by Mike Ashley
And the Knight of Pale Countenance awoke in his pain, finding himself on horseback, the raven circling overhead, around and around, slowly, slowly. Later, it rested on his shoulder and whispered to him in a human voice of death and the terrors of the grave, but also of the worldly glory of chivalry, which burned like brilliant fire in the heart.
He could remember that. The fire had not quite gone out, for all his weariness and pain.
Through hollow lands and bone lands, through thigh-deep, frigid dust, through forests haunted by crouching, half-remembered, faceless pagan gods—
“This is all rubbish,” said Father Caius suddenly. “It may even be the Devil’s rubbish.”
“Father please . . .” Somehow I knew it wasn’t rubbish at all, but more true than anything. As the knight’s fire burned within his heart, I had this, as if a fit had come upon me: a story fit, a kind of prophecy. Yet even then I was still afraid, for this prophecy might not be from God. The fellow had refused to be shriven, after all. The Devil’s rubbish, gleaming like gold.
“Sometimes my strength comes back to me,” the knight said. “The poison goes to sleep, and I have hope. That is one more torment I must endure. I seem to awaken as if from a terrible dream. I rise, like a swimmer far underwater, nearing the surface, not quite able to reach the light. I flare up, the way a candle does, just before it goes out. Write that down, boy. Quickly.”
I scribbled in the margin: As a candle’s flame . . .
The knight laughed softly, as if he’d told a joke. I didn’t understand. He continued “. . . and in my flaming moments, I have killed giants by the score, heaping them up like logs, and, oh yes, more than my share of Saxons. But sometimes I hear another’s hoofbeats and turn to see death riding by my side on a horse the color of white smoke, and he leans over and whispers to me through lipless teeth, in the friendliest terms, as if we were comrades on a long campaign together. And that damned bird, shrieking—”
Just then a bird did shriek somewhere in the branches above us, and I let out a little yelp of abject terror.
Father Caius put his hand on my shoulder and heaved himself to his feet. “This is all lunacy, but if it comforts him, let him have his lunacy. There is no harm or power in words. Now I have things I must do. I’ll be back shortly.”
The Father departed, leaving the world turned upside down. Nothing made sense. I didn’t understand how he could have said such a thing. Sometimes words are all we have. Prayers. Story. The story is the world and the world is the story, more powerful than anything. Ask a bard if you don’t believe me. In the beginning was the Word—
But I didn’t have to understand. That wasn’t my task. I was there merely to transcribe, to relate the tale with flourish. Let the meaning rise to the surface as it would, like bubbles in a murky pond.
“I was tempted three times,” the knight said. “Get that down. Three times.”
“Three,” I said, scribbling.
“I went mad once, howling in my pain like an animal, cursing God and cursed by him, who caused me to dwell naked among cattle on a hillside, grazing on grass. But the voice of Merlin’s raven awakened me—”
I glanced up into the branches once more, in dread. But the breeze merely stirred them, rattling dry leaves.
“What was I saying?” the knight asked.
“You were tempted three times.”
“Write this down. Shape it. Make it, for that’s what you are, the maker, if you tell my tale after I am gone—”
In the evening, the Knight of Pale Countenance came to the curving shore of the lake. There he paused to drink, but as he stooped down the blood of his wound poured out, polluting the water until it was dark and smooth like a mirror. He gazed down into the water at his reflection, and at first, saw only his paindrawn face, but then beheld a monstrous serpent lurking in the mud.
The creature stirred. It broke the surface and reared up, as tall as a tower, its flickering tongue like a sword of living fire.
“Will you fight with me, Sir Knight?” The monster’s voice cracked like thunder in the gathering darkness.
“Most surely,” replied the Knight of Pale Countenance, drawing his sword and taking up his shield, “for I know that you are my enemy, sent by the Devil.”
“Is not the serpent one of God’s creatures? Doesn’t it say in the holy books that the Devil lacks the power to create anything?”
The two of them joined battle for an hour, two hours, three, beneath the brilliant stars, wading in the shallows of the mirrored lake. Sometimes the serpent was a huge warrior clad in scaly armor, wielding a sword of fire, or many burning spears and swords all at once, as if he had a hundred arms.
At the third hour of the night, they paused, the knight leaning on his shield, gasping in pain and exhaustion, the serpent coiling over itself in the mud.
“You still have your courage,” said the monster.
“Aye, that,” said the knight, “but nothing else.”
“And your pride. You have fought impressively. But it is useless. Yield to me. I will make you whole.”
“No,” said the knight. “Though I am the most wretched of men, I shall not yield.”
Merlin’s raven circled overhead, the stars winking as it passed in front of them.
The monster reared up once more. The knight raised his sword and shield, and the contest continued until the ancient, crescent moon drifted above the treetops and the serpent-thing paused to look at it. The knight thought he saw an opening and made to strike, but hesitated when the serpent spoke.
“That is false hope. No man may touch the moon, nor slow her journey across the sky. Some things you cannot conquer. Therefore yield to me. I will allow you to know love. I’ll give you happiness. Yield.”
