The Coward's Weapon

Say I handed you a weapon. It was something completely unlike anything you'd seen before: a device that could take out an attacker before he even knew you were there. It could be wielded in complete stealth, with excellent accuracy, and it wasn't expensive to make.

I am speaking, of course, of the bow.

As long as there have been bows, there have been legends associated with them. It makes perfect sense: at heart, the bow is an impossibly miraculous weapon. It puts the rich man in armor on the same playing field as the peasant with good aim and access to a yew tree. It ensures a certain amount of protection for its wielder - a good archer can get rid of a lot of foes before they get close enough to hit him back. Legends can't ignore the bow; they're full of archers, most of them crack shots. But no one can quite make up their mind about what the weapon says about the wielder.

Mostly, anyway. There is one true cowardly archer: Paris of Troy. In a culture where courage is measured by risking life and limb in a chariot melee, the pretty boy who shoots arrows from behind his city walls is never going to get much respect. When Paris and Menelaus fight their duel over Helen, it's implicit that the bow is not an allowed weapon: real men fight face-to-face, not bow-to-shield. Paris's slaying of Achilles is hideously ironic - the greatest warrior of the age, a man who physically attacked a river and won, is killed with the weapon of a coward. It's deliciously karmic that the Greeks turn Paris's own weapon against him; his killer, Philoctetes, inherited from Heracles the bow and poisoned arrows he uses to take out Paris. But that very act takes some of the sting out of the taunting of Paris as a fraidy-cat archer. He may sleep around with another man's wife while his brothers die in the dust, but his archery was something not only to be feared, but to be emulated. Even when it's the coward's weapon, a good bow is worth having on your side.

Errol Flynn as Robin Hood, Warner Bros.

Things could only get better for the bow, and did they ever. From the moment Robin Hood shot his first arrow, the bow was enshrined in legend as the weapon of the underdog. So you can't afford a sword or chain mail or a war horse? No problem! You can go them one better. For a few hours of labor, you can make yourself an armor-piercing weapon that keeps you out of reach of a sword's edge or a horse's hooves. Rebels from William Tell to Katniss Everdeen embrace the bow's practical and symbolic value. Armed with bows, the oppressed masses are no longer defenseless. Singlehandedly, an archer can start a rebellion; get a group of Merry Men together, and you've got a full-scale coup on your hands. The sheer nature of the weapon - requiring forethought and planning - also seems to influence its wielders: legendary archers tend to be far more strategically minded than swordsmen.

Eventually, nobility is allowed to use the bow. One of the engagement challenges for the hand of Princess Yasodhara requires her suitors to string and bend a massive bow. Siddhartha, the future Buddha, calmly fires off an arrow as well, when no other suitor had even managed to string the weapon. Similarly, Odysseus is the only man who can use his own personal bow; his reclamation of kingdom and queen truly begins when he completes Penelope's impossible challenge. But the nobility is still weird about archery; both instances are the only times we see either hero use a bow, and they're relegated firmly to the arena of showmanship, with no practical side in evidence. Rama is rarely depicted without a bow, but Rama is in a strange fix: undeniably royal, he's also a prince in exile. He may be the only noble to escape without censure from the practical wartime use of a bow.

Jennifer Lawrence as Katniss Everdeen, Lionsgate

Most recently, the bow has become an oddly gendered weapon. In an unfortunate modern transposition, the "cowardly" archer has become "feminine." The two best-known archers in pop culture are Katniss and Legolas. One's a girl, one's played by Orlando Bloom. Women in stories set in or influenced by the Middle Ages have a choice of two weapons: the knife, for close work when her protection has failed, or the bow, to keep her out of danger but still enable her to please a modern audience by fighting. It's the same stigma that Paris dealt with: men don't fight from a distance, ergo men don't use bows. And the complexity of Katniss, currently the most visible archer around, means that while we admire her incredible aim and accuracy, we are always horrifyingly aware of what it costs her to use her skill to kill. She's not a good-versus-evil hero, and while her weapon represents rebellion, she's not one with it in the same way that Robin Hood is.

It's a weird full-circle situation, with the bow slipping off its rebellious pedestal into, if not ill repute, certainly a loss of luster. And it's hard to predict exactly where the bow will wind up next. But it will probably always be the weapon of revolution; its equalizing nature will never change. It will circle back around to pure uncomplicated heroism, and then around again as we remember what long-range weapons do to a gallant charge of heroes. It's a complicated weapon, and it'll probably always make us a little bit nervous.

Part of Your World: Limited Engagement Only

Adrift at Sea, Nilah Magruder

So much fuss gets made over the little mermaid who failed to nab a prince that we tend to forget the scores of supernatural women who succeeded. Human men, it seems, are a hot commodity on mythical women's mash notes. And with the exception of Andersen's strangely blind prince, they tend to be rather eager for a supernatural wife. Which is no surprise - these are, after all, magical women whose goodwill can ensure success and wealth.

