How far would you go for the most wonderfully crafted dress you have ever seen—especially if you knew that it was the only one available in the entire world? Such a dilemma faces the ladies in King Arthur’s court when a messenger presents the court with a fairy-made mantle, which will be given to the woman to whom it fits. Of course, every girl—queen, lady, and maiden—covets it, but neither they nor King Arthur has any idea what great disgrace awaits them.
From French Lai to Norse Saga
Like many Arthurian materials, the story of the magical mantle finds its origin in the High Middle Ages in France. Composed at the beginning of the thirteenth century, Le lai du cort mantel (‘The Lai of the Short Mantle’) is now preserved in four manuscripts from the same century, which attests to its popularity back in the day. But this is not all: a century later, the story made its way to the North under the title of Möttuls saga, or The Saga of the Mantle, when a corpus of French chivalric literature—including the story of Tristan and Iseult, Chrétien de Troyes’s Arthurian romances, and the lais of Marie de France—was introduced to the Norwegian court under the auspices of King Håkon Håkonsson.
If the goal of translating this literature is to furnish the royal courtiers in Norway with chivalric virtues and the codes of courtly love, it is hard to say precisely why the Mantle story is chosen once you realise what it is about. Nevertheless, Möttuls saga is not only one of the earliest translated romances, but it may well be the first. Although in other places Möttuls saga is an incredibly faithful translation of the French, the translator adds a lengthy prologue to introduce Arthur and all his wonderful merits:
King Arthur was the most renowned ruler with regard to every aspect of valor and all aspects of manliness and chivalry, combined with perfect compassion and most appealing mildness, so that in every respect there was no ruler more renowned or blessed with friends in his day in the world. He was the most valiant at arms, the most generous with gifts, the gentlest in words, the cleverest in his designs, the most benevolent in mercy, the most polished in good manners, the noblest in all kingly craft…
And on and on, as you can imagine. It is as if the translator wishes to lay out all the necessary background information, lest the Norwegian audience/readers may not be familiar with King Arthur and would not immediately associate him with the highest virtues. This seemingly ordinary information is in fact vital, for without it one would not get the parodic nature of Möttuls saga: whatever is described in the Prologue will turn out to be a joke—a joke at the cost of King Arthur and his court.
It All Starts with a Piece of Clothing…
A woman wearing a mantle in Codex Manesse, fol. 151r,
With no further ado, let’s get to the story and see for ourselves what shocking scandal could disgrace such an exemplary court. The story starts the way practically all Arthurian stories start. On the day of Pentecost, Arthur invites all the illustrious knights and kings to his court. The Queen is there too, with her maidens; her attention to dresses is described with great care:
She herself had costly garments. She also gave each of them [the courtly female guests] splendid clothing of all kinds of colors and qualities, and the poorest of them was made of costly stuff and linen with grey and white fur. Whoever would want to look at the clothing carefully would have much to talk about. But I do not want to detain you, and thus I want to say but little about much: that no better garments were in the world than those given to them, and no merchant could have sold them or purchased them for what they were worth.
And, typical of practically all Arthurian stories, a stranger arrives at the court just when people are getting very hungry: it is customary for King Arthur to swear an oath of not eating until he hears some news. Imagine what a relief the stranger must be, not to mention that he turns out to be a normal-looking fellow, not like green or something. He is handsome, eloquent, and courteous—in one word, just the sort of guest you would like to have in your parlour.
But things get even better when the young man produces a silk mantle that is…
so beautiful that mortal eyes had never seen one equally beautiful or one like it. An elf-woman had fashioned it with so much and unbelievable skill that in all that gathering of skilful and intelligent men that had assembled there, there was no one who could perceive in what manner the garment was made. It was shot through with gold with such beautifully embroidered leaves that never the like was seen, for no one could find either the end or the beginning, and what was strangest, moreover, was that those who scrutinized it most closely, could least discover how that wonderful piece of workmanship was put together.
Yet, what else all those ‘skilful and intelligent men’ cannot perceive is that all this is but a trap:
the elf-woman had woven that charm into the mantle that it would at once reveal the misdeeds of every maiden who had been defiled by her beloved. When she dressed in it, the mantle would be too long for her or too short in such a flagrant manner as to become short so that it revealed in what manner she had sinned. Thus, it exposed all false women and maidens, so that nothing could be hidden when it was put on.
