The Nonexistent Knight (13 page)

Torrismund started towards Sophronia. “Are you Sophronia? Ah, my own mother!”

“Do you know this young man, Sophronia?” asked the emperor.

The woman bent her head, pale-faced, “If it’s Torrismund, I brought him up myself,” said she in a faint voice.

Torrismund leapt into his saddle. “I’ve committed foul incest! Never will you see me more!” He spurred and galloped off into the woods to the right.

Agilulf spurred off in his turn. “Nor will you see me again!” said he. “I have no longer a name! Farewell!” And he rode off deep into the woods on the left.

All remained in consternation. Sophronia hid her head between her hands.

Suddenly came a thud of hooves from the right. It was Torrismund galloping back out of the wood at full tilt. He shouted, “Hey! She was a virgin until a short time ago! Why didn’t I think of that at once? She was a virgin! She can’t be my mother!”

“Would you explain?” asked Charlemagne.

“In truth, Torrismund is not my son, but my brother or rather half-brother,” said Sophronia. “Our mother the Queen of Scotland—my father the King having been at the wars for a year—bore him after a chance encounter, it seems, with the Sacred Order of the Knights of the Grail. When the king announced his return, that perfidious woman (as am I forced to consider our mother) with the excuse of my taking my little brother for a walk, let us loose in the woods. And she arranged a foul deceit for her husband on his arrival. She said that I, then aged thirteen, had run away to bear a little bastard. Held back by ill-conceived respect, I never betrayed our mother’s secret. I lived on the heaths with my infant halfbrother, and they were free and happy years for me, compared with those awaiting me in the convent which I was forced to enter by the Duke of Cornwall. Never until this morning at the age of thirty-three have I known man, and my first experience turns out to be incestuous...”

“Let’s think it all over calmly,” said Charlemagne, conciliatingly. “It is incest, of course, but that between half-brother and sister is not the most serious.”

“’Tis not incest; Sacred Majesty! Rejoice, Sophronia!” exclaimed Torrismund, radiant “In my researches on my origin I learnt a secret which I wished to keep forever. She whom I thought my mother, that is you, Sophronia, was not born of the Queen of Scotland but is the King’s natural daughter by a farmer’s wife. The King had you adopted by his wife, that is, by her who I now learn from you was my mother and your stepmother. Now I understand how she, obliged by the king to pretend herself your mother against her wish, longed for a chance to be rid of you and she did so by attributing to you the result of a passing adventure of her own, myself. You are the daughter of the King of Scotland and of a peasant woman, I of the Queen and of the Sacred Order; we have no blood tie, only the link of love forged freely here a short time ago and which I ardently hope you will be willing to reforge.”

“All seems to be working out for the best...” said Charlemagne, rubbing his hands. “Let us hasten to trace our fine knight Agilulf and reassure him that his name and title are no longer in danger.”

“I will go myself, Majesty!” cried a knight, running forward. It was Raimbaut.

He entered the woods, shouting, “Knight! Sir Agilulf! Knight of the Guildivern,...Agilulf Emo Bertrandin of the Guildivern and of the Others of Corbentraz and Sura, Knight of Selimpia Citeriore and Feeeez!...All’s in oooorder!...Come baaack!”

Only the echo replied.

Raimbaut began to search the woods track by track, and off the tracks over crags and torrents, calling, ears stretched, seeking a sign, a trace. He saw the marks of horse’s hooves. At a certain point they were stamped deeper, as if the animal had stopped. From there on the trail of hooves grew lighter, as if the horse had been let loose. But at the same point diverged another trail, a trail of iron footsteps. Raimbaut followed that.

On reaching a clearing he held his breath. At the foot of an oak tree, scattered over the ground, were an overturned helmet with a crest of iridescent plumes, a white breastplate, greaves, arm pieces, basinet, gauntlets, in fact all the pieces of Agilulf's armor, some disposed as if in an attempt at an ordered pyramid, others rolled haphazardly on the ground. On the hilt of the sword was a note, “I leave this armor to Sir Raimbaut of Roussillon.” Beneath was a half squiggle, as of a signature begun and interrupted.

