richly clad, as one of noble birth might be. “Lady,” said he, “be of good heart. It pitieth me to see you in such distress; tell me now who you are, and whence you come, and who was this your champion?”

“Sir,” she answered, weeping the while, “I have suffered much from evil fortune. I was the only daughter of an emperor, who had wide dominion over the land of the West, setting his throne where flows the famous stream of Tiber. Being such, I was betrothed in my early youth to the only son and heir of a most wise and mighty king. Never surely was prince so fair and faithful as he, never one so gentle and debonair. But alas! ere the day appointed for our marriage came, my lord fell into the hands of cruel enemies, and was most foully slain. When this ill news came to me, I said to myself: ‘Now will I at least do due honour to the dear body of him whom I loved.’ So I set forth from my father’s house upon this quest. Long did I wander over the world, a virgin widow, nor did I find that for which I sought. At last I chanced to meet this Saracen, who now lies dead upon the plain. He constrained me to go with him, and would fain have won me for his wife, but I ever said him nay. And now he lies dead. An evil man he was, one of an evil brotherhood of three—Sansloy, the eldest; Sansjoy, the youngest; and this Sansfoy, of middle age between the two.”

“Be contented, fair lady,” answered the Knight; “you have done well. You have found a new friend and lost an old foe. Friend, be he ever so new, is better, I trow, than foe, new or old.”

So the two rode on, he making merry with gay talk, as became a courteous knight, and she, with much modest show of bashfulness. After a while they came in their journey to two fair trees, which spread their branches across the road. Lovely trees they seemed, and fair was the shade which they cast. Yet was the place held in ill-repute of all the country-side; never did shepherd sit beneath them to rest or play upon his oaten pipe, for all men held it to be unlucky ground. But of this the good Knight knew nothing, so, the sun being now high in heaven, and of so fierce a heat that a man might scarcely abide it, he dismounted and bade the lady do likewise, so that they might rest awhile, and anon, in the cool of the evening, might pursue their journey. So the two sat them down and talked.

Now the Knight, being in a merry mood, said to himself: “Surely, this is the fairest of women; it is meet that she should be crowned.” So saying, he plucked a branch which he would have shaped into a garland for the lady’s head. Then, lo! from the place where the branch had been plucked came trickling drops of blood, and there issued forth a lamentable voice which said: “Stranger! Tear not in this cruel fashion the tender human limbs which are covered by the bark of this tree. Fly also from the place, fly, lest haply the same fate should come upon you as came upon me in this place, both on me and on the dear lady also who was my love.”

Much was the Knight astonished to hear such words, and for a while he stood speechless. Then he said: “What ghost is this from the world below, what wandering spirit that talks in this strange fashion?”

Then there came this answer: “No ghost am I from the nether world, nor wandering spirit of the air. I was a man, Fradubio by name, as now I am a tree, being charmed by the arts of a wicked witch. But I am yet a man, for I feel the winter cold and the summer heat in these branches, even as a man might feel.”

Then said the Knight: “Tell me now, Fradubio, be you tree or man, how you came to suffer in this fashion. It is good for a man to tell his trouble; he who hides it in his heart makes his griefs to be twice as great.”

Then did Fradubio tell his tale, “Know, stranger, that I suffer this trouble through the arts of a false sorceress, Duessa by name; nor I only, for she has brought many knights into a like evil case. In my youth, which indeed is not long passed, I loved a fair lady, whom you may see, not indeed in the fashion of a lady, but as yonder tree which joins its branches with these. Once upon a time, when I was riding abroad with her, I chanced to meet a knight, who also had a fair lady for a companion. A fair lady I called her, and so she seemed, but she was in truth this same false witch Duessa. Said the strange Knight: ‘I do declare that this lady is the fairest dame in all the world, and this I will make good with my sword and spear against all the world.’ For the witch had cast her spells over him and deceived him. And when I put forth the same challenge for my own lady, we fell to fighting, and he fared so ill, that he fell by my hand.

“So now there were two fair ladies, for so it seemed, Fraelissa, who was fair in truth, and Duessa, who by her wicked arts had made herself so to seem. And I knew not to which I should give the prize of beauty, for it seemed the due of each. But while I doubted, this wicked witch raised by evil arts such a mist as made Fraelissa’s face to lose all its fairness. Which when she had accomplished, she cried: ‘See now how this false dame has lost her beauty, for indeed it was but borrowed. Many has she deceived in time past, even as now she has deceived you.’ When I heard this, I would fain have killed the fair lady that had been my true love. But this the false Duessa, feigning compassion, would not suffer. Only with her magic arts she changed her into that tree which you see yonder.

“Now you must know that for every witch, be she as crafty as she may, there is one day in every year when she is constrained to take her true shape. And on this day I chanced to see Duessa as she was in truth, old and foul of hue, fouler than one had thought woman could be. Nor did she fail to perceive that I had discovered the truth, though indeed I sought to bear myself as before, having it in my mind secretly to escape, and fly from her company. So she practised upon me the same wicked arts that she had used with my Fraelissa, changing me into the semblance of a tree. And here we stand, banished from the company of men, and wasting weary days and nights.”

“But,” said the Knight, “how long shall this endure? What is the appointed end of your sufferings?”

“We must here abide till we shall be bathed in a living well,” Fradubio made answer.

“Can I find this same well?” asked the Knight.

“That shall be as the Fates may decree,” said Fradubio.

All this Duessa—who called herself Fidessa—heard, and knew it for truth. She well-nigh fainted for fear; but the time for the discovering of her falseness was not yet.