“I remember how my Scudamaur —” began Amoret.
But Chalmers broke in, “Couldn’t you swear him in as a kind of deputy?”
“There is no —” began Britomart, and then checked herself. “ ’Tis true, I have no squire at present. If you, Master Harold, will take the oaths and ride as my squire, that is, without a crest to your helmet, it might be managed.”
The oath was simple enough, about allegiance to Queen Gloriana and Britomart in her name, a promise to suppress malefactors, protect the weak, and so on.
Shea and Chalmers pulled off Sir Paridell’s armour together. His squire clucked distractedly through the process. Paridell came to in the middle of it, and Chalmers had to sit on his head until it was finished.
Shea learned that a suit of armour was heavier than it looked. It was also a trifle small in the breastplate. Fortunately Paridell — a plump young man with bags under his eyes — had a large head. So there was no trouble with the well-padded helmet, from which Britomart knocked off the crest with the handle of her sword.
She also lent Shea her own shield cover. She explained that Paridell’s engrailed green bars would cause any of half a dozen knights to challenge him to a death duel on sight.
They had eaten the last of their provisions at lunch. Shea had remarked to Chalmers on the difficulty of getting a bellyful of adventure and one of food on the same day. So the sight of Satyrane’s castle, all rough and craggy and set amid trees, held a welcome promise of food and entertainment. Unlike that of Caultrock, it had portcullis and gate open onto the immense courtyard. Here workmen were hammering at temporary stands at one side.
The place was filled with knights and ladies, most of them familiar to Britoniart and Amoret. Shea quite lost track of the number he was introduced to. In the hall before the dinner trumpet he met one he’d remember: Satyrane himself, a thick bear of a man, with a spade beard and huge voice. “All Britomart’s friends are mine!” he shouted. “Take a good place at the table, folks. Hungry, not so? We’re all hungry here; like to starve.” He chuckled, “Eat well, good squire; you’ll need strength tomorrow. There will be champions. Blandamour of the Iron Arm has come, and so have Cambell and Triamond.”
Chapter Four
AT TEN THE next morning, Shea came out of the vaultlike castle and blinked into the morning sun. Armour pressed his body in unfamiliar places. The big broadsword at the side was heavier than any he had ever handled.
The stands were finished and occupied by a vocal swarm of gentlemen and ladies in bright clothes. At their centre was a raised booth under a canopy. In it sat an old man with frosty-white hair and beard. He held a bundle of little yellow sticks.
“Who’s he?” asked Shea of Britomart, walking just a step ahead of him across the wide courtyard to a row of tents at the opposite side.
“Sssh! The honourable judge of the lists. Each time one of the knights scores a brave point he shall notch the stick of that knight, and thus the winner will be chosen.”
They had reached the row of tents, behind which grooms held horses. A trumpet blew three clear notes and a mounted herald rode right past them. Behind him came Satyrane on a big white horse. He had his helmet off, and was grinning and bobbing his head like a clumsy, amiable bear. He held a richly carved gold casket. As he reached the front of the stands, he opened it up and took from it a long girdle, intricately worked and flashing with jewels. The trumpeter blew another series of notes, and shouted in a high voice:
“This is that girdle of Florimel which none but the chaste may wear. It shall be the prize of the lady judged most beautiful of all at this tourney; and she shall be lady to that knight who gains the prize of valour and skill. These are the rules.”
“Some piece of rubbish, eh, folks?” shouted Satyrane and grinned. Shea heard Britomart, next to him, mutter something about “No manners.” The woodland knight completed his circuit and came to a stand near them. A squire passed up his helmet. From the opposite end of the lists a knight came forward, carrying a long slim lance, with which he lightly tapped Satyrane’s shield. Then he rode back to his place.
“Do you know him?” asked Shea to make conversation.
“Nay. I ken him not,” replied Britomart. “Some Saracen: see how his helmet ends in a spike and crescent peak and his shoulder plates flare outward.”
The trumpet sounded again, two warning notes. The antagonists charged. There was a clang like a dozen dropped kettles. Bright splinters of wood flew as both spears broke. Neither man went down, but the Saracen’s horse was staggering as he reached Shea’s end of the lists and he himself reeling drunkenly in the saddle, clutching for support.
Satyrane was judged winner amid a patter of applause. Shea caught sight of Chalmers in the stands, shouting with the rest. Beside him was a heavily veiled woman, whose slender-bodiced figure in the tight gown implied good looks.
Another knight had taken his place at the opposite end of the lists. The crowd murmured.
“Blandamour of the Iron Arm,” remarked Britomart. as the trumpet blew. Again came the rush and the whang of metal. This time Saryrane had aimed mole shrewdly. Blandamour popped out of his saddle, lit on the horse’s rump, and slid to the ground amid a shout of applause. Before he could be pulled aside another knight had taken his place. Satyrane rode him down, too, but came back from the encounter with his visor up, calling “Givors!” and shaking his head as though to clear it.
A squire hurried past with a cup of wine. Britomart called at him: “Am I needed yet?”
