"So
Sir Gother, by aid of his esquire Clopas, dighted himself for battle, and
calling to the black knight to prepare himself, pricked his horses flanks and
charged him over the bridge, where in the midst of it the two knights met with
a great clash of arms. And the black knight by his cunning caused Sir Gother's
blade to go astray, and struck Gother a wound in his side, wherefrom, together
with the shock of battle, he fell senseless from his horse and lay as one dead.
"And
Raldrian, perceiving the distress of his friend, and how the false knight meant
to slay him outright, though he be vanquished, came forward and stood over the
body of Gother, though he had no weapon but a staff. And when the black knight
saw Raldrian he was for an instant checked, and he mocked him, saying,
"You fool! For you shall only encompass your own destruction." And
Raldrian answered, "You may not slay me truly, for you have not that
authority." Thus angered, the black knight spurred his steed forward as
though to ride the old man down, but Raldrian in one swift motion cast aside
his staff and lightly leapt onto the knight's saddle and bore him down, and the
horse, by its instinct, vaulted over the body of Gother and galloped away upon
the other side.
"Now
Clopas, standing afraid on the hither shore, beheld a miracle, for though in
his leap Raldrian had been impaled on the sword of the false knight, still he
held him fast, and Clopas saw the knight bloody with the blood of Raldrian. And
for a moment it seemed to Clopas that a great light was about the twain, and
with a dolorous cry the dark knight writhed and then lay still, as dead as any
stone.
"And
Clopas came forward with sorrowful lament and saw to his master Gother, and
with effort woke him from his swoon, and told him what had passed. Then with
pain Gother arose, and using his sword as a crutch, and with the aid of Clopas,
he came to where Raldrian lay, and said "Alas for thee, Raldrian! You have
saved my life."
"Then
Raldrian opened his eyes, for somehow hardly he yet lived, and said, "Of
your mercy, prince, pull this blade from me." So Clopas held him, and
Gother drew the sword of the false knight from his body, which straightway
gushed blood, and flinging the blade aside, he knelt down to his friend.
"Alas!" said Raldrian, "For my hour is now on me. But you are
hurt." And he placed his hand on Gother's wound, wheron the pain and
bleeding left off, but never was that wound wholly healed in his life, for some
things cannot be unmade in this world. Then he said, "Take you my staff
and my cloak, for where I go I need them not, and where you go you shall have
most sore need of them. Weep not, for this was willed where what is willed must
be, and it is ordained that where you go, you must go alone." And blessing
them, he died.
"And
for a while they wept, and then bore his body to the other shore, where they
set it in a great hollow oak that had stood dead for a hundred winters, and
sealed it up with a stone. And Gother took his staff and his cloak as he had
commanded, and he carved on the oak with his knife, "Here lies Raldrian of
Highcastle, that was the truest friend." But Clopas went back to the body
of the black knight to dispose of it and raised its vizard, and saw there was
naught but a blackened skull, and knowing it thereby but a work of necromancy,
in disgust heaved the corpse into the river, so that its evil would be cleansed
from the land.
"It
is told at fuller length in "The Tale of Gother" how he and his
esquire continued the quest into the Ruined Land, how Clopas lured the henchmen
of the Enchanter away, and how the cloak of Raldrian confounded the eyes of the
Watchers, and how the staff of Raldrian lit the way of Gother through the
mountain labyrinth, unto the very throne of the Enchanter himself. Then there
was a great battle in which Gother was the victor, and freeing Clopas, they
together made their way back home in the spring.
"And
coming to the rise of a hill, they saw below them a valley through which ran a
deep river, bound by a bridge of wood. And Clopas said, "Look, Master, is
this not the very place where we buried Raldrian, that good old man?" And
Gother answered that it was indeed, and that they should go and pray at his
tomb. But, look! When they came to the tree that had stood dead for a hundred
winters they found it in full leaf, and the cleft they had sealed with a stone
had grown together. And they asked themselves, "Is this not the
place?" until pacing about the tree they found the words that Gother had
carved, and that now the letters shone like silver. And the twain said,
"Surely he was a holy man," and after praying silently awhiles, they
rode homeward, singing praises for the marvels they had seen."
Notes
I wrote this little tale (I'm not sure exactly when) as a sort of experiment. Could I write what was basically a modern Fantasy story (a little part of it reminiscent of Monty Python, maybe) in the same fashion as, say, Howard Pyle or William Morris, without descending completely into what Tolkien (Letter 171) called tushery, a term "properly applied to bogus "medieval" stuff where those without knowledge inserted expletives such as tush, pish, zounds, and marry. Real archaic English is far more terse than modern and can say things our slack and frivolous idiom cannot." It also regularly plagued (for comic effect) any Warner Brothers cartoon that took place in the past ("I am he for whomst thou seekest!"); in fact, in almost every other 'Olde Englishe' cartoon setting down to Spongebob Squarepants.
I remember being a little proud of the names I came up with. Clopas (sometimes spelled Cleopas) is a rather obscure name from the New Testament, and suggested to me Topas from Chaucer, and perhaps clodhopper or clopper, a term not unfitting for a lowly squire. Gother (pronounced go-THer)suggests go there, not a bad name for a quester. Raldrian is based on names like Adrian and Caspian, and so is odd but not unfamiliar to the ear.
Well, there it is. I suppose one could produce an entire book like that (it would be the devil to make the action engaging enough, though), but I wouldn't have the patience to write it, and, indeed, who would have the patience to read it? I have the feeling that even this little segment may have taxed the attention of anyone casually passing their eye over it.
[I've noticed that my selections for Friday Fiction often echo my concerns of the week. Therefore my choice of The Death of Raldrian may have been suggested by the arrival of The Water of the Wondrous Isles or the quote from George Macdonald Fraser, who uses quite a lot of 'creative anachronism' pish-tushery for informed comic effect in The Pyrates.]
