How well her name an Army doth present

In whom the Lord of Hosts did pitch his tent.

Ana- {Mary/Army} gram, George Herbert


“To arms! To arms, Telmar!” . . . “To arms, Narnia!”

Prince Caspian, C.S. Lewis


When talking about the discovery of an interpretative key for a novel, C.S. Lewis observes that the only way to test the supposed key would be to repeatedly re-read the novel in its light and see how well it illuminated the work. If the key were genuine, Lewis says, “then at every fresh . . . reading of the book, we should find it settling down, making itself more at home, and eliciting significance from all sorts of details in the whole work which we had hitherto neglected.”[1] As I have freshly read and re-read Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia in the light of the interpretative key provided by the seven heavens, the more they have yielded up their secrets and unveiled the intelligence and skill which went into their composition. In this essay, I will present several new pieces of evidence in support of my contention that the second Chronicle, Prince Caspian: The Return to Narnia, embodies and expresses the personality of the planet, Mars.

I should make it clear that I am not attempting here any substantial argument, but only further illustrations in support of the argument developed at length in Planet Narnia and in particular in its fourth chapter. If readers have not already been persuaded of the Narniad’s planetary design, and of the martial donegality of Prince Caspian, they are unlikely to find the following essay convincing. I suspect that the details enumerated here may seem inconsequential in isolation from the parent book, as ineffective and unattractive as coals removed from the fire in the grate. However, I dare to assume there will be some readers familiar with and sufficiently persuaded by the case propounded in Planet Narnia; it is for them that I write.

Though Lewis’s knowledge of medieval literature can sometimes seem so vast as to be comprehensive, even Homer nods, and Lewis’s expertise had its limits. In Planet Narnia, I quoted a rare confession of ignorance on his part. Commenting upon Chaucer’s Compleynt of Mars, Lewis said that “the astronomical allusions are, I confess, too hard for me.” I went on to confess the fact that some of the Martial connections of his own Prince Caspian were likewise too hard for me, acknowledging that I could not explain the Mars-related significance of the name of the eponymous hero, Caspian.[2]

Thanks to the draft of the poem “The Planets” that Lewis scholar Charlie Starr has helpfully brought to my attention, I now think it is possible to give a reason for Lewis’s choice of the name “Caspian” because, in that draft, Lewis describes the heaven of Mars as “the sky’s Scythia.”[3] Here are the relevant lines:

. . . But other country,

Dark with discord, dins beyond him [Sol],

With noise of nakers and neighing horses,

The sky’s Scythia. A scornful god,

MARS mercenary, makes his camp there,

And flies his flag . . .


According to the ancient Greek historian Herodotus (whose work Lewis, as an Oxford-educated classicist, knew intimately), the Scythians—the tribe of people prominent in Eurasia from about the ninth till the first century before Christ—had a peculiar devotion to the god Mars.[4] They were among the first peoples to master mounted warfare and appear to have had a reputation for being especially barbaric (which helps explain, by the way, St Paul’s statement in his Letter to the Colossians that “Here there is no . . . barbarian, Scythian, slave or free”).[5] It was only in the cult of Mars that the Scythians used images, altars, and temples; the rites they paid to Mars were unique, and they made more sacrifices to Mars “than to all the rest of the gods.”[6]

With these facts in mind we can better understand Lewis’s description in “The Planets” of the sphere of Mars as “the sky’s Scythia,” for the Martial heaven would naturally be attractive to the Scythians. But it may also explain why Lewis chose to name his protagonist ‘Caspian’ because the realm of Scythia consisted of the Pontic-Caspian steppe, the plains that stretch from the north coast of the Black Sea all the way east to the Caspian Sea.

Though this geographical link may—at least, partially—explain the choice of the name of the eponymous hero, we must ask a further question: of all the places within the borders of Scythia that might have supplied Lewis with a name for his protagonist, what was it about the word ‘Caspian’ that particularly caught his attention?