Some men actively set out to catch an otherworldly wife. There are endless tales of men who steal a mermaid's red cap or a selkie's sealskin to trap her on land. Others go about their wooing more delicately, like the Shepherd of Myddfai offering his chosen mermaid a bite of bread to entice her to a life on shore. Still others are forcefully wooed. The Fairy Queen is notorious for abducting handsome men with nice voices, regardless of their opinions. But the benefits of having a supernatural lover are immense. Without exception, the women's influence - from magical blessings to excellent housekeeping - win the men comfort and renown for their good luck.

So everyone's happy, right?

Not so fast. This is the fairy world. There's always a catch.

Loss, Cheryl Kirk Noll

Supernatural brides hold to the letter of their bargains. Make one wrong move (three at most), and they pop out of your life as suddenly as they entered it, taking all their magical support with them. The classic setup goes thusly: upon engagement, the bride names a single condition with which the groom must comply. Melusine forbids her husband to look at her while she bathes; the mermaid of Myddfai (in a nice move for women's rights) vows to leave her husband if he strikes her three times; the Crane Wife won't let her husband watch her weave the cloth that brings them wealth. Sounds easy, up until curiosity kills the cat and the husbands have to look, or lose their temper, or forget to lock up the sealskin. There's no fooling a supernatural bride, either. They know when the deal is broken. (Melusine's husband tries to lie to her, which only makes him look worse.)

What's more, when they go, they never come back. Volund's marriage to Hervor the Valkyrie, a perfectly happy one, ends for good when she decides she misses her old life. The husbands of local selkies get no warning when their wives discover their sealskins and return to the sea; some stories have the bereft husband walking the shore for the rest of his life, searching for his lost bride. Melusine's husband has an extra worry: in addition to the loss of his wife, he frets that she's cursed him and his lands in vengeance.

Wayland, Max Koch

Once the contract is broken, supernatural brides aren't known for their generosity. Mermaids tend to abandon their families before their children are grown and able to take over their mother's duties. The Crane Wife leaves her husband's only source of income unfinished. Volund gets bit worst: as soon as Hervor's gone, the local king orders Volund hamstrung and trapped on an island so no one else can have access to his superior smithing skills. (To be fair, Volund bites back, making the king some drinking goblets out of the skulls of the king's sons, and also raping and impregnating his only daughter, before escaping on wings he'd made in secret. All par for the course in a Norse legend.) The mermaid of Myddfai is extraordinarily generous in that, while she takes back her dowry of cattle, she also blesses her descendants with phenomenal healing powers and watches over the town. No other supernatural bride ever looks back.

Mephistophilis Appears to Doctor Faustus

The trappings of these stories are eerily similar to the tales of men who sell their souls to the devil. In exchange for instant benefits, the man makes a letter-of-the-law deal with a creature not of this world, which will hit hard when the contract inevitably runs out. True, a mermaid bride isn't quite on the same level as Mephistophilis, but the women of Melusine's line were rumored to be witches up through the Wars of the Roses. The supernatural creature retains all rights; only the human stands to lose. In some cases, the bride manipulates the terms of the contract. The mermaid of Myddfai counts an impatient "hurry up" tap on the shoulder as one of the three blows that will entitle her to return to the lake; the Fairy Queen sends True Thomas back to our world when she gets bored of him, neglecting to tell him that seven years have passed while he partied for a night in Fairyland. This is straight-up Doctor Faustus material: the seduction of a human by mystical forces that disguise the truth without ever outright lying.

Mermaid, Laurent Miny

Granted, the brides don't intend anything as sinister as dragging their husbands into Hell. But the one-sided arrangements, and the clear evidence that the power rests with the females, indicate a serious reversal of the normal run of things. It's uncomfortably easy to make the jump of reasoning that a powerful woman is on par with the devil, or at the very least in possession of abilities that are too dangerous for humans to be around for long. The Melusine story in particular throws gas on the fire: between the snake-woman and the monstrous children she bears, her identification with the devil couldn't be clearer.

So maybe there's a reason we forget those stories. They overturn the status quo. They remind us that there are forces we don't and will never understand. Like their heroines, they seduce with the promise of happiness and dash our hopes without warning. They're not comfortable bedtime stories; they're tales of man against nature, often without a clear villain or victor. Stories like that don't make for sweet dreams.

A Gold-Digger's Nightmare

If things work out right, being a fairy tale heroine is a sweet gig. You can rise overnight from nobody to royalty. You can make your fortune through luck, wits, or virtue, without having to compromise or scratch anyone's back. You can guarantee your safety for the rest of your life.

Unless you happen to have married an absolute freakshow. And trust me. They're out there.

Bluebeard, Hermann Vogel

Take, for instance, the obvious Bluebeard. Here's a guy rolling in money and power who gets his kicks by playing on his impressionable bride's curiosity and cutting off her head when she dares to disobey him in one way. Lather, rinse, and repeat ad nauseam until karma catches up with him and he marries a girl with rather aggressive brothers. Are wealth and security really worth putting up with such an abusive control freak?

