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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! They both seem to be all right, so far.’
Sir Grummore and King Pellinore laboriously got up.
‘Defend thee,’ cried King Pellinore.
‘God save thee,’ cried Sir Grummore.
With this they drew their swords and rushed together with such ferocity that each, after dealing the other a dent on the helm, sat down suddenly backwards.
‘Bah!’ cried King Pellinore.
‘Booh!’ cried Sir Grummore, also sitting down.
‘Mercy,’ exclaimed the Wart. ‘What a combat!’
The knights had now lost their tempers and the battle was joined in earnest. It did not matter much, however, for they were so encased in metal that they could not do each other much damage. It took them so long to get up, and the dealing of a blow when you weighed the eighth part of a ton was such a cumbrous business, that every stage of the contest could be marked and pondered.
In the first stage King Pellinore and Sir Grummore stood opposite each other for about half an hour, and walloped each other on the helm. There was only opportunity for one blow at a time, so they more or less took it in turns, King Pellinore striking while Sir Grummore was recovering, and vice versa. At first, if either of them dropped his sword or got it stuck in the ground, the other put in two or three extra blows while he was patiently fumbling for it or trying to tug it out. Later, they fell into the rhythm of the thing more perfectly, like the toy mechanical people who saw wood on Christmas trees. Eventually the exercise and the monotony restored their good humour and they began to get bored.
The second stage was introduced as a change, by common consent. Sir Grummore stumped off to one end of the clearing, while King Pellinore plodded off to the other. Then they turned round and swayed backward and forward once or twice, in order to get their weight on their toes. When they leaned forward they had to run forward, to keep up with their weight, and if they leaned too far backward they fell down. So even walking was complicated. When they had got their weight properly distributed in front of them, so that they were just off their balance, each broke into a trot to keep up with himself. They hurtled together as it had been two boars.
They met in the middle, breast to breast, with a noise of shipwreck and great bells tolling, and both, bouncing off, fell breathless on their backs. They lay thus for a few minutes, panting. Then they slowly began to heave themselves to their feet, and it was obvious that they had lost their tempers once again.
King Pellinore had not only lost his temper but he seemed to have been a bit astonished by the impact. He got up facing the wrong way, and could not find Sir Grummore. There was some excuse for this, since he had only a slit to peep through – and that was three inches away from his eye owing to the padding of straw – but he looked muddled as well. Perhaps he had broken his spectacles. Sir Grummore was quick to seize advantage.
‘Take that!’ cried Sir Grummore, giving the unfortunate monarch a two-handed swipe on the nob as he was slowly turning his head from side to side, peering in the opposite direction.
King Pellinore turned round morosely, but his opponent had been too quick for him. He had ambled round so that he was still behind the King, and now gave him another terrific blow in the same place.
‘Where are you?’ asked King Pellinore.
‘Here,’ cried Sir Grummore, giving him another.
‘The poor King turned himself round as nimbly as possible, but Sir Grummore had given him the slip again.
‘Tally-ho back!’ shouted Sir Grummore, with another wallop.
‘I think you’re a cad,’ said the King.
‘Wallop!’ replied Sir Grummore, doing it.
What with the preliminary crash, the repeated blows on the back of his head, and the puzzling nature of his opponent, King Pellinore could now be seen to be visibly troubled in his brains. He swayed backward and forward under the hail of blows which were administered, and feebly wagged his arms.
‘Poor King,’ said the Wart. ‘I wish he would not hit him so.’
As if in answer to his wish, Sir Grummore paused in his labours.
‘Do you want Pax?’ asked Sir Grummore.
King Pellinore made no answer.
Sir Grummore favoured him with another whack and said, ‘If you don’t say Pax, I shall cut your head off.’
‘I won’t,’ said the King.
Whang! went the sword on top of his head.
Whang! it went again.
Whang! for the third time.
‘Pax,’ said King Pellinore, mumbling rather.
Then, just as Sir Grummore was relaxing with the fruits of victory, he swung round upon him, shouted, ‘Non!’ at the top of his voice, and gave him a good push in the middle of the chest.
Sir Grummore fell over backwards.
