The Nonexistent Knight (8 page)

Said Agilulf, “I do not wish to contradict, but in the interests of accuracy I must record that Excalibur was surrendered by our enemies in accordance with the armistice treaties five days after the battle of Aspramonte. It figures in fact in a list of light weapons handed over to the Frankish army, among the conditions of the treaty.”

Exclaimed Rinaldo, “Anyway that’s nothing compared with my sword Fusberts. When I met that dragon, passing over the Pyrenees I cut him in two with one blow and, d’you know that a dragon’s skin is harder than a diamond?”

Interrupted Agilulf, “One moment, let’s just get this clear. The passage of the Pyrenees took place in April, and in April, as everyone knows, dragons slough their skins and are soft and tender as newborn babes.”

The paladins said, “Well, yes, that day or another, if not there it was somewhere else, that’s what happened, there’s no point in splitting hairs...”

But they were annoyed. This Agilulf always remembered everything, cited chapter and verse even for a feat of arms accepted by all and piously described by those who had never seen it, tried to reduce it to a normal incident of service to be mentioned in a routine evening’s report to a Regimental Commander. Since the world began there has always been a difference between what actually happens in war and what is told afterwards, but it matters little if certain events actually happen or not in a warrior's life. His person, his power, his bearing guarantee that if things did not happen just like that in every petty detail, they might have and still could do so on a similar occasion. But someone like Agilulf has nothing to sustain his own actions, whether true or false. Either they are set down day by day in verbal reports and taken down in registers, or there's emptiness, blankness. He wanted to reduce his colleagues to sponges of Bordeaux wine, full of boasts, of projects winging into the past without ever having been in the present, of legends attributed to different people and eventually hitched to a suitable protagonist.

Every now and again someone would call Charlemagne in testimony. But the emperor had been in so many wars that he always got confused between one and another and did not really even remember which he was fighting now. His job was to wage war, and at most think of what would come after. Past wars were neither here nor there to him. Everyone knew that tales by chroniclers and bards were to be taken with a grain of salt. The emperor could not be expected to rectify them all. Only when some matter came up with repercussions on military organization, on ranks, for instance, or attribution of titles of nobility or estates, did the king give an opinion. An opinion of a sort, of course; in such matters Charlemagne’s wishes counted for little. He had to stick to the issues at hand, judge by such proofs as were given and see that laws and customs were respected. So when asked his opinion he would shrug his shoulders, keep to generalties, and sometimes get out of it with some such quip as, “Oh! Who knows? War is war, as they say!” Now on this Sir Agilulf of the Guildivern, who kept crumbling bread and contradicting all the feats which—even if not told in versions accurate in every detail—were genuine glories of Frankish arms, Charlemagne felt like setting some heavy task, but he had been told that the knight treated the most tiresome duties as tests of zeal so there was no point in it.

“I don’t see why you must niggle so Agilulf,” said Oliver. “The glory of our feats tends to amplify in the popular memory, thus proving it to be genuine glory, basis of the titles and ranks we have won.”

“Not of mine,” rebutted Agilulf. “Every title and predicate of mine I got for deeds well asserted and supported by incontrovertible documentary evidence!”

“So
you
say!” cried a voice.

“Who spoke will answer to me!” said Agilulf, rising to his feet.

“Calm down, now, be good,” said the others. “You who are always picking at others’ feats, must expect someone to say a word about yours...”

“I offend no one. I limit myself to detailing facts, with place, date and proofs!”

“It was I who spoke. I will detail too.” A young warrior had got up, pale in the face.

“I'd like to see what you can find contestable in my past, Torrismund,” said Agilulf to the youth, who was in fact Torrismund of Cornwall. “Would you deny, for instance, that I was granted my knighthood because, exactly fifteen years ago, I saved from rape by two brigands the King of Scotland’s virgin daughter, Sophronia?”

“Yes, I do contest that Fifteen years ago Sophronia, the King of Scotland’s daughter, was no virgin.”