I'd like to say no, but then I run into Shahryar, whose wife's infidelity broke his brain so much that he went on a marry-and-murder spree, decimating the young female population of his own country to prevent himself from being deceived in love again. While it's clear that no one besides Shahryar is in favor of this policy, the fact remains that girls kept marrying him every day for three years.

A Tale of 1001 Nights, Gustave Boulanger

By the time Scheherazade comes up with her plan to save her fellow women, it's explicitly stated that Shahryar has gone through every girl but our heroine and her little sister. Some were smuggled away; some families fled wholesale. But the most Shahryar's subjects do is pray for deliverance. There's no rebellion of outraged fathers who've had enough. The privilege of being sultana, even if only for a day and a night, was so substantial that it kept a steady stream of girls going into the palace to die.

Of course, not all abuse is as physical as Shahryar's and Bluebeard's. The medieval archetype of the perfect wife was Griselda, whose classic rags-to-riches story is the final tale in The Decameron. Beautiful peasant girl catches the eye of nobleman, who does the right thing and marries her. And then, because he's an emotionally manipulative asshole, he decides to test his wife's virtue and see if she's worthy of the great honor of being raised so high.

The Clerk's Tale, Janet Harvey Kelman

First he tells her that his people are upset that she's only given birth to a daughter. She apologizes. So he has their baby taken away and tells Griselda that he's going to have their daughter killed, when in fact he sends her secretly away to be fostered. When Griselda has a son, he says that his people don't want a peasant's grandson to rule over them, so he has the boy sent away and tells Griselda the same story. She never complains.

Fast forward about 10 years. Lord Bastard McEviljerk isn't done yet.

He tells Griselda that their marriage is over and sends her back to her father's hut. She asks only for a shift in which to return. Then her sort-of ex-husband announces his engagement to a properly noble girl

The Story of Patient Griselda, Master
of the Story of Griselda

and orders Griselda, who knows the running of his castle better than anyone, to prepare the wedding feast for her replacement. Which she does, without complaint.

Of course, the "new bride" is in fact Griselda's long-lost daughter, accompanied by her brother. All is revealed, Griselda is reinstated, and my brain is broken almost as badly as Shahryar's, because for the love of God, why is this a happy ending?! The lord is despicable even within the context of the story; his people scold him for his rank mistreatment of his wife. Griselda's virtues are all of her time; she's not a character, she's a medieval idealization of submission, with no will of her own. There is no way to make this story palatable for modern audiences. Not when the nominal hero is an appalling abuser, and the heroine either too spineless or too intimidated ever to speak out in her own defense. The payoff - raising Griselda back to nobility - is as condescending as the setup, coming as it does from the husband who did everything he could to destroy the wife who never gainsaid him. Even mass-murdering Shahryar has the two key moments of realizing his crime and feeling true remorse. Griselda's husband never even admits that he did anything wrong. He's the Chris Brown of folklore.

The Farmer's Clever Daughter, Gina Biggs

There's a far more enjoyable, but ultimately just as frustrating, version in which the poor girl wins the king's heart by her surpassing cleverness. He's perfectly happy with her until she proves that she's smarter than he is. In a fit of pique, he sends her back to her father's house, allowing her to take only one thing - the thing she loves best - back with her from the palace. The girl promptly drugs her husband's wine and carries him back with her. When he asks her to explain, she gives him the cute and obvious line that since she loves him best of everything in the palace, naturally she took him. This so flatters his injured ego that he reinstates her as queen and promises to listen to her. On the surface, it's the same idea of virtue rewarded; underneath, you still have a woman shackled to a man who doesn't deserve her. In this case, the heroine actively pursues her lousy mate, even when he's proved how small he really is. Is he really what she loves best? Or does she want her privileged life back again, whatever the cost?

Helen and Menelaus at the Sack of Troy, c. 440-430 CE

I know I wrote a panegyric on Menelaus a couple weeks ago. I stand by it. But even he has his awful spots. During the Sack of Troy, he's prepared to kill Helen until, at the last moment, she convinces him to spare her life. His change of heart is most often attributed to her seductive powers. As a Menelaus apologist, I don't think we should rule out the chance of a terrified plea, or an appeal for forgiveness, being just as likely to influence an estranged but fascinated husband. Nor can I reconcile the more complex character of the Iliad with the straightforward Man Wronged Seeks Vengeance at the Sack. But there it is, part of the legend, and we have to deal with it. Helen convinces a man ready to kill her to take her back. Why?

For the same reason as the clever farmer's daughter drugs the king. At that point in time, he is the only future she will ever have. No one will risk another war for Helen, not after the devastation of Troy. She's infamous, whether deservedly or not. Her only chance at regaining a life worth living is to make her life part of Menelaus's. It's a play for survival, and against all the odds it works. If she was his upgrade when they married, the tables have decidedly turned.