“Knight!” called Raimbaut, turning towards the helmet, the breastplate, the oak tree, the sky. “Knight! Take back your armor! Your rank in the army and the nobility of France is assured!” and he tried to put the armor together, to stand it on its feet, continuing to shout, “You’re all set, sir, no one can deny it now!” No voice replied. The armor would not stand. The helmet rolled on the ground. “Knight, you have resisted so long by your will power alone, and succeeded in doing all things as if you existed, why suddenly surrender?” But he did not know in which direction to turn; the armor was empty, not empty like before, but empty of that something going by the name of Sir Agilulf which was now dissolved like a drop in the sea.

Raimbaut then unstrapped his own armor, stripped, put on the white armor, donned Agilulf’s helmet, grasped his shield and sword, leapt on his horse. Thus accouterd he appeared before the emperor and his retinue.

“Ah, Agilulf, so you’re back, are you, and all’s settled, eh?”

But another voice replied from the helmet. “I’m not Agilulf, Majesty!” The visor was raised and Raimbaut’s face appeared. “All that remains of the Knight of the Guildivern is his white armor and this paper assigning me its possession. Now my one longing is to fling myself into battle!”

The trumpets sounded the alarm. A fleet of feluccas had just landed a Saracen host in Brittany. The Frankish army hurried to arms. “Your desire is granted!” cried Charlemagne. “Now is the hour of battle. Do honor to the arms you bear! Although Agilulf had a difficult character, he was a fine soldier.”

The Frankish army held the invaders at bay, opened a breach in the Saracen ranks through which young Raimbaut was the first to rush. He lay about him, giving blows and taking them. Many a Moor bit the dust. On Raimbaut’s lance were spitted as many as it could take. Already the invading hordes were falling back on their moored feluccas. Hard pressed by Frankish arms, the defeated invaders took off from shore, except those who remained to soak the grey Breton soil with Moorish blood.

Raimbaut issued from battle victorious and untouched, but his armor, Agilulf’s impeccable white armor, was now all encrusted with earth, bespattered with enemy blood, covered with dents, scratches and slashes, the helmet askew, the shield gashed in the very midst of that mysterious coat of arms. Now the youth felt it to be truly his own armor, his, Raimbaut of Roussillon’s. His first discomfort on donning it was gone; now it fitted him like a glove.

He was galloping, all alone, on the edge of a hill. A voice rang from the bottom of the valley, “Hey, up there! Agilulf!”

A knight was coursing towards him, in armor covered with a mantle of periwinkle blue. It was Bradamante following him. “At last I’ve found you, white knight!”

“Bradamante, I'm not Agilulf, I'm Raimbaut!” he was on the point of calling in reply, but thought it better to say so from nearby, and turned his horse to reach her.

“At last 'tis you coursing to meet me, oh unseizable warrior!” exclaimed Bradamante. “Oh, that it should be granted me to see you rushing so after me, you the only man whose actions are not mere impulse, shallow caprice, like those of the usual rabble who follow me!” And so saying, she wheeled her horse and tried to escape him, though turning her head every now and again to see if he were playing her game and following her.

Raimbaut was impatient to say to her, “Don’t you notice how I too move awkwardly, how my every gesture betrays desire, dissatisfaction, disquiet? All I wish is to be one who knows what he wants!” And to tell her so he galloped after her, as she laughed and called, “This is the day I’ve always dreamt of!”

He lost sight of her. There was a grassy solitary vale. Her horse was tied to a mulberry tree. It was like that first time he had followed her when still not suspecting her to be a woman. Raimbaut dismounted. There she was, lying down on a mossy slope. She had taken off her armor, was dressed in a short topaz-colored tunic. As she lay there she opened her arms to him. Raimbaut went forward in his white armor. This was the moment to say, “I'm not Agilulf. The armor with which you fell in love is now filled out with the weight of a body, a young agile one like mine. Don’t you see how this armor has lost its inhuman whiteness and become a covering for battle, which is exposed to every blow, a tool, patient and useful?” This was what he wanted to say, instead of which he stood there with trembling hands, taking hesitant steps towards her. Perhaps the best thing would be to show himself, to take off his armor, make it clear that he is Raimbaut, particularly now as she closes her eyes and lies there with a smile of expectation. Tensely the young man tore off his armor; now Bradamante would open her eyes and recognize him ... No; she had put a hand over her face as if not wanting to be disturbed by the sight of the nonexistent knight’s invisible approach, and Raimbaut flung himself on her.

“Yes, I was sure of it!” exclaimed Bradamante, with closed eyes. “I was always sure it would be possible!” and she hugged him close, and in a fever of which both partook, they were united. “Yes, oh yes, I was sure of it!”