A bustle went the whole length of the table. The code of chivalry then holding prescribed that whoever saved from certain danger the virginity of a damsel of noble lineage was immediately dubbed knight. But saving from rape a noblewoman no longer a virgin only brought a mention in despatches and three month’s double pay.

“How can you sustain that, which is an affront not only to my dignity as knight but to the lady whom I took under the protection of my sword?”

“I do sustain it.”

“Your proof?”

“Sophronia is my mother.”

A cry of surprise rose from all the paladins’ chests. Was young Torrismund, then, no son of the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall?

“Yes, Sophronia bore me twenty years ago, when she was thirteen years of age,” explained Torrismund. “Here is the medal of the royal house of Scotland,” and rummaging in his breast he took out a seal on a golden chain.

Charlemagne, who till then had kept his face and beard bent over a dish of river prawns, judged that the moment had come to raise his eyes. “Young knight” said he, giving his voice the major Imperial authority, “do you realise the gravity of your words?”

"Fully,” said Torrismund, "for me even more than for others.”

There was silence all round. Torrismund was denying a connection to the Duke of Cornwall which bore with it the title of knight. By declaring himself a bastard, even of a princess of blood royal, he risked dismissal from the army.

But much more serious was Agilulf's position. Before battling for Sophronia when she was attacked by bandits, and saving her virtue; he had been a simple nameless warrior in white armor wandering round the world at a venture; or rather (as was soon known) empty white armor, with no warrior inside. His deed in defense of Sophronia had given him the right to be an armed knight The knighthood of Selimpia Citeriore being vacant just then, he had assumed that title. His entry into service, all ranks and titles added later, were a consequence of that episode. If Sophronia's virginity which he had saved was proved nonexistent, then his knighthood went up in smoke too, and nothing that he had done afterwards could be recognized as valid at all, and his names and titles would be annulled, so that each of his attributions would become as nonexistent as his person.

“When still a child, my mother became pregnant with me,” narrated Torrismund, “and fearing the ire of her parents when they knew her state, fled from the royal castle of Scotland and wandered throughout the highlands. She gave birth to me in the open air, on a heath, and while wandering over fields and woods of England raised me till I was five. Those first memories are of the loveliest period of my life, interrupted by this intruder. I remember the day. My mother had left me to guard our cave, while she went off as usual to rob fruit from the orchards. She met two roving brigands who wanted to abuse her. They might have made friends in the end, who knows, for my mother often lamented her solitude. Then along came this empty armor in search of glory and routed the brigands. Recognizing my mother as of royal blood, he took her under his protection and brought her to the nearest castle, that of Cornwall, where he consigned her to the duke and duchess. Meanwhile I had remained in the cave hungry and alone. As soon as my mother could she confessed to the duke and duchess the existence of her son whom she had been forced to abandon. Servants bearing torches were sent out to search for me and I was brought to the castle. To save the honor of the royal family of Scotland, linked to that of Cornwall by bonds of kinship, I was adopted and recognized as son of the duke and duchess. My life was tedious and burdened with restriction as the lives of cadets of noble houses always are. No longer was I allowed to see my mother, who took the veil in a distant convent. This mountain of falsehood has weighed me down and distorted the natural course of my life. Now finally I have succeeded in telling the truth. Whatever happens to me now must be better than the past."

At table meanwhile the pudding had been served, a sponge in various delicately colored layers, but such was the general amazement at this series of revelations that not a fork was raised towards speechless mouths.

“And you, what have you to say about this story?” Charlemagne asked Agilulf. All noted that he had not said, “Knight.”

“Lies. Sophronia was a virgin. On the flower of her purity repose my honor and my name.”

“Can you prove it?”

“I will search out Sophronia.”

“Do you expect to find her the same fifteen years later?” said Astolfo maliciously. “Breastplates of beaten iron have lasted less.”

“She took the veil immediately after I had consigned her to that pious family.”

“In fifteen years, in times like these, no convent in Christendom has been saved from dispersal and sack, and every nun has had time to de-nun and re-nun herself at least four or five times over.”

“Anyway, violated chastity presupposes a violator. I will find him and obtain proof from him of the date when Sophronia could be considered a virgin.”