At what point does the man himself become identified with the status he represents? The distinction is murkier in the stories where the heroine is reunited with her abusive husband at the end; we're supposed to believe that the triumph here is one of love, not of successful social

King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid, John Byam
Liston Shaw

climbing. But it's hard to imagine fulfilling happiness for Griselda, unless she's willing to endure a creep for the sake of the wealth and ease he represents. (In which case she's hardly virtuous for the sake of virtue, which defeats the point of the whole story.) Assuming the king keeps his promise to the clever farmgirl, they might be happy, but he's fickle enough that that's a big assumption to make. We see Helen and Menelaus post-Troy in the Odyssey, and find out that Helen's happiness is contingent on endless self-deprecation; she apologizes constantly for having caused the Trojan War, even though Homer already showed us that she played her part unwillingly and under divine coercion. Shahryar's contrition seems real, but what if he relapses? Only Bluebeard's final bride doesn't have to face the prospect of further abuse, and even she has to deal with the trauma of having married and nearly been a victim of a serial killer.

The scariest part is, in almost every case the woman knows what she's getting. With the exception of Bluebeard's bride, by the time of the reinstatement every discarded or endangered wife knows exactly what her husband's capable of. And they still go back. Something makes it worthwhile for them.

It could be that they've each fallen in love with weak men who abuse them to regain a sense of control. Or it could be the prospect of the life they offer, a more comfortable life than these women would have otherwise, a life of privilege and security that makes it worth tolerating devastating abuse.

Either way, it says something scary.

A Tale of Two Robins

Robin Hood, M.L. Peters

Like all good folk legends, Robin Hood exists in a world semi-parallel to ours, where things are recognizable but not quite real. His King Richard is English (rather than French) and dedicated to the welfare of England (rather than carelessly stripping it of wealth while never bothering to speak the language). His Prince John is a straightforward villain, not the complicated and intriguing character of history. His Merrie England bears little resemblance to twelfth-century serfdom. It's a truly legendary world: broad enough to serve as backdrop for a hero of Robin's caliber, but spiced with familiar details that make it easy to believe in. It even comes equipped with two different villains, depending on which Robin you want to believe in. For all the simplicity of Robin's right-versus-wrong fight, his story alters drastically in scope and ambition, depending on who his primary antagonist is.

Robin himself never changes: he's always the lone good man in a sea of deception, standing up for the downtrodden no matter the personal cost. The power of a Robin Hood is his rarity. Despite the fact that he quickly gathers supporters just as willing as he to risk life and limb for the sake of the right, he's the true hero for one simple reason: he did it first. When everyone else hemmed and hawed and considered their options, Robin saw a wrong and moved to right it. The Merry Men are admirable in their courage and camaraderie, but they wouldn't have come together and proven their worth without Robin to show the way. He's an elemental force for good; he represents the need for goodness that we want to believe is innate in humanity. No wonder he's one of the world's most popular folk heroes.

But once you have a hero as universal as Robin, you have a choice about how you tell his story. You can give him a canvas as big as the ideals he stands for and pit him against the highest power in his world. Or you can bring him down to earth like the rest of us and show us what reality does to ideals.

If the main villain of a Robin Hood story is Prince John, it's an Option One story.

Robin Hood, Disney

This Robin will strive not only for the sake of his fellow men, but to ensure that everyone in his world is protected and treated justly. Option One Robin's crusade goes all the way to the top. He wants to change the world, not just save a few farms. He will be deeply idealistic without ever seeming childish or dreamy. He will face off against Prince John in person, utterly trouncing him whether they're fighting with words or with weapons. And he will be personally thanked and rewarded by King Richard for singlehandedly saving England, which under the circumstances will be a completely fair assessment.

Michael Praed as Robin of Loxley, ITV

But if the Sheriff of Nottingham is your central villain, it's a whole new story. There will be no glorious trappings here. Very little will change for the better by the end; Robin in the real world can stave off disaster, but not effect the sweeping reforms of Option One. It's a far more local story, with Robin's efforts contained to one area rather than spread over all England. It will be darker, pettier, and more despairing; when your enemy is a parochial bureaucracy rather than a crowned head, even your victories are smaller. And Option Two Robin, while retaining the essential idealistic notion that things can be better, will doubt himself. He'll wonder if it's all for nothing, if he really is making a difference or just deluding himself and leading his friends into danger. Sometimes the story will introduce Richard or John, offering the missing glory only to subvert it and remind us how small one man's fight can be.

For obvious reasons, most Robin Hood stories are Option One. Who needs fear and self-doubt when you can have Errol Flynn's iconic hands-on-hips laughter? The stories that - like Robin -

Errol Flynn as Robin Hood, Warner Bros.

dream big are the reason why Robin is a legend. His lasting power comes directly from the stories that let him confront and defeat the men who can't be defeated. As with the Merry Men who gather around him, seeing him win convinces us that we too can win.