Now it’s over and the moment comes to look each other in the eyes.

“She’ll see me,” Raimbaut thinks in a flash of pride and hope. “She’ll understand all. She’ll understand it’s been right and fine and love me for ever!”

Bradamante opens her eyes.

“You!”

She leaps from her couch, pushes Raimbaut back.

“You! You!” she cries, her mouth enraged, her eyes starting with tears. “You! Impostor!”

And on foot she brandishes her sword, raises it against Raimbaut and hits him, but with the flat, on his head, stuns him, and all he can bring out as he raises unarmed hands to defend himself or embrace her is, “But, but ... tell me ... wasn’t it good...?” Then he loses his senses and hears only vaguely the clatter of her departing horse.

If a lover is wretched who invokes kisses of which he knows not the flavor, a thousand times more wretched is he who has had a taste of the flavor and then had it denied him. Raimbaut continued his intrepid warrior’s life. Wherever the fight was thickest, there his lance cleft. If in the turmoil of swords he spied a glint of periwinkle blue, he would rush towards it. “Bradamante!” he would shout, but always in vain.

The only person to whom he wanted to confess his troubles had vanished. Sometimes, in his wandering around the bivouacs, the way some armor stood erect on its side pieces made him quiver, for it reminded him of Agilulf. Suppose the Knight had not dissolved but found some other armor? Raimbaut would go up and say, “Don’t think me offensive, colleague, but would you mind raising the visor of your helmet?”

Every time he hoped to find himself facing an emptiness, instead of which there was always a nose above a pair of twisted moustaches. “I’m sorry,” he would murmur, and turn away.

Another was also searching for Agilulf: Gurduloo, who every time he saw an empty pot; cauldron or tub would stop and exclaim, “Oh
sor
master! At your orders,
sor
master.”

Sitting in a field on the verge of a road, he was making a long speech into the mouth of a wine flask when a voice interrupted him, “What are you seeking inside there, Gurduloo?”

It was Torrismund, who, having celebrated his solemn nuptials with Sophronia in the presence of Charlemagne, was riding off with his bride and a rich suite to Koowalden, of which the emperor had named him Count.

“It’s my master I’m looking for,” says Gurduloo.

“In that flask?”

“My master is a person who doesn’t exist, so he can not exist as much in a flask as in a suit of armor.”

“But your master has dissolved into thin air!”

“Then am I squire to the air?”

“You will be my squire, if you follow me.”

They reached Koowalden. The country was unrecognizable. Instead of villages now rose towns and houses of stone, and mills, and canals.

“I have returned, good folk, to stay among you...”

“Hurrah! Fine! Hurrah! Long live the bride!”

“Wait and show your joy at the news I bring you. The Emperor Charlemagne—bow to his sacred name—has invested me with the title of Count of Koowalden.”

“Ah ... But ... Charlemagne?...Well...”

“Don’t you understand? You have a Count now! I will defend you against the incursions of the Knights of the Grail.”

“Oh we’ve thrust all those out of the whole of Koowalden some time ago! You see, we've always obeyed for so long ... But now we’ve seen one can live quite well without having truck with either knights or counts ... We cultivate the land, have put up artisan shops and mills, and try to get our laws respected by ourselves, to defend our borders, in fact we’re moving ahead and not complaining. You’re a generous young man and we’ll not forget what you’ve done for us ... Stay here if you wish ... but as equals...”

“As equals? You don’t want me as Count? But don’t you understand it’s the emperor’s order? It’s impossible for you to refuse!”

“Oh, people are always saying that! Impossible!...To get rid of those Grail people seemed impossible ... and then we only had pitchforks and billhooks ... We wish no ill to anyone, young sir, and to you least of all ... You’re a fine young man, and know many things which we don’t ... If you stay here as equals with us and do no bullying, maybe you will become the first among us just the same...”

“Torrismund, I am weary of so many mishaps,” said Sophronia, raising her veil. “These good people seem reasonable and courteous and the town pleasanter and in better state than many ... Why should we not try to come to an arrangement?”

“What about our suite?”

“They can all become citizens of Koowalden,” replied the inhabitants, “and to each will be given according to his worth.”

“Am I to consider myself an equal to this squire of mine, Gurduloo, who doesn’t even know if he exists or not?”