“No, my lady,” he replied. “Ferramont is to ride the next run.” Shea saw a little dark man with a black triangle on gold across his shield climb aboard his horse and take Satyrane’s place. The pace of the jousting began to quicken. After Ferramont’s second trip down the lists, two knights appeared at the opposite end. A page pushed past Shea calling for someone whose name sounded like “Sir Partybore” to join Ferramont for the defenders.
This time there was a double crash from the lists, which were getting dusty. Sir Partybore, or whatever his name was, went down. But he got up, clanked over to his horse, and pulled a big broadsword from the saddle bow. He waved it at the knight who had overthrown him, shouting something muffled in his helmet. The other turned back and dropped his broken lance. He drew a sword of his own, and aimed from the stirrups a blow that would have decapitated an elephant. The defender turned it easily with upraised shield. The man on foot and man on horseback circled each other, banging away with a frightful racket. Ferramont had downed another opponent in a cloud of dust, and new knights from either side were preparing to ride.
Shea turned to Britomart. “Aren’t you going to get in?”
She smiled and shook her head. “Those are the Lesser knights of either side,” she said. “You must know, good squire, that it is the custom of these tourneys for one or two knights of good report to ride at the beginning, as Satyrane has done for us and Blandamour for them. After that, those younger men have their opportunity to gain reputation, while such as we the Companions remain aside until needed.”
Shea was about to ask who chose the sides. But Britomart gripped his arm. “Ha! Look! With the gyronny of black and silver.”
At the other end of the lists Shea saw a big blond man ducking into a helmet. His shield bore a design of alternating black and silver triangles all running to the same point, which must be “gyronny”. “That is Sir Cambell and none other,” continued Britomart impressively.
* * *
As Britomart spoke, the big man came storming into the press. One of the lesser knights on foot, attempting to stop him, was knocked down like a nine-pin, rolling over and over under the horses hoofs. Shea hoped his skull had not been cracked.
Ferramont, who had secured another lance, was charging to meet Cambell. Just before black-and-gold and black-and-silver came together, Cambell dropped his own lance. With a single clean, flowing motion he ducked under the point of Ferramont’s Lance, snatched a mace from his side and dealt Ferram
ont’s a terrific backhand blow on the back of the head. Ferramont clanged heavily from his saddle, out cold. The stands were in a bedlam, Britomart shouting, “Well struck! Oh, well!” and shifting from foot to foot.
Near by Shea saw Satyrane’s face go grim and heard his visor clang shut as Cambell turned back into the mêlée, laying furiously about him with his mace and upsetting a knight at every stroke. Shouts warned him of Satyrane’s approach. He turned to meet the chief defender and swerved his horse quickly, striking with his mace at the lance head. But Satyrane knew the answer to that. As the arm went up, he changed aim from Cambell’s shield to his right shoulder. The long spear took him right at the joint and burst in a hundred shivering fragments. Down went Cambell with the point sticking in his shoulder.
With a yell of delight the defenders threw themselves on Cambell to make him prisoner. The challengers, more numerous, ringed the fallen knight round and began to get him back. Those still mounted tilted against each other around the edges of the mêlée.
A trumpet blew sharply over the uproar. Shea saw a new contestant entering the arena on the side of the challengers. He was a big, burly man who had fantastically decked every joint of his armour with brassoak leaves and had a curled metal oak leaf for a crest. Without any other notice, he dropped a big lance into position and charged at Satyrane, who had just received a fresh weapon on his side of the lists. Whang! Satyrane’s spear shivered, but the stranger’s held. The chief defender was carried six feet beyond his horse’s tail. He landed completely out. The stranger withdrew and then charged again. Down went another defender.
Britomart turned to Shea. “This is surely a man of much worship,” she said, “and now I may enter. Do you watch me, good squire, and if I am unhorsed, you are to draw me from the press.”
She was gone. The wounded Cambell, forgotten amid the tumult around this new champion, had been dragged to the security of the tents at the challengers’ end of the lists. The press was now around Satyrane, who was trying groggily to get up.
A trumpet sounded behind Shea. He turned to see Britomart ready. Oakleaves heard it, too, He wheeled to meet her. His lance shattered, but Britomart’s held. Though he slipped part of its force by twisting so it skidded over his shoulder, his horse staggered. Oakleaves swayed in the saddle. Unable to regain his co-ordination, he came down with a clatter.
The warrior girl turned at the end of the lists and came back, lifting a hand to acknowledge the hurricane of cheers. Another of the challengers had taken the place of the oakleaf knight. Britomart Laid her lance in rest to meet him.
Then a knight — Shea recognized Blandamour by the three crossed arrows on his shield and surcoat — detached himself from the mob around Satyrane. In two bounds his horse carried him to Britomart’s side, partly behind her. Too late she heard the warning shout from the stands as he swung his sword in a quick arc. The blow caught her at the base of the helmet, Down she went. Blandamour leaped down after her, sword in hand. Somebody shrieked: “Foully done!” Shea found himself running toward the spot, dragging at the big sword.
Blandamour had swung up his sword for another blow at Britomart. He turned at Shea’s approach and