“I give you permission to leave this instant, should you so desire,” said the emperor. “I feel that nothing at this moment can be closer to your heart than the right to wear a name and arms now contested. If what this young man says is true I cannot keep you in my service. In fact I can take no account of you, even to make good arrears of pay,” and here Charlemagne could not prevent giving a touch of passing satisfaction to his little speech as if to say, “At last we’ve found a way of getting rid of this bore!”

The white armor now leant forward, and never till that moment had it shown itself so empty. The voice issuing from it was scarcely audible. “Yes, my Emperor, I will go.”

“And you?” Charlemagne turned to Torrismund. “Do you realize that by declaring yourself born out of wedlock you cannot bear the rank due to your birth? Do you at least know who was your father? And have you any hope of his recognizing you?”

“I can never be recognized...”

“One never knows. Every man, when growing older, tends to make out a balance sheet of his whole life. I too have recognized all my children by concubines, and there were many, some certainly not mine at all.”

“My father was no man.”

“And who was he? Beelzebub?”

“No, sire,” said Torrismund calmly.

“Who then?”

Torrismund moved to the middle of the hall, put a knee to the ground, raised his eyes to the sky and said, “ ’Tis the Sacred Order of the Knights of the Holy Grail!”

A murmur rustled over the banqueting table. One or two of the paladins crossed themselves.

“My mother was a bold lass,” explained Torrismund, “and always ran into the deepest woods around the castle. One day in the thick of the forest she met the Knights of the Holy Grail, encamped there to fortify their spirit in isolation from the world. The child began playing with those warriors and from that day she went to their camp every time she could elude family surveillance. But in a short time she returned pregnant from those childish games.”

Charlemagne remained in thought a moment, then said, “The Knights of the Holy Grail have all made a vow of chastity and none of them can ever recognize you as a son.”

“Nor would I wish them to,” said Torrismund. “My mother has never spoken of any knight in particular, but brought me up to respect as a father the Sacred Order as a whole.”

“Then,” added Charlemagne, “the Order as a whole is not bound by any vow of the kind. Nothing therefore prevents it from being recognized as a person’s father. If you succeed in finding the Knights of the Holy Grail and get them to recognize you as son of the whole Order collectively, then your military rights, in view of the Order’s prerogatives, would be no different from those you had as scion of a noble house.”

“I go,” said Torrismund.

It was an evening of departure, that night, in the Frankish camp. Agilulf prepared his baggage and horse meticulously, and his squire Gurduloo rolled up in knapsacks blankets, currycombs, caldrons, which made such a heap they prevented his seeing where he was riding. He took the opposite direction to his master and galloped off, losing everything on the way.

No one had come to greet Agilulf as he left, except a few poor ostlers and blacksmiths who did not make too many distinctions and realized this officer might be fussier but was also unhappier than others. The paladins did not come, with the excuse that they did not know the time of his departure and anyway there was no reason to. Agilulf had not said a word to any of them since coming from the banquet. His departure aroused no comment. When his duties were distributed in such a way that none remained unaccounted for, the absence of the nonexistent knight was thought best left in silence by general consent.

The ony one to be moved, indeed overwhelmed, was Bradamante. She hurried to her tent. “Quick!” she called to her maids and retainers, “Quick!” and flung into the air clothes, armor, lances and omaments, “Quick!” doing this not as usual when undressing or angry, but to have all put in order, make an inventory and leave. “Prepare everything, I'm leaving, leaving, not staying here another minute; he’s gone. The only one who made any sense in this whole army, the only one who can give any sense to my life and my war, and now there’s nothing left but a bunch of louts and nincompoops including myself, and life is just a constant rolling between bed and battle. He alone knew the secret geometry, the order, the rule, by which to understand its beginning and end!” So saying, she put on her country armor piece by piece, and over it her periwinkle robe. Soon she was in the saddle, male in all except the proud way certain true women have of looking virile, spurred her horse to the gallop, dragging down palisades and tents and sausage stalls, and soon vanished into a high cloud of dust.