Having obtained a boon from the unsuspecting Arthur that he will grant the elf-woman who crafted the mantle—through the messenger—whatever she wishes for, the young man offers the beautiful mantle to Queen Guinevere and … UH-OH! To everybody’s surprise, the mantle suddenly falls short (literally) ‘that it does not reach her heels’! To make things even more embarrassing for Guinevere, now that everyone (else) has been told what sort of magic the mantle wields, everyone understands what Guinevere has done. …
To Be Followed by a Walk of Shame
Guinevere depicted by Howard Pyle illustration from the 1903 edition of The Story of King Arthur and His Knights
Having realised that she is being mocked but not understanding why, Guinevere becomes both ashamed and angry. But, being the queen, there is always someone at her side who is happy to save her from any kind of trouble, even though Lancelot is not present. The page Meon runs to her rescue. ‘Lady, he says, the mantle does not seem to fit (as we all can see), but perhaps you might be kind enough to let that maiden standing beside you try it instead?’
Of course, Guinevere is kind enough to allow it; she could not have been happier to let this unfortunate moment pass, and (hopefully) be forgotten as soon as possible. The unfortunate girl next to her is the sweetheart of Aristes, son of king Artus. She takes the mantle, puts it on—et voilà! The mantle becomes even shorter on her than it was on the Queen.
‘Madam’, says Gawain, ‘it seems to me that you are somewhat more faithful than she is, and yet, you are somewhat alike and there is less falsehood in you than in her.’ But what is this faithfulness you were talking about, pray tell? Sir Kay, whose reputation of having a big (and vicious) mouth follows him all the way to the North, tells Guinevere the secret of the mantle and the implications of it becoming short on her. To avenge her shame, Guinevere decides to turn this joke on her into a joke on everybody else. She invites all women present to try the mantle—in public.
Thus begins the walk of shame. The ladies at the banquet, however reluctant, have no choice but to put on the mantle. Sir Kay is unusually excited about it, for he knows only too well that what happens next will be an unprecedented opportunity for him to insult everybody in one go. Yet, in his happiness he becomes blindly confident, to the extent that he singles out his sweetheart and asks her to try the mantle when no one dares to step out. As soon as the girl puts on the mantle, it ‘became so short for her in back that it hardly reached the hollow of her knees. But in front it did not even reach the knees.’
This spectacle turns Kay into a laughing stock: ‘Kay, the steward, can rejoice much in your love, and practice great deeds of chivalry for your sake, for now your fidelity has been manifested, so that we may all know that no one like you can be found in the realm of the king of England.’
Up to this point, it should become quite clear to us readers that it is not really the women’s reputation that is at stake, but the men’s—what kind of man would it make you if your beloved preferred someone else, in a world where love and valour so closely depend on each other?
The failure of his lover incites Kay even more; now he urges every girl to put on the mantle. That he is mocked only increases his desire to mock the others, so he would not look as bad as he already does. One by one, they fail; the mantle always becomes short, revealing one body part or another.
Although it is understood that the women put on the mantle over their dresses, Kay’s comments give an effect of nudity, as if their naked bodies are exposed in public along with their shame. When it is the turn of Gawain’s lady friend, for instance, the mantle:
was so long for her in back that she dragged it behind her for four-and-a-half ells, but in front it shrank to her knee but on the left side it rose as high as her back … “By my troth,” said Kay, the steward, “praised by God. I shall not be disgraced alone today because of my beloved, for what I now concluded from the mantle. I can easily interpret what that means: This beautiful maiden has raised up her right leg but the left leg she let lie quietly while she allowed what she wished from him who pleased her.”
All’s Well That Ends Well?
A 17th-century copy of Möttuls saga – AM 179 fol. f.214r
When all the ladies present have failed the mantle test, the court starts to feel pressure. Things are not looking good. It is not only the women who are exposed by the magical mantle, but the whole court is exposed: if Arthur’s court is really the ‘paragon of virtue’ as the Prologue claims, how is it that not a single knight is worthy enough to retain their lover’s faith? Moreover, if there is an adulteress, there is an adulterer; the men are just as faithless as the women. Just as Sir Gawain concludes: ‘She herself is evil on account of her deeds and vice as is he who has consented to her follies.’ The illusion of the virtuous court painted by the Prologue has collapsed; the court is revealed to be but a sham.