‘Well!’ exclaimed the Wart. ‘What a cheat! I would not have thought it of him.’
King Pellinore hurriedly sat on his victim’s chest, thus increasing the weight upon him to a quarter of a ton and making it quite impossible for him to move, and began to undo Sir Grummore’s helm.
‘You said Pax!’
‘I said Pax Non under my breath.’
‘It’s a swindle.’
‘It’s not.’
‘You’re a cad.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘I said Pax Non.’
‘You said Pax.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Yes, you did.’
By this time Sir Grummore’s helm was unlaced and they could see his bare head glaring at King Pellinore, quite purple in the face.
‘Yield thee, recreant,’ said the King.
‘Shan’t,’ said Sir Grummore.
‘You have got to yield, or I shall cut off your head.’
‘Cut it off then.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said the King. ‘You know you have to yield when your helm is off.’
‘Feign I,’ said Sir Grummore.
‘Well, I shall just cut your head off.’
‘I don’t care.’
The King waved his sword menacingly in the air.
‘Go on,’ said Sir Grummore. ‘I dare you to.’
The King lowered his sword and said, ‘Oh, I say, do yield, please.’
‘You yield,’ said Sir Grummore.
‘But I can’t yield. I am on top of you after all, am I not, what?’
‘Well, I have feigned yieldin’.’
‘Oh, come on, Grummore. I do think you are a cad not to yield. You know very well I can’t cut your head off.’
‘I would not yield to a cheat who started fightin’ after he said Pax.’
‘I am not a cheat.’
‘You are a cheat,’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘Very well,’ said King Pellinore. ‘You can jolly well get up and put on your helm and we will have a fight. I won’t be called a cheat for anybody.’
‘Cheat!’ said Sir Grummore.
They stood up and fumbled together with the helm, hissing, ‘No, I’m not’ – ‘Yes, you are,’ until it was safely on. Then they retreated to opposite ends of the clearing, got their weight upon their toes, and came rumbling and thundering together like two runaway trams.
Unfortunately they were now so cross that they had both ceased to be vigilant, and in the fury of the moment they missed each other altogether. The momentum of their armour was too great for them to stop till they had passed each other handsomely, and then they manœuvred about in such a manner that neither happened to come within the other’s range of vision. It was funny watching them because King Pellinore, having already been caught from behind once, was continually spinning round to look behind him, and Sir Grummore, having used the stratagem himself, was doing the same thing. Thus they wandered for some five minutes, standing still, listening, clanking, crouching, creeping, peering, walking on tiptoe, and occasionally making a chance swipe behind their backs. Once they were standing within a few feet of each other, back to back, only to stalk off in opposite directions with infinite precaution, and once King Pellinore did hit Sir Grummore with one of his back strokes, but they both immediately spun round so often that they became giddy and mislaid each other afresh.
After five minutes Sir Grummore said, ‘All right, Pellinore. It is no use hidin’. I can see where you are.’
‘I am not hiding,’ exclaimed King Pellinore indignantly. ‘Where am I?’
They discovered each other and went up close together, face to face.
‘Cad,’ said Sir Grummore.
‘Yah,’ said King Pellinore.
They turned round and marched off to their corners, seething with indignation.
‘Swindler,’ shouted Sir Grummore.
‘Beastly bully,’ shouted King Pellinore.
With this they summoned all their energies together for one decisive encounter, leaned forward, lowered their heads like two billy-goats, and positively sprinted together for the final blow. Alas, their aim was poor. They missed each other by about five yards, passed at full steam doing at least eight knots, like ships that pass in the night but speak not to each other in passing, and hurtled onward to their doom. Both knights began waving their arms like windmills, anti-clockwise, in the vain effort to slow up. Both continued with undiminished speed. Then Sir Grummore rammed his head against the beech in which the Wart was sitting, and King Pellinore collided with a chestnut at the other side of the clearing. The trees shook, the forest rang. Blackbirds and squirrels cursed and wood-pigeons flew out of their leafy perches half a mile away. The two knights stood to attention while one could count three. Then, with a last unanimous melodious clang, they both fell prostrate on the fatal sward.