But the knight would not yield, and still the two of them fought, the serpent-creature assuming many forms, each more terrible than the last, screaming with all the voices of Hell. But the knight’s courage did not fail him, though he recognized it as the courage of desperation, not virtue.
When dawn came, the serpent spoke for a third time.
“Merely yield, and be free of pain. Give it up. Rest.”
The knight hesitated then, weeping, and, quick as a whiplash, the serpent wound its coils around his legs, until it rested its huge head at his feet like a faithful dog. He would have yielded then, and fallen asleep, but Merlin’s raven cried out, and he snapped awake, and struck off the monster’s head.
Father Caius returned. Somewhere he’d found a ragged blanket – it smelled like a horsecloth and probably was – for me to wrap around myself, and more rags, some of them bloody, for me to tie around my feet. Better still, so convenient and unexpected it seemed almost a miracle, he’d found a small, two-wheeled cart, to which a donkey had undoubtedly once been harnessed. Now he could pull it if he had to.
I helped him load the wounded knight into the cart.
Father Caius took the knight’s hand in his own and said, “Now, my friend, let me hear your confession before it’s too late.”
The knight stirred and moaned.
“Will you pray with me?” Father Caius asked. To me he whispered, “Now we shall know. A damned man cannot pray.”
The knight folded his hands.
Father Caius began to intone in Latin, but then a huge black bird did shriek from a nearby branch and the Knight of Pale Countenance heaved himself up, cursing and raving and weeping. Father Caius and I both drew back in momentary fright. The black bird swirled over our heads.
The knight pointed into empty space. “Can’t you see him? There! It is Death on his pale horse . . .”
The bird cried out.
But Father Caius invoked the name of Jesu, the conqueror of death, and after a while the bird was gone and the knight rested peacefully.
“His hurt is more than a physical injury, I am sure,” the Father said. “His very soul is wounded, by sin.”
“Yes. He said he was tempted three times.”
“What?”
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“In the story—”
Father Caius struck me across the face in sudden, astonishing wrath. “Forget about your stupid story! This is no time for idleness. By rights we ought to abandon this fellow and save ourselves, for he will not pray and that means the Devil owns him.”
I began to weep. “Please, Father . . .”
His voice and manner softened. He brushed his hand through my hair. “You are right, Perry. Forgive me. We must not abandon him while he yet lives, for there is still a chance he might be saved, whether he tells preposterous tales or not. That is my duty. I have forgotten it and therefore sinned. Forgive me.”
I said nothing.
“Besides,” said Father Caius, rapping his knuckles against the side of the cart, “God has provided. Nothing God does is without meaning, if only we can discover it.”
I was glad then, less, I will admit, for the prospect of saving the knight’s soul than the prospect of hearing the rest of his story.
Overhead, Merlin’s raven had returned.
Father Caius insisted that I should get into the cart and he would pull both of us. “Because I am a beast and you are my burden,” he said, which was crazy; so I refused, stowed only my bag in the cart, and the two of us dragged the Knight of Pale Countenance along the shore of the lake until we found a path. We followed the path until about midday, when the forest ended and we came to a burned-out farmhouse. We rested there and drank from a well, but went hungry, for we had no provisions. The water tasted of soot. Still the black bird circled overhead. Either Father Caius did not see it or he pretended not to notice it.
Later that afternoon we joined a column of refugees streaming westward along one of the paved, Roman roads. Most were ragged, silent people, a lot of them old women, but there was also a mother who had gone mad. She cradled the black-faced corpse of her baby in her arms, singing to it softly through her tears, as if it were still alive and might wake up.
Father Caius turned away from her. I stared, then looked at the ground as I struggled with the cart.
We marched past a battlefield, strewn with corpses and thick with crows.
“It’s all rubbish,” Father Caius said. “The Devil’s offal. The end of the world.”
I looked at him in hopeless terror then, for if he despaired, it had to be the end of the world after all. There was no help anywhere.
The woman kept on singing as we passed more ruined farmhouses and came to a burning town. No one was alive there. The fires were nearly out.
“The Devil’s offal,” said Father Caius.
I tried to tell myself it was his wound. He was still dazed. I wept for him, and prayed. That cold march seemed to go on forever. The afternoon would not end. Time had stopped.
Then the Knight of Pale Countenance suddenly sat up in the back of the cart, shouting that he knew the answer, that Britain would not only be saved but made glorious. It was all in his tale.
Father Caius pushed him back down into the cart and commanded him to be still. About then, twenty or so British horsemen galloped by, armorless men with painted shields and round, military caps, the bucellarii of some rich lord. They paid no attention to us and we ignored them.
The Saxons attacked again just after sundown, horsemen in their demon-masked helmets streaming out of the woods, cleaving their way through the refugees like reapers among wheat. I saw the mad woman’s baby hurled through the air. Everyone was screaming and running; and the Saxons circled around and around, laughing, as I climbed into the cart and tried to get out the Pale Knight’s sword.
But Father Caius caught hold of me and hauled me to the ground. He looked strange. It took me a moment to realize that the top of his head had been sheared off. He was trying to say something, but blood and brains streamed down over his face, splattering me. He collapsed, dragging me down on top of him in a heap.