One possibility is that Lewis has in mind the Caspian Pass, which, according to Pliny was a very narrow defile in the Caspian mountains.[7] It is perhaps at Pliny that Lewis is glancing in his description of the almost invisible “steep and narrow path going slant-wise down into the gorge between rocks” through which Aslan guides the children at a critical juncture in the tale.[8]

Another possibility is etymological. ‘Caspian’, like the term ‘Caucasian’, was originally a native self-designation, meaning ‘white’ by extension from ‘snow’ or ‘ice’.[9] On the face of it, whiteness would hardly seem appropriate for the hero of a Martial tale, for whiteness often suggests fear or even cowardice. Hence, “tough-looking warriors turned white” when the Awakened Trees came hurtling towards them.[10] Lewis as a young man during the Great War would perhaps have known personally, or at least have heard about, certain male contemporaries of his who, for refusing to serve in the armed forces, would have been “given the white feather,” to signify their supposed cowardice. Such feathers were literally attached to the clothing or sent to the homes of able-bodied young men who decided not to sign up. The intention, of course, was to shame them into action.

But the hero of a Martial tale can hardly be a coward, so what might be the reason for Lewis’s protagonist bearing a name that means ‘white’? There are at least two possible explanations.

The first is that, according to “The Planets,” “white-feathered dread / Mars has mastered.” Given the meaning of ‘Caspian’, it appears that Lewis chose this name for the hero of his story in order to denote a character whose chivalric spirit is so pure, so perfectly ‘hardened’ by Martial influence,[11] one who has so completely mastered dread, that he has nothing to fear even from bearing a name, white, that would otherwise be suggestive of timidity or pusillanimity.[12]

The second explanation has to do with conventional portrayals of knighthood in medieval literature. We know that Lewis had a great love for Chaucer’s “Knight’s Tale,” and so it is worth noting that the victor in that story, Palamon, who is attended by white bulls and white wolfhounds,[13] comes to the combat “with baner whyt and hardy chiere and face.”[14] Lewis was also fully familiar with Malory’s Arthurian legends in which a mysterious “white knight,” dressed “in white armour, horse and all,” bestows the shield “white as any snow” upon Sir Galahad, while he sojourns at a “white abbey.”[15] It is to these sources, and others besides, that Lewis is respectfully, albeit obliquely, nodding when he selects ‘Caspian’ as the name for his hero in this tale. Prince Caspian, or ‘Prince White’ as we might legitimately call him, who is the first to receive the “Knighthood of the Order of the Lion”[16] at the end of the story, is part of a long line of “verray parfit gentil”[17] knights throughout literary history. Yet, rather than make his protagonist’s moral purity too obvious, Lewis shields it behind a Scythian name which, once we cotton on to it, simultaneously strengthens the Martial theme.

While Caspian may represent the ideal kind of Scythian, what of his foes? Here again we will learn something by paying attention to the draft of “The Planets” poem, in which we read of “white-livered fear,” rather than the “white-feathered dread” that made it into the published version. In referencing the liver, Lewis is drawing on the tradition of medieval thought that assigned virtues to certain bodily organs. The liver was believed to be the seat of courage, and a truly Martial liver would give warriors “stomach,” as Shakespeare’s Henry V puts it (“he which hath no stomach to this fight, / Let him depart”).[18] It should come as no surprise, then, that the only time in all seven books of the Narniad where the liver is ever mentioned is in Prince Caspian when the cowardly Miraz, fretting over his “martial policy,”[19] scorns his courtiers for being “lily-livered.”[20] The Telmarines’ whiteness is not the whiteness that comes from having mastered dread through candour of heart, as Caspian has done, but from being morally anaemic, insufficiently hardened by the iron of Mars.

Having tackled the name of the protagonist, let us try and solve the mystery of the antagonist, Miraz, whose name is appropriately ambiguous for a man of very dubious character.

“Miraz” may in part come from “Almirazgual,” the Moorish name for the constellation Perseus, meaning “Bearer of the Demon’s Head.” A similar sort of possibility is that it comes via the Spanish almirez, from the Arabic al-mihras, meaning a small portable metal mortar.[21] A mortar suggests the military might of the Telmarines, who now rule Narnia and who are sufficiently violent and dominant that the Old Narnians (“The People That Lived In Hiding”) dare not show their face.[22] Either one of these meanings would be appropriate for the military officer who has killed his brother, usurped the throne, and now oversees the Telmarine forces that occupy Narnia and subjugate its folk.