But Option Two Robin provides some much-needed perspective. It can get boring after a while, knowing that somehow Robin will prevail against impossible odds. Seeing him lose, or seeing him escape without accomplishing his task, or even (at worst) seeing him die, reminds us of where his heroism originates. He's a single man against the world, armed with wits, a bow, and his ideals. If he's truly at risk, his victories mean more. He's far more human when he fails; Option Two Robins are generally more rounded characters than Option One Robins, who never have to grapple with doubt. And Option Two even makes Option One fresh and fun again. After confronting an all-too-human hero like Option Two Robin, the whimsy and chivalry of Option One can feel like water in the desert.

Either way, Robin's still us. At his best and worst, at his most heroic or his most despairing, Robin Hood lives the essential human struggle to make real what you believe in. That's why he's stuck around in so many incarnations; that's why his story can resonate on a small level or a huge stage; that's why he's quite possibly the most beloved hero of the English language. No matter who he is, we get him. We get why he fights. And whichever option he presents, whatever he thinks of himself, we know the truth: that he's a hero, and a human, and that the two can go together.

Three's a Crowd, Four is Chaos

Love triangles are one of the oldest tricks in the book. The drama of choice never gets old, especially if the characters in a triangle are all sympathetic and compelling. If you need to raise the emotional stakes, nothing does it faster than cornering the protagonist between two love interests and watching things go crazy.

But you know what's even better than a love triangle? A love quadrangle. At least that's what Shakespeare thought, and who am I to argue with him?

Shakespeare never bothered with three lovers when he could have four. In context, it makes perfect sense: his audience would be frustrated if the spurned lover just wandered offstage at the end. But this profusion of lovers and the promise of a happy ending does something very weird to the tension of a love triangle. Gone is the real potential for heartbreak and loss. Instead of waiting with bated breath to see who's chosen and who's rejected, we wait only for the revelation that will sort out the couples as they're clearly supposed to be.

A Midsummer Night's Dream, Jeff L. Davis

Take A Midsummer Night's Dream, arguably the most famous love quadrangle Shakespeare ever wrote. Even before the love juice enters the picture, it's very clear how things should be for maximum harmony. Lysander and Hermia are in love; Demetrius once loved Helena, and should really just man up and love her again so everyone can relax. Lysander even spells it out in the first scene of the play. Shakespeare goes out of his way to engage audience sympathy toward the single happy couple and (possibly) the lovelorn Helena. From that point on, we know how this will end.

The complications of the love juice are far more horrifying than we ever quite register, watching the play. Three innocents - Titania, Lysander, and Demetrius - are all brainwashed for spite or for the fun of playing God. At its worst point, the enraged men chase each other through the forest, intent on murdering their rival for a girl who's terrified by them both. On its surface, this is the stuff of horror movies. But it's treated as hilarious in the play, and in the context of the happy ending we know will come. So we laugh, and we accept as "happy" the fact that Demetrius is still brainwashed at the end of the play. Why is it a good thing that his will isn't his own indefinitely, or that Helena winds up married to a man who, in his right mind, doesn't want her? Because that's the way it's supposed to be. Don't think too hard about it; this is how we wanted it to end, right? Hermia and Lysander are happy again, and we liked them. Helena's got what she wanted (although her reasons for wanting Demetrius remain rather obscure). Friendship is restored, marriages are celebrated, and no one's fighting anymore. Just like we knew would happen.

I love Midsummer. But if you think about it for even a minute or two, it's actually horrifying.

Luckily, Twelfth Night isn't so scary. Shakespeare makes it even easier for us in this one.

Twelfth Night, Fine Line Features

One of these men is a girl. It's all okay.

No matter how much chemistry Viola has with Olivia (and let's be honest, unless your Orsino is ridiculously talented, she's going to have more chemistry with Olivia than with Orsino), it's obvious how this goes. Girl with boy; boy with girl. Because Viola's male masquerade never actually harms anyone, it's a lot easier to laugh at her misadventures. And the play itself is far more self-aware than Midsummer, actually addressing the issues it raises of gender and sexuality. Viola is assertive and in control whether she's in pants or a skirt; Sebastian, on the other hand, is a passive nonentity who, faced with a beautiful stranger hot to marry him, just shrugs and goes with it. It's very clear that the take-charge women will call the shots in their marriages, and the men obviously enjoy being ordered around.

Besides, unlike the lovers of Midsummer, these four are unique, individualized, and sympathetic characters. While the Midsummer lovers do nothing but squabble, the Twelfth Night leads get to know each other, share compelling backstories, and actively engage in running their own damn lives. Even Orsino becomes suddenly impressive in the last scene, when jealousy and his conflicted feelings for his pretty page-boy remind us all why he's someone Antonio fears. These characters are real people, and their depth puts the Midsummer lovers to shame.