Everything has meaning, if only we can find it. In that instant, I could only guess. I called out, not to God, but to Merlin, shouting that the story was in danger, that it should not end like this; and then a miracle happened, a prodigy, maybe the delirium of a dream, and behold, the Knight of Pale Countenance leapt down from the back of the cart and drew sword. His strength had returned to him, and he struck left and right as the laughing Saxons circled him, as their laughter turned to howls, then thudding silence, as he slew them all, his sword flickering like Jove’s terrible lightning.
When it was over, we two stood alone on the road, but for the corpses, and the Saxons lay in a pile all around him, stacked like logs.
And Merlin’s raven dropped down onto the Pale Knight’s shoulder, and spoke with the voice of a man.
This is the rest of the tale, how the Knight of Pale Countenance was tempted three times but did not yield. Then the serpent-thing told how it had once been a man, called Sir Vorcilak, a mighty champion until pride had transformed him into a monster.
“Only a genuinely holy man can kill me,” he said.
“I am a poor sinner,” said the Knight of Pale Countenance.
“That is why I am still alive, though you have cut off my head.”
The knight took up the monster’s head, which had become human in shape, strong-jawed, with black, curly hair, a thick beard, and dark eyes. He stood on the back of the floating serpent body and drifted far out into the lake. A mist rose. Sir Vorcilak’s eyes glowed like lanterns, lighting the way.
In the middle of the lake was an island of glass, revealed as the mist parted, whereon stood a glass castle which gleamed a brilliant white by day, darkened to red in the sunset, and mirrored the stars at night. A lady dwelt in that castle; and she came out to greet the Pale Knight and also Sir Vorcilak, who had been her lover once, but had proven as unworthy as her many other lovers, unable to break the enchantment of this place. Her father, a mighty king, had placed her there long before, that no unworthy man should defile her; and there she dwelt for endless centuries, for the years did not touch her in that castle and time did not pass, and the lives of generations swirled past her like water around a rock.
She greeted Sir Vorcilak and kissed him, then placed his still-living head atop a pillar to guard the isle and warn all who came near that only a true hero could set foot there and come away unwounded.
And she tempted the Knight of Pale Countenance for a fourth time, leading him into her bedchamber, where she showed him two mirrors the size of large books, one hidden beneath a folding cover of horn, the other beneath ivory.
She opened one – but no one who was not there can say which one – and said, “This is the Glass of Seeing, in which the deeds of famous men are revealed, past and to come.”
Together they sat before the glass and beheld Troy town newly built, and again Troy when it was burnt; and they saw Brutus the Trojan first reach the shores of Britain and win the isle, hurling giants into the sea one by one. Julius Caesar likewise appeared, and Alexander, and other heroes of great worship.
The knight beheld them with delight, and the lady said to him, “But what are the deeds of men, but strivings to fill the time before they all go down to death, king and poor man alike, lord and slave? All these things are just shadows in my glass. But I have seen you in my glass and brought you into my chamber, because I would have you lie with me and take me for your wife. Then shall you dwell here at my side, always at your ease in my glass castle and crystal garden, where nothing ages or changes or dies and there is no pain. Here you merely watch the world. You are not a part of it. Even your sins do not matter anymore, for where past and future are as one and there is no passage of time, then the time of your sinning has never occurred. You are as free from guilt as you are from fear and sorrow. Tarry with me then, forever.”
The Knight of Pale Countenance was greatly tempted. He spoke of his duty, but the lady said merely, “Nay,” and laughed as if he had said something ridiculous. He tried to speak again, but she put a finger to his lips and hushed him, as a nursemaid does a small child.
She searched out his wound and
touched it with her hands, healing him.
And then, in his weariness, he did lie with her.
Afterwards, he looked into the uncovered glass once more, and saw himself, all his life, and his sins, from beginning to end.
She laughed and snapped the cover shut.
“They’re only pictures in a glass,” she said. “They don’t mean anything, now that we are here.”
But he wept, even as Judas wept when he held the silver pieces in his hand, understanding the magnitude of his wrong.
Later, she sang a gentle song to soothe him, to bewitch him; but he sat up angrily in her bed, furious with rage and despair, saying that he had sinned again, unforgivably, even as he had once before. And he rose from the bed, naked. His wound opened, blood pouring over him. Gasping, at the end of his strength, he took up his sword and smashed the Glass of Seeing, then turned to strike off the lady’s head.
But she took hold of the blade and turned it gently aside, saying, “Would you murder a damsel who loves you?”
Of course he would not. He struggled to put on his clothing and armor, laboring for a long time in terrible pain. He made to leave.
“But if you will not love me,” said she, “I must take another.” And she opened the covering of the second glass, just a little way, for it was the Glass of Knowing, wherein the beginning and ending of time itself were contained. To look into it fully would be to see the Earth on the first day of creation, before the waters were parted, and the last day of the world, Judgment; and in both one would inevitably behold the face of God and die at the sight.
But she uncovered the glass only a little way, and one of those demons who would carry off the damned at the Judgment stepped forth into the room and took her in its arms, a giant of living, half-molten iron with a face too brilliant to look upon.