On the other hand, everything else we see of Miraz and the Telmarines indicates that they are far from truly Martial. They are “afraid of the woods,” wear unimpressive armour (see below), are awed by a boy herald (Edmund), and their supposedly “great lords,” Glozelle and Sopespian, are not only ill-disciplined and perfidious, they have a dandified air like the French court in Henry V, asking “What’s to do? An Attack?” while “strolling along their lines and picking their teeth after breakfast.”[23]

Glozelle himself knows that Miraz has no self-confidence and so he cleverly plays on the king’s fears of being thought a coward in order to arm-twist him into facing Peter in single combat. Glozelle, with Sopespian’s connivance, advertises Edmund as a “young warrior,” “in the flower of his youth,” and “a very dangerous knight” and advises Miraz to avoid him and his big brother:

“For though I have never been called a coward [said Glozelle], I must plainly say that to meet that young man in battle is more than my heart would serve me for. And if (as is likely) his brother, the High King, is more dangerous than he—why, on your life, my Lord King, have nothing to do with him.”

“Plague on you!” cried Miraz. “It was not that sort of council I wanted. Do you think I am asking you if I should be afraid to meet this Peter (if there is such a man)? Do you think I fear him? . . . Are you trying to make it appear that I am as great a coward as your Lordship? … You talk like an old woman … Are you soldiers? Are you Telmarines? Are you men? And if I do refuse it (as all good reasons of captaincy and martial policy urge me to do) you will think, and teach others to think, I was afraid. Is it not so? … With your womanish counsels (ever shying from the true point, which is one of policy) you have done the very opposite of your intent. I had meant to refuse it. But I’ll accept it. Do you hear, accept it!”[24]


Miraz’s desire to be thought a man and not the slightest bit effeminate helps explain the other implication of his name, for ‘mortar’ does not just mean an armoured explosive shell. It also means “an instrument for pounding or crushing,” as in a pestle and mortar, the mortar being the cup or bowl in which the pestle pounds and grinds.[26] The sexual innuendo need not be explained: it has a long-standing lineage in English literature—most famously, of course, in Beaumont’s play, The Knight of the Burning Pestle.[26] For a knight to be associated with a pestle would bespeak his manliness; for him to be associated with a mortar is the very last thing he would want. In this respect, Miraz’s name reveals that he is not truly knightly, not properly receptive to the Martial influence, as indeed is suggested even by the sound of his name, ‘Miraz’ being a garbled imitation of ‘Mars’.

Miraz’s wife, Prunaprismia, is another fascinating little example of Lewis’s own Martial policy as he composes this tale. We never see Queen Prunaprismia and we are told almost nothing about her, yet she is possessed of this most extraordinary name. Where did it come from and what, if anything, does it have to do with Mars?

As Paul Ford points out,[27] Lewis evidently derived the name from the matronly governess in Charles Dickens’s novel, Little Dorrit, who instructs her charges to improve their elocution by repeatedly pronouncing the patter, “Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes, and prism.”[28] These words, the governess maintains, “are all very good words for the lips; especially prunes and prism.”[29] “Mostly Prunes and Prism” is a chapter title in the second part of the novel.[30] Once we know this connection, we are able to deduce that Lewis’s Queen Prunaprismia must be a rather fussy, etiquette-obsessed, school-marmish figure. But there would have been other and simpler ways in which Lewis could have signified such a personality, and nothing comes of her having this sort of personality anyway—so what is the point? Why would Lewis reach into such an obscure corner of Dickens’s voluminous output to arrive at this peculiar nomenclature?

The real reason is indeed Martial. Lewis needs a name for the wife of King Miraz. Who is Miraz? The commander of the Telmarine army. What is the top brass in any military chain of command known as? A general. What would the wife of a general be called? Mrs. General. Guess what Dickens’s governess is called! “Mrs General made a sweeping obeisance, and retired with an expression of mouth indicative of Prunes and Prism.”[31]

Yet another intriguing name in Prince Caspian is that of Glozelle’s horse.[32] We know from the example of Caspian’s mount, Destrier, that Lewis chose his equine names in this tale with careful Martial intent; a ‘destrier’ is defined in the Oxford English Dictionary as a war-horse, a charger. Glozelle’s horse is called “Pomely.” The name appears only once, when Glozelle refers to “my dappled Pomely,”[33] a tautologous remark, given that the OED defines pomely as “marked with round spots, dappled.” But what does the word have to do with Mars?

We have to look one step beyond the word to its literary source. Just as ‘Prunaprismia’ does not, of itself, imply anything Martial yet understood in its Dickensian context has a nice Martial pay-off, so ‘Pomely’ does not of itself possess a Martial meaning but takes us thereto if we will follow its lead. Lewis is directing us to his source in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. On this occasion, it is not “The Knight’s Tale”[34] that Lewis is plundering but “The Reeve’s Tale,” where we read:

This Reve sat upon a ful good stot

That was al pomely grey and highte Scot.