Yet there must also be a sense of relief: if everyone is guilty, then no one is guilty. At least no one will be able to judge if no one stands on a higher moral ground than the rest. The messenger, however, is thoroughly disappointed. Are you sure those are all the ladies you have here? If so, then my cause is truly lost, for if your court—‘have fame and renown above all other people in the world’—cannot produce a single faithful maiden, then there is no hope elsewhere in this world.
Therefore, like Cinderella’s prince, who in despair clings to the last straw of hope, the young messenger urges them to look into every chamber to dig up any lady who may be sitting or sleeping, unaware of what is going on in the hall.
Their labour is spent in vain. A girl is indeed found—the beloved of the knight Karadin; she is indisposed that day and therefore resting in bed the entire time. When the maiden enters the hall, Karadin is distressed, because he’d rather live in the bubble than know that she betrayed him, if she has really betrayed him. ‘Sweet beloved,’ he said, ‘if you have gone astray in any way, then don’t ever come near the mantle, because I love you so sincerely, that I certainly don’t want to lose your love for all the world’s gold, even though I were to know of any misdeed of yours.’ Yet the girl, having graciously asked for permission to try on the mantle, puts it on in front of the whole court.
To Karadin’s relief and joy, the mantle fits her so well that, ‘it was neither too short nor too long; rather, it reached the ground evenly on all sides’. By doing so, she proves that she is the most—and only—faithful lover within the entire court, therefore the rightful owner of the mantle. All the women are standing around sulky, envious of the girl over the mantle, but at the same time they have no one to blame but themselves. While the messenger hurries back to his lady, the whole court finally sits down to eat. Although heavy in heart, King Arthur keeps his court as entertained as possible; the feast is just as splendid as ever.
At the end of the day, just as everyone is ready to live down this whole adventure, Karadin steps forward and asks to leave. He departs from the court with his beloved and the mantle, which is later entrusted to a monastery for safekeeping. It is as if Karadin knows that, by being the only faithful couple, they have now become the outsiders of this sham of a court exposed by the mantle. There is no place for them—even if there is, they probably don’t want it anymore.
Minjie Su is a Post Doctoral Fellow at the University of Oslo. She studies Old Norse (and some other old things), and researches werewolves in medieval Icelandic literature. She is a self-labelled artist of the Post-Pre-Raphaelites and is also a knower of cats.
By Minjie Su
How far would you go for the most wonderfully crafted dress you have ever seen—especially if you knew that it was the only one available in the entire world? Such a dilemma faces the ladies in King Arthur’s court when a messenger presents the court with a fairy-made mantle, which will be given to the woman to whom it fits. Of course, every girl—queen, lady, and maiden—covets it, but neither they nor King Arthur has any idea what great disgrace awaits them.
From French Lai to Norse Saga
Like many Arthurian materials, the story of the magical mantle finds its origin in the High Middle Ages in France. Composed at the beginning of the thirteenth century, Le lai du cort mantel (‘The Lai of the Short Mantle’) is now preserved in four manuscripts from the same century, which attests to its popularity back in the day. But this is not all: a century later, the story made its way to the North under the title of Möttuls saga, or The Saga of the Mantle, when a corpus of French chivalric literature—including the story of Tristan and Iseult, Chrétien de Troyes’s Arthurian romances, and the lais of Marie de France—was introduced to the Norwegian court under the auspices of King Håkon Håkonsson.
If the goal of translating this literature is to furnish the royal courtiers in Norway with chivalric virtues and the codes of courtly love, it is hard to say precisely why the Mantle story is chosen once you realise what it is about. Nevertheless, Möttuls saga is not only one of the earliest translated romances, but it may well be the first. Although in other places Möttuls saga is an incredibly faithful translation of the French, the translator adds a lengthy prologue to introduce Arthur and all his wonderful merits:
King Arthur was the most renowned ruler with regard to every aspect of valor and all aspects of manliness and chivalry, combined with perfect compassion and most appealing mildness, so that in every respect there was no ruler more renowned or blessed with friends in his day in the world. He was the most valiant at arms, the most generous with gifts, the gentlest in words, the cleverest in his designs, the most benevolent in mercy, the most polished in good manners, the noblest in all kingly craft…
And on and on, as you can imagine. It is as if the translator wishes to lay out all the necessary background information, lest the Norwegian audience/readers may not be familiar with King Arthur and would not immediately associate him with the highest virtues. This seemingly ordinary information is in fact vital, for without it one would not get the parodic nature of Möttuls saga: whatever is described in the Prologue will turn out to be a joke—a joke at the cost of King Arthur and his court.
