The Once and Future King. T. H. White

Wart.

      ‘Mornin’,’ said Sir Grummore. ‘You’re Sir Ector’s boy, ain’t you? And who’s that chap in the comic hat?’

      ‘That is my tutor,’ said the Wart hurriedly. ‘Merlyn, the magician.’

      Sir Grummore looked at Merlyn – magicians were considered rather middle-class by the true jousting set in those days – and said distantly, ‘Ah, a magician. How-de-do?’

      ‘And this is King Pellinore,’ said the Wart. ‘Sir Grummore Grummursum – King Pellinore.’

      ‘How-de-do?’ inquired Sir Grummore.

      ‘Hail,’ said King Pellinore. ‘No, I mean it won’t hail, will it?’

      ‘Nice day,’ said Sir Grummore.

      ‘Yes, it is nice, isn’t it, what?’

      ‘Been questin’ today?’

      ‘Oh, yes, thank you. Always am questing, you know. After the Questing Beast.’

      ‘Interestin’ job, that, very.’

      ‘Yes, it is interesting. Would you like to see some fewmets?’

      ‘By Jove, yes. Like to see some fewmets.’

      ‘I have some better ones at home, but these are quite good, really.’

      ‘Bless my soul. So these are her fewmets.’

      ‘Yes, these are her fewmets.’

      ‘Interestin’ fewmets.’

      ‘Yes, they are interesting, aren’t they? Only you get tired of them,’ added King Pellinore.

      ‘Well, well. It’s a fine day, isn’t it?’

      ‘Yes, it is rather fine.’

      ‘Suppose we’d better have a joust, eh, what?’

      ‘Yes, I suppose we had better,’ said King Pellinore, ‘really.’

      ‘What shall we have it for?’

      ‘Oh, the usual, I suppose. Would one of you kindly help me on with my helm?’

      They all three had to help him on eventually, for, what with the unscrewing of screws and the easing of nuts and bolts which the King had clumsily set on the wrong thread when getting up in a hurry that morning, it was quite a feat of engineering to get him out of his helmet and into his helm. The helm was an enormous thing like an oil drum, padded inside with two thicknesses of leather and three inches of straw.

      As soon as they were ready, the two knights stationed themselves at each end of the clearing and then advanced to meet in the middle.

      ‘Fair knight,’ said King Pellinore, ‘I pray thee tell me thy name.’

      ‘That me regards,’ replied Sir Grummore, using the proper formula.

      ‘That is uncourteously said,’ said King Pellinore, ‘what? For no knight ne dreadeth for to speak his name openly, but for some reason of shame,’

      ‘Be that as it may, I choose that thou shalt not know my name as at this time, for no askin’.’

      ‘Then you must stay and joust with me, false knight.’

      ‘Haven’t you got that wrong, Pellinore?’ inquired Sir Grummore. ‘I believe it ought to be “thou shalt”.’

      ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Sir Grummore. Yes, so it should, of course. Then thou shalt stay and joust with me, false knight.’

      Without further words, the gentlemen retreated to the opposite ends of the clearing, fewtered their spears, and prepared to hurtle together in the preliminary charge.

      ‘I think we had better climb this tree,’ said Merlyn. ‘You never know what will happen in a joust like this.’

      They climbed up the big beech, which had easy branches sticking out in all directions, and the Wart stationed himself toward the end of a smooth bough about fifteen feet up, where he could get a good view. Nothing is so comfortable to sit in as a beech.

      To be able to picture the terrible battle which now took place, there is one thing which ought to be known. A knight in his full armour of those days, or at any rate during the heaviest days of armour, was generally carrying as much or more than his own weight in metal. He often weighed no less than twenty-two stone, and sometimes as much as twenty-five. This meant that his horse had to be a slow and enormous weight-carrier, like the farm horse of today, and that his own movements were so hampered by his burden of iron and padding that they were toned down into slow motion, as on the cinema.

      ‘They’re off!’ cried the Wart, holding his breath with excitement.

      Slowly and majestically, the ponderous horses lumbered into a walk. The spears, which had been pointing in the air, bowed to a horizontal line and pointed at each other. King Pellinore and Sir Grummore could be seen to be thumping their horses’ sides with their heels for all they were worth, and in a few minutes the splendid animals had shambled into an earthshaking imitation of a trot. Clank, rumble, thump-thump went the horses, and now the two knights were flapping their elbows and legs in unison, showing a good deal of daylight at their seats. There was a change in tempo, and Sir Grummore’s horse could be definitely seen to be cantering. In another minute King Pellinore’s was doing so too. It was a terrible spectacle.

      ‘Oh, dear!’ exclaimed the Wart, feeling ashamed that his blood-thirstiness had been responsible for making these two knights joust before him. ‘Do you think they will kill each other?’

      ‘Dangerous sport,’ said Merlyn, shaking his head.

      ‘Now!’ cried the Wart.

      With a blood-curdling beat of iron hoofs the mighty equestrians came together. Their spears wavered for a moment within a few inches of each other’s helms – each had chosen the difficult point-stroke – and then they were galloping off in opposite directions. Sir Grummore drove his spear deep into the beech tree where they were sitting, and stopped dead. King Pellinore, who had been run away with, vanished altogether behind his back.

      ‘Is it safe to look?’ inquired the Wart, who had shut his eyes at the critical moment.

      ‘Quite safe,’ said Merlyn. ‘It will take them some time to get back in position.’

      ‘Whoa, whoa, I say!’ cried King Pellinore in muffled and distant tones, far away among the gorse bushes.

      ‘Hi, Pellinore, hi!’ shouted Sir Grummore. ‘Come back, my dear fellah, I’m over here.’

      There was a long pause, while the complicated stations of the two knights readjusted themselves, and then King Pellinore was at the opposite end from that at which he had started, while Sir Grummore faced him from his original position.

      ‘Traitor knight!’ cried Sir Grummore.

      ‘Yield, recreant, what?’ cried King Pellinore.

      They fewtered their spears again, and thundered into the charge.

      ‘Oh,’ said the Wart, ‘I hope they don’t hurt themselves.’

      But the two mounts were patiently blundering together, and the two knights had simultaneously decided on the sweeping stroke. Each held his spear at right angles toward the left, and, before the Wart could say anything further, there was a terrific yet melodious thump. Clang! went the armour, like a motor omnibus in collision with a smithy, and the jousters were sitting side by side on the green sward, while their horses cantered off in opposite directions.

      ‘A splendid fall,’ said Merlyn.

      The two horses pulled themselves up, their duty done, and began resignedly to eat the sward. King Pellinore and Sir Grummore sat looking straight before them, each with the other’s spear clasped hopefully under his arm.

      ‘Well!’ said the Wart. ‘What a bump!