Arguably, the only Shakespearean love quadrangle involving real tension is also his worst. The Two Gentlemen of Verona gives us a naive schoolboy, a selfish backstabber, a stalker

Valentine Rescuing Silvia from Proteus, William Holman Hunt

girlfriend, and an ice queen, and demands that we care about them. Valentine's gumption is undercut by his total obliviousness to his best friend's upcoming betrayal, as is his devotion to Silvia by his instant readiness to surrender her to her potential rapist. There is nothing admirable about Proteus, as false a friend as he is a lover. Julia is a classic spunky cross-dressing heroine, but deeply problematic since, while she has trouble telling Proteus to his face that she loves him, she sees nothing wrong with disguising herself to spy on him. And Silvia shows guts in defying her father and spurning Proteus, but that courage disappears when it's not plot-convenient, most notably when she's captured by bandits and threatened with rape by Proteus.

The "happy ending" here is as inevitable as ever: Valentine with Silvia, Proteus with Julia. But in this play, you could almost wish for some brainwashing love juice to make it at all palatable. Silvia marries the man she loves, knowing that he cares more about his treacherous friend's happiness than about her own. Proteus settles for second best, having made his future wife privy to his schemes to supplant her. Valentine is as naive as ever, forgiving Proteus with astonishing ease and expecting his life with Silvia to be sunshine and roses. Julia's faith in her fiance is shattered. The tension comes from the escalation of complications, from the way events tangle together to make a reconciliation seem almost impossible. And the falling action is so short and rushed that the ending is deeply unsatisfying, and not very happy.

The underlying problem of the love quadrangle is characterization. Even in triangles, with one less character to manage, the rejected lover is frequently underused in comparison to his or her rival. In Shakespearean quadrangles, there simply isn't enough time to establish all four as fascinating individuals from the get-go. Twelfth Night, by far the most successful, gives Sebastian short shrift and has to shoehorn in a spotlight moment for Orsino. In Midsummer, where the lovers' plot is one of three (and not even the most interesting), it's a miracle that they have as much depth as they do. And even though the love plot is the focus of Two Gentlemen, the lovers get buried in the side characters, subplots, and contrivances, as well as falling victim to the main pitfall of early Shakespeare: the play is more ambitious than skillful. Mid-career Shakespeare would have made a masterpiece of a story about betrayed friendships and forsworn love; in those very early days, he was still learning craft and structure.

A fourth lover is a security blanket. His or her very presence assures us that nothing will be so very catastrophic. No hearts will be irreparably broken; things will work out just like they're meant to; everyone will be suitably happy at the end. It leeches out all the tension that makes a love conflict one of those eternal plots. And it's very much to Shakespeare's credit that he managed to make such a reassuring trope as involving as he did.

The Dark Side of the Moon

Fair warning: Today's the day wherein I crush all your youthful ideals.

Now that we've got that out of the way, let's talk about Camelot.

Arthur's Camelot, Alan Lee

The name itself is a universal shorthand for perfection, for a time of ideals, for the realization of a few impossible dreams. It's about as rose-colored as you can get. And for good reason: the whole point of having a legend like Camelot is to believe that things can be better, that justice can win over brute force, that one brief shining moment of good is worth all the suffering it takes to win.

So all things considered, we've done a really good job at forgetting that every single one of Camelot's turning points is rooted in betrayal (at best) and rape (at worst).

Take five minutes. Make a list. The moments where everything changes. I'll bet it includes:
- the conception of Arthur
- the sword in the stone
- the conception of Mordred
- Merlin and Nimue
- Galahad
- Lancelot and Guinevere's affair
- the death of Arthur

Let's go through it one thing at a time.

Arthur's very existence is due to betrayal and rape, depending on who tells the story. After fighting the Saxons back to the shores, Uther and his kingdom figure they can settle in for some well-deserved peace. Instead, Uther falls wildly in lust with Igraine, the wife of his most stalwart supporter in the war that just ended five seconds ago, and provokes a whole new war against Gorlois because the man gets touchy at the thought that the king wants to sleep with his wife. Ultimately, unable to prevail against Gorlois' forces, Uther resorts to magic and trickery: he has Merlin enchant him to look like Gorlois, so he can pass through the defenses of invincible Tintagel and sleep with Igraine. While wearing her husband's face.

I don't care how you interpret that. It's messed up. And it's wrong.

To be fair, interpretations vary wildly, mostly in how they deal with Igraine's reaction to this whole mess. Malory casts her as loyal wife to Gorlois, who in fact proposes the flight to Tintagel herself. Mary Stewart has a proud but lovesick Igraine conspire with Uther and Merlin to trap Gorlois. Marion Zimmer Bradley's Igraine loves Uther, but refuses to betray her husband (up until he betrays her, that is). On the whole, people shy away from the notion of rape. But in Malory's version, that's what Arthur's conception is. Uther intentionally misleads Igraine to trick her into sex, when she already refused consent to his face.