It All Starts with a Piece of Clothing…
With no further ado, let’s get to the story and see for ourselves what shocking scandal could disgrace such an exemplary court. The story starts the way practically all Arthurian stories start. On the day of Pentecost, Arthur invites all the illustrious knights and kings to his court. The Queen is there too, with her maidens; her attention to dresses is described with great care:
She herself had costly garments. She also gave each of them [the courtly female guests] splendid clothing of all kinds of colors and qualities, and the poorest of them was made of costly stuff and linen with grey and white fur. Whoever would want to look at the clothing carefully would have much to talk about. But I do not want to detain you, and thus I want to say but little about much: that no better garments were in the world than those given to them, and no merchant could have sold them or purchased them for what they were worth.
And, typical of practically all Arthurian stories, a stranger arrives at the court just when people are getting very hungry: it is customary for King Arthur to swear an oath of not eating until he hears some news. Imagine what a relief the stranger must be, not to mention that he turns out to be a normal-looking fellow, not like green or something. He is handsome, eloquent, and courteous—in one word, just the sort of guest you would like to have in your parlour.
But things get even better when the young man produces a silk mantle that is…
so beautiful that mortal eyes had never seen one equally beautiful or one like it. An elf-woman had fashioned it with so much and unbelievable skill that in all that gathering of skilful and intelligent men that had assembled there, there was no one who could perceive in what manner the garment was made. It was shot through with gold with such beautifully embroidered leaves that never the like was seen, for no one could find either the end or the beginning, and what was strangest, moreover, was that those who scrutinized it most closely, could least discover how that wonderful piece of workmanship was put together.
Yet, what else all those ‘skilful and intelligent men’ cannot perceive is that all this is but a trap:
the elf-woman had woven that charm into the mantle that it would at once reveal the misdeeds of every maiden who had been defiled by her beloved. When she dressed in it, the mantle would be too long for her or too short in such a flagrant manner as to become short so that it revealed in what manner she had sinned. Thus, it exposed all false women and maidens, so that nothing could be hidden when it was put on.
Having obtained a boon from the unsuspecting Arthur that he will grant the elf-woman who crafted the mantle—through the messenger—whatever she wishes for, the young man offers the beautiful mantle to Queen Guinevere and … UH-OH! To everybody’s surprise, the mantle suddenly falls short (literally) ‘that it does not reach her heels’! To make things even more embarrassing for Guinevere, now that everyone (else) has been told what sort of magic the mantle wields, everyone understands what Guinevere has done. …
To Be Followed by a Walk of Shame
Having realised that she is being mocked but not understanding why, Guinevere becomes both ashamed and angry. But, being the queen, there is always someone at her side who is happy to save her from any kind of trouble, even though Lancelot is not present. The page Meon runs to her rescue. ‘Lady, he says, the mantle does not seem to fit (as we all can see), but perhaps you might be kind enough to let that maiden standing beside you try it instead?’
Of course, Guinevere is kind enough to allow it; she could not have been happier to let this unfortunate moment pass, and (hopefully) be forgotten as soon as possible. The unfortunate girl next to her is the sweetheart of Aristes, son of king Artus. She takes the mantle, puts it on—et voilà! The mantle becomes even shorter on her than it was on the Queen.
‘Madam’, says Gawain, ‘it seems to me that you are somewhat more faithful than she is, and yet, you are somewhat alike and there is less falsehood in you than in her.’ But what is this faithfulness you were talking about, pray tell? Sir Kay, whose reputation of having a big (and vicious) mouth follows him all the way to the North, tells Guinevere the secret of the mantle and the implications of it becoming short on her. To avenge her shame, Guinevere decides to turn this joke on her into a joke on everybody else. She invites all women present to try the mantle—in public.
Thus begins the walk of shame. The ladies at the banquet, however reluctant, have no choice but to put on the mantle. Sir Kay is unusually excited about it, for he knows only too well that what happens next will be an unprecedented opportunity for him to insult everybody in one go. Yet, in his happiness he becomes blindly confident, to the extent that he singles out his sweetheart and asks her to try the mantle when no one dares to step out. As soon as the girl puts on the mantle, it ‘became so short for her in back that it hardly reached the hollow of her knees. But in front it did not even reach the knees.’