A long surcote of pers upon he hade,

And by his syde he baar a rusty blade.[35]


The Reeve who sits on a pomely horse has a rusty sword. The badly kept weaponry is a sure sign that this Reeve is no true child of Mars, and so, by extension, in the case of Glozelle, we can assume that his armour also must be rusty, simply from the fact that his horse is called ‘Pomely’. It’s a tell-tale sign of the kind of knight he is. His treacherous comrade-in-arms, Sopespian, reveals how shoddy the Telmarines’ armour is when, on seeing Edmund, he exclaims, “What mail he wears! None of our smiths could make the like.”[36] Writing elsewhere about the sixteenth-century historian Edward Hall (1499?-1547), Lewis comments:

A fine armour is almost part of the personality of the knight who wears it; and there was doubtless to [Hall] an almost spiritual significance in the appearance of Richard III’s guard at his coronation, “euil appareled and worse harneissed in rusty harneys neither defensable nor skoured to the sale, to the great disdain of all the lookers on.”[37]


Lewis, we must remember, had an almost photographic memory. His creative thought-process would, I suspect, have gone something like this: “I need a name for a horse owned by an un-Martial knight. Un-Martial knights have rusty armour. Rusty armour was worn by Chaucer’s Reeve. The Reeve’s horse was a pomely. So let us name the horse Pomely.” Lewis believed that success in writing came about by suggestion, not statement. He was not always aware how unusually retentive his memory was and may have overestimated his readers’ ability to make the sort of instantaneous connections that he was able to form. But much of the time, I believe, he is deliberately setting a puzzle for his readers first of all to sense and then, if they wish, to try and solve.

As we end this examination of Prince Caspian, I must mention an episode which is at first sight indebted not to Mars but to the Moon. It occurs after the climactic battle when the victorious Narnian forces are treated by Aslan to a celebratory banquet:

Thus Aslan feasted the Narnians till long after the sunset had died away, and the stars had come out … The best thing of all about this feast was that there was no breaking up or going away, but as the talk grew quieter and slower, one after another would begin to nod and finally drop off to sleep with feet toward the fire and good friends on either side, till at last there was silence all round the circle … But all night Aslan and the Moon gazed upon each other with joyful and unblinking eyes.[38]


A critic of my thesis has pointed out that this scene seems much more obviously Lunar than Martial. Why does Aslan not stare at the Narnian equivalent of Mars, which is apparently named “Tarva, the Lord of Victory”?[39] On the surface, that is a fair criticism, but it is open to two rejoinders, one general, one particular.

In general, we must note—to state the obvious—that all the events of the tale happen either during the day or during the night. This does not mean that all events must be either Solar or Lunar; the other five planets, of course, work in consort with the two great lights. According to the Book of Genesis, the Sun ‘rules’ the day and the Moon ‘rules’ the night, but, as the long tradition of Christian astrology testifies, this rulership does not entail the exclusion of other planetary influences. Furthermore, “in a certain juncture of the planets each may play the other’s part.”[40]

In particular, Mars was understood by Lewis to be the sponsor of vigilance. In Perelandra, when Ransom beholds the Oyarsa of Mars, we read: “Malacandra seemed to him to have the look of one standing armed, at the ramparts of his own remote archaic world, in ceaseless vigilance, his eyes ever roaming the earthward horizon whence his danger came long ago.”[41] In That Hideous Strength, at the descent of the Martial god, we read that “Ransom knew, as a man knows when he touches iron, the clear, taut splendour of that celestial spirit who now flashed between them: vigilant Malacandra, captain of a cold orb, whom men call Mars.”[42]

It is in this context that we should read the passage about Aslan and the Moon gazing all night upon each other with unblinking eyes. A vigil is being kept; it is a Martial moment, albeit communicated by means of Lunar imagery. All the other characters fall asleep, but Aslan, like an alert sentry or watchful soldier on a castle rampart, does his Martial duty, guarding his people. Lewis is giving us a planetary spin on Psalm 121, where the Lord of Hosts ceaselessly oversees his faithful ones: “He that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep . . . The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night.”[43]

The Martial meanings I have tried to unearth in this article are all highly involved. There is subtlety and indirectness at play, so much so that some readers may be inclined to dismiss it as too complex to be believed. But this would be to overlook how in much medieval art there is “the love of the labyrinthine; the tendency to offer to the mind or the eye something that cannot be taken in at a glance, something that at first looks planless though all is planned. Everything leads to everything else, but by very intricate paths.”[44]