The once and future king is a child of rape. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

The sword in the stone is far less drastic, but treachery is still involved. Young Arthur, in search of a sword for his forgetful foster brother Kay, turns to the unclaimed sword stuck randomly through a stone in the churchyard. He pulls it out as easy as blinking and gives it to Kay. Problem solved! Go Arthur, savior of the day!

Until Kay recognizes the sword and what it means, and decides that the best possible option is to lie.

Granted, Kay is not the nicest guy, and certainly not nominated for brother awards in this or any century. But this is low, even for him. He knows Arthur pulled out the sword. He knows exactly what that makes Arthur. And instead of being a man about it, accepting that his annoying younger brother might actually be the long-awaited king (who, by the way, is supposed to SAVE THE KINGDOM), Kay's first instinctive move is to grab the glory for himself. You can argue that Camelot owes its existence more to Sir Ector's ability to smell a lie than to Arthur's go-getting nature; young Arthur certainly gives the impression of wanting to please, and it's not hard to imagine that he'd back Kay's lie in hopes of impressing his brother.

Nigel Terry and Helen Mirren as Arthur and Morgana, Excalibur, Warner Bros.

We don't even need to discuss why the conception of Mordred is betrayal and rape, right? It doesn't matter if the treacherous sister is Morgause or Morgan; if she wore Guinevere's face to fool Arthur; if Arthur was young and raw when it happened, or if he was already king. Mordred's mother does the exact same thing to Arthur that Uther did to Igraine: deliberately lies and distorts events for the sake of her own agenda, regardless of Arthur's consent or input.

The Beguiling of Merlin, Edward Burne-Jones

Merlin and Nimue... yeah, I'm going to go ahead and skip the rape charge on that one. Merlin's consent is a weird issue here, since he knows from the start that he will fall for her and she will betray him, but he's an absurdly powerful magician: if he really wanted to avoid her, he would have. (Besides, I've seen versions where her final treachery comes by promising him sex if he'll just climb inside that tree for two seconds, in which case the rape question is a moot point.) Betrayal, on the other hand, is all over this. Merlin gives Nimue everything she asks for, teaching her all his most powerful magics, and in return she seals him alive inside a tree. (Or in a cave, as your preference may be. I like the tree, personally.) Despite the rather fantastic revisionist versions I've read over the years, this story has never really been about anything but betrayal. Even though Nimue takes her mentor's place at Arthur's right hand, and saves him as many times as Merlin had, you get the sense that she'd have to do it to make up for taking Merlin away.

Lancelot and Elaine, Henrietta Rae

Lancelot and Elaine's relationship is the most unhealthy in the whole damn mythos. Yes, that's a bold statement; yes, I stand by it completely. Elaine may be the first stalker fangirl on literary record. She willfully fails to realize that nursing Lancelot back to health does not entitle her to love-of-his-life status. She thrills to find that he wore her token to a tournament, and conveniently ignores the fact that he wore it (like a cad, I must admit) only to assist in fighting incognito. When he rejects her (again, not with the best grace), what's her gut impulse? Is it to get over him? Is it to find another love? Is it to plot bloody vengeance?

It's to force him to marry her by raping him.

Oh, yeah. Elaine-on-Lancelot action is the most straightforward case of rape in the stories. He doesn't want her; he doesn't like her; he's told her no multiple times. Sometimes she only uses magic to make herself look like Guinevere; sometimes she also roofies Lancelot. And then she just doesn't understand why he literally goes insane at the revelation of what's happened.

The irony of it all is that out of this appalling encounter is born Galahad, the perfect knight. But for Lancelot at least, the ends don't justify the means. He never returns to Elaine. He and Galahad have a nonexistant father-son relationship; Galahad saves Lancelot on the Grail Quest, but that's about it for bonding time. And it's hard not to imagine that Lancelot would be grateful that his unwanted son wasn't around after the Grail Quest to remind him of the absolute darkest chapter in his life.

Lancelot and Guinevere, Herbert Draper

Not to mention that Lancelot's got his own bit of betraying to do back home.

Again, no explanation needed. This might be the world's most famous love triangle. It's not supposed to happen, but it does, and the exploitation of Lancelot and Guinevere's affair destroys Camelot.

The Rescue of Guinevere, William Hatherell

The betrayal here is colossal: betrayal of a spouse, betrayal of a friend, betrayal of loyalty, betrayal of a lifetime of work, betrayal of a dream. I'm not saying that Lancelot and Guinevere are singlehandedly responsible for all this betrayal; a lot of it was done by Mordred and his cadre of jealous knights. But this was the fulcrum they used to move their world, and it worked so well because they didn't have to make anything up. They just had to enhance what was already there.

Which leads us to the most unkindest cut of all: Mordred's betrayal of Arthur.