This spectacle turns Kay into a laughing stock: ‘Kay, the steward, can rejoice much in your love, and practice great deeds of chivalry for your sake, for now your fidelity has been manifested, so that we may all know that no one like you can be found in the realm of the king of England.’
Up to this point, it should become quite clear to us readers that it is not really the women’s reputation that is at stake, but the men’s—what kind of man would it make you if your beloved preferred someone else, in a world where love and valour so closely depend on each other?
The failure of his lover incites Kay even more; now he urges every girl to put on the mantle. That he is mocked only increases his desire to mock the others, so he would not look as bad as he already does. One by one, they fail; the mantle always becomes short, revealing one body part or another.
Although it is understood that the women put on the mantle over their dresses, Kay’s comments give an effect of nudity, as if their naked bodies are exposed in public along with their shame. When it is the turn of Gawain’s lady friend, for instance, the mantle:
was so long for her in back that she dragged it behind her for four-and-a-half ells, but in front it shrank to her knee but on the left side it rose as high as her back … “By my troth,” said Kay, the steward, “praised by God. I shall not be disgraced alone today because of my beloved, for what I now concluded from the mantle. I can easily interpret what that means: This beautiful maiden has raised up her right leg but the left leg she let lie quietly while she allowed what she wished from him who pleased her.”
All’s Well That Ends Well?
When all the ladies present have failed the mantle test, the court starts to feel pressure. Things are not looking good. It is not only the women who are exposed by the magical mantle, but the whole court is exposed: if Arthur’s court is really the ‘paragon of virtue’ as the Prologue claims, how is it that not a single knight is worthy enough to retain their lover’s faith? Moreover, if there is an adulteress, there is an adulterer; the men are just as faithless as the women. Just as Sir Gawain concludes: ‘She herself is evil on account of her deeds and vice as is he who has consented to her follies.’ The illusion of the virtuous court painted by the Prologue has collapsed; the court is revealed to be but a sham.
Yet there must also be a sense of relief: if everyone is guilty, then no one is guilty. At least no one will be able to judge if no one stands on a higher moral ground than the rest. The messenger, however, is thoroughly disappointed. Are you sure those are all the ladies you have here? If so, then my cause is truly lost, for if your court—‘have fame and renown above all other people in the world’—cannot produce a single faithful maiden, then there is no hope elsewhere in this world.
Therefore, like Cinderella’s prince, who in despair clings to the last straw of hope, the young messenger urges them to look into every chamber to dig up any lady who may be sitting or sleeping, unaware of what is going on in the hall.
Their labour is spent in vain. A girl is indeed found—the beloved of the knight Karadin; she is indisposed that day and therefore resting in bed the entire time. When the maiden enters the hall, Karadin is distressed, because he’d rather live in the bubble than know that she betrayed him, if she has really betrayed him. ‘Sweet beloved,’ he said, ‘if you have gone astray in any way, then don’t ever come near the mantle, because I love you so sincerely, that I certainly don’t want to lose your love for all the world’s gold, even though I were to know of any misdeed of yours.’ Yet the girl, having graciously asked for permission to try on the mantle, puts it on in front of the whole court.
To Karadin’s relief and joy, the mantle fits her so well that, ‘it was neither too short nor too long; rather, it reached the ground evenly on all sides’. By doing so, she proves that she is the most—and only—faithful lover within the entire court, therefore the rightful owner of the mantle. All the women are standing around sulky, envious of the girl over the mantle, but at the same time they have no one to blame but themselves. While the messenger hurries back to his lady, the whole court finally sits down to eat. Although heavy in heart, King Arthur keeps his court as entertained as possible; the feast is just as splendid as ever.
At the end of the day, just as everyone is ready to live down this whole adventure, Karadin steps forward and asks to leave. He departs from the court with his beloved and the mantle, which is later entrusted to a monastery for safekeeping. It is as if Karadin knows that, by being the only faithful couple, they have now become the outsiders of this sham of a court exposed by the mantle. There is no place for them—even if there is, they probably don’t want it anymore.
Minjie Su is a Post Doctoral Fellow at the University of Oslo. She studies Old Norse (and some other old things), and researches werewolves in medieval Icelandic literature. She is a self-labelled artist of the Post-Pre-Raphaelites and is also a knower of cats.
Click here to read more articles from Minjie Su
Further Readings:
An English translation of Möttuls saga can be found in The Romance of Arthur: An Anthology of Medieval Texts in Translation, edited by Norris Lacy and James Wilhelm
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