As a medievalist himself, Lewis naturally enough reflected this imaginative grasp of reality in his own fictional writings. The Martial details we have examined here, though admittedly minor and unobvious, are not negligible. They are rather, as Lewis puts it in a poem, “patterned atoms,” basic and essential components of those “woven mazes” out of which the cosmos is built.[45] Since God has created a universe in which every particle of matter matters, a Christian writer, fulfilling his sub-creative role, must likewise make every word count. Speaking of Dante’s microscopically fine artistry in The Divine Comedy, Lewis declared: “It is just on such apparent minutiae that the total effect of a poem depends.”[46] The names of Caspian, and Miraz, and Prunaprismia, and Pomely, and Aslan’s unblinking gaze at the Moon—these things contribute to the Martial atmosphere of the second Narnia Chronicle. Without some careful archaeological digging we won’t notice exactly how they conspire to this end, but once we press into the work we see that, like a stick of rock, wherever you cut it open, it spells MARS.

Michael Ward is Senior Research Fellow at Blackfriars Hall, University of Oxford, and Professor of Apologetics at Houston Baptist University, Texas.

Professor Ward is the author of Planet Narnia: The Seven Heavens in the Imagination of C.S. Lewis (Oxford University Press), co-editor of The Cambridge Companion to C.S. Lewis (Cambridge University Press) and presenter of the BBC television documentary, The Narnia Code.

On the fiftieth anniversary of Lewis’s death (22 November 2013), Dr Ward had the privilege of unveiling a permanent national memorial to him in Poets’ Corner, Westminster Abbey, London.

He is the co-editor of a book of essays about this commemoration, entitled C.S. Lewis at Poets’ Corner (Wipf & Stock).

He studied English at Oxford, Theology at Cambridge, and has a PhD in Divinity from the University of St Andrews and an honorary doctorate in letters from Hillsdale College, Michigan.

For three years in the 1990s he worked as resident warden of The Kilns, Lewis’s Oxford home. He has been described by The Times Literary Supplement as ‘the foremost living Lewis scholar’.

Michael’s chief claim to fame, however, is that he handed a pair of X-ray spectacles to 007 in the James Bond movie The World Is Not Enough.


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Citation Information

Michael Ward. “Return to Planet Narnia.” An Unexpected Journal 1, no. 4. (Advent 2018): 91-106.

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[1] C.S. Lewis, Miracles: A Preliminary Study (Glasgow: Collins, 1980), 113.

[2] Michael Ward, Planet Narnia (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 274 n44.

[3]This draft is found in a notebook now in the possession of Walter Hooper. In this notebook, Lewis fair copied a number of his poems from the years circa 1929-1938. Included among these handwritten poems is a version of “The Planets” (numbered ‘XXVIII’), which Starr estimates was copied in around 1935, i.e., shortly before or shortly after the publication of the poem in the magazine Lysistrata (Vol. II, No. I, May 1935), 21-24.

[4] See, e.g., his parody, “A Lost Chapter of Herodotus.”

[5] Col. 3:11.

[6] Herodotus, The Histories, book IV.

[7] Ibid., VI.17.

[8] C.S. Lewis, Prince Caspian, in The Chronicles of Narnia (New York: HarperCollins, 2001), 384.

[9] Pliny the Elder in his Natural History (Book 6, ch. 17) derives ‘Caucasus’ from the Scythian term ‘Croucasis’, meaning ‘white with snow’. See the translation by W.H.S. Jones in the 10-volume edition of the Natural History (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1949-54).

[10] Lewis, Prince Caspian, 406.

[11] Mars produces “sturdy hardiness” (The Discarded Image, 106); “the hard virtue of Mars” (“The Adam at Night,” Poems, 59). Accordingly, Caspian begins “to harden” as he sleeps “under the stars” (ch. 7).

[12] “Fear Him, ye saints, and you will then / Have nothing else to fear.” Lewis described this line from the hymn “Through all the changing scenes of life” as “perfection.” See C.S. Lewis, Image and Imagination (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 164.

[13] See “The Knight’s Tale,” lines 2139 and 2148.

[14] “With a white banner and with a hardy spirit and appearance” (line 2586). Interestingly, Palamon prays to Venus, whereas his opponent, Arcite, prays to Mars. Chaucer gives victory to the knight who fights under the goddess of love, not the knight who fights under the god of might. Lewis appeared to approve of balancing things out in this fashion; hence the final chapter of That Hideous Strength features “Venus at St Anne’s,” not Mars. For more on the victory of love over war, see Planet Narnia, 87.

[15] Le Morte Darthur, Sir Thomas Malory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 321-322. For Lewis’s scholarship in this field, see his essay “The ‘Morte Darthur’” in Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Literature, ed. Walter Hooper (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1966), 103-110. Lewis’s boyhood nickname for this friend, Arthur Greeves, was ‘Galahad’ (see letter of 11 May 1915).

[16] Prince Caspian is the only Chronicle in which the word ‘knighthood’ appears.

[17] The Canterbury Tales, General Prologue , Geoffrey Chaucer (line 72).

[18] William Shakespeare, Henry V, 4.3.35-36.

[19] The word ‘martial’ appears twice and the word ‘marshal’ appears seven times in Prince Caspian; neither word appears even once in any of the other Chronicles. The word ‘arms’ occurs more often in this Mars story than in any other Narnian tale.

[20] Lewis, Prince Caspian, 401.

[21] See A Comprehensive Etymological Dictionary of the Spanish Language with Families of Words Based on Indo-European Roots, Vol. I (A-G), ed. Edward A. Roberts (Bloomington, IN: XLibris, 2014), 96.

[22] Lewis, Prince Caspian, 349.

[23] Ibid., 398.

[24] Ibid., 400.

[25] Indeed, ‘mortar’ as ‘explosive shell’ comes from the practice of pounding gunpowder inside a cup or globe before lobbing it at the enemy.

[26] Francis Beaumont, The Knight of the Burning Pestle, first performed in 1607.

[27] Paul F. Ford, Companion to Narnia (New York: HarperCollins, 2005), 357.

[28] See Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit, book II, ch. 5.

[29] Ibid.

[30] Ibid., book II, ch. 7.

[31] Ibid., book II, ch. 5.

[32] See Stephen Yandell, “The Allegory of Love and The Discarded Image: C.S. Lewis as Medievalist,” C.S. Lewis: Life, Works, and Legacy, Vol. 4: Scholar, Teacher, and Public Intellectual, ed. Bruce L. Edwards (Santa Barbara, CA: Praeger, 2007), 135.

[33] Lewis, Prince Caspian, 399.

[34] In Planet Narnia (77), I noted Lewis’s admiration for Chaucer’s “Knight’s Tale,” which he calls “a perfect poem of chivalry.” Since writing the book I have been made aware of a page of notes, in Lewis’s handwriting, in the end-leaves of one of the volumes of his Complete Chaucer, in which he says more about “The Knight’s Tale” and the planets, and I am grateful to Judith Wolfe for bringing this to my attention and to Bernard O’Donoghue for providing access to the volume in question. The notes reveal Lewis’s knowledge of how the planets relate to the days of the week, and I suspect that one of things he is referring to when he says that “the character and influence of the planets are worked into the Knight’s Tale” is that the tale concludes on a Tuesday, the day of Mars, an appropriate end-point for a tale about Martial knights (“The Knight’s Tale,” lines 2483-2495). See the HBU website for a picture of the page of Lewis’s notes:

[35] In modern English, we might gloss these lines as follows: “This Reeve sat upon a very fine horse / That was all dappled grey and called ‘Scot’. / He had on a long outer coat of dark blue, / And by his side he bore a rusty sword” (“General Prologue,” lines 615ff).

[36] Lewis, Prince Caspian, 399.

[37] C.S. Lewis, English Literature in the Sixteenth Century Excluding Drama (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1954), 279.

[38] Lewis, Prince Caspian, 414.

[39] Ibid., 338.

[40] C.S. Lewis, Letter to A.K. Hamilton Jenkin, November 4, 1925.

[41] C. S. Lewis, Perelandra, Reprint edition. (New York: Scribner, 2003). 172.

[42] C. S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength, Reprint edition. (New York: Scribner, 2003). 322.

[43] Ps. 121:3-4, 7.

[44] Lewis, The Discarded Image, 194.

[45] C.S. Lewis, “Le Roi S’Amuse,” Poems, ed. Walter Hooper (New York: HarperCollins, 1994), 37-38. For my commentary on this poem, see:

[46] C.S. Lewis, “A Note on Comus,” Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Literature, 181.

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