How Mordred was Slain by Arthur, Arthur Rackham

To give Mordred his due, Arthur was an absentee dad who tried to have him killed at birth. But just destroying Arthur's kingdom, marriage, and closest friendship wasn't enough for Mordred; he had to go that extra mile and mess deeply with Arthur's head, winning his trust, appearing to support him, and then backstabbing him at the earliest opportunity. Arthur's last stand at Camlann is one of hopelessness. He's had everything stripped from him in a breathtakingly short amount of time, and all by the long-lost son he wanted to trust. To be honest, I tend to forgive him for the child-murder thing, if only because he suffers so much by the end that I feel like he's atoned and then some. Mordred, on the other hand... for his sheer cold-blooded viciousness, for his total dedication to making Arthur's life hell just because he can, Mordred can never suffer enough. (Yes, I'm biased. I love Arthur. Arthur the person does not get enough love.)

Could you argue that the incredibly depressing roots of the legend are the reason why its trappings are so bright and hopeful? Sure. All that agony and betrayal is ten times worse if it's pointless. If it's endured in the service of a higher ideal, that makes it a little easier to bear. And I don't think we'd still be telling these stories if their surrounding framework didn't provide more hope than they do on their own.

But it's still depressing. The heart of Camelot is very dark. And it makes the legend too simple if we forget that.

In Defense of Menelaus

As a rule of thumb, I cheer for the underdog. Watching someone beat the odds is a marvelous thing. It gives you hope for yourself, for the future, for the world in general. The big guys don't always win, and the little guy who cares can actually stand up and show them what's what.

And I have never seen a more under underdog than Menelaus.

Helen and Paris, Howard David Johnson

Everyone knows how this goes. We saw a preview for it in Aphrodite and Hephaestus' disastrous marriage, but even the gods couldn't outdo the mortals on this one. Anyone planning to hook up with The Most Beautiful [fill-in-the-blank] Ever should take note: there will always be an upgrade. Menelaus is the guy Helen had to marry; Paris is the guy she wanted to marry. Or at least the guy she shacked up with for a decade and (according to Homer) had pretty awesome hate sex with. Menelaus is the guy with metaphorical egg on his face who has to fight his wife's boy toy, who quite possibly has non-metaphorical afterglow in his hair. Someone is losing here, big time.

Rubbing salt in that ten-year wound, no one can say a nice word about Menelaus' appearance. Helen's beauty goes without saying; Paris is called "godlike" by Homer, who otherwise has no time for the whiny little brat. The best Menelaus gets in terms of physical description is that he

The Sacrifice of Iphigenia (detail of Menelaus), Roman
copy of the painting by Timanthes

has red hair. Damned by faint praise if anyone ever was. If Paris is Helen's upgrade, it's hard not to imagine that Helen was Menelaus's. The younger brother of an ambitious king could expect very little in Bronze Age Greece, but marriage to Helen got Menelaus a kingdom, prestige, and an incredibly hot wife all in one stroke. All of a sudden it makes a bit more sense why he'd fight so devastating a war to get her back: she's the ticket to his future, and possibly his self-esteem too.

But that's not enough. This humiliation conga's just beginning. Menelaus is very clearly subordinate to his brother for the entirety of the war, despite having the most at stake. Hera and Athena are nominally on his side, but they have to remind themselves to help him out, while Aphrodite springs into action when Paris is in danger. And in every adaptation of the story since Homer, he's recharacterized as unsavory: neglectful, abusive, careless, vengeful, anything to make him seem unworthy of the prize that is Helen.

So why do I cheer for him? Because he's awesome, that's why.

Helen and Menelaus, 6th century Greek relief

Homer tells us right from the start that what Menelaus wants most of all is to defend Helen's honor. Don't forget, Homer's Helen isn't in love with Paris; the first time we see them together, she quite rightly bitches him out for his wimpiness, comparing him to Menelaus in devastating terms. No one listens, least of all Paris, but Helen is not happy in Troy. Who wants to protect her? Who wants to make her happy? Who wants to restore her good name? Menelaus. Her husband. After nine years of daily humiliation, his goal is still to please her. In a Big Manly Epic full of blood and death and talk of honor, that is just sweet.

But Menelaus isn't just all heart. He plans nighttime initiatives with Agamemnon. His most-used epithet is "master of the war-cry." Helen sings his praises as a fighter, and his battle with Paris more than proves her right. He never oversteps his boundaries as second-in-command, but when he needs to act, he brings it. He's a king you could be proud to follow, which in the Iliad is rare indeed.

Menelaus Supporting the Body of Patroclus, Roman copy
of Greek statue

And lest we forget, he carries Patroclus's body back to the Greek lines, weaponless and endangered for the sake of his dead comrade's honor.

This. Guy. Rocks.

I dare you to find a more well-rounded man in all of Greek mythology. Menelaus has it all. Plus he wins. Plus Helen is happy to be reunited with him and their daughter. (Hey, they had a daughter? That means they must have slept together! Crazy times!)

And he never brags about how awesome he is. He just is. And it's a crying shame that he's constantly belittled in favor of a spoiled manwhore who hasn't a fraction of Menelaus's qualities, or the grace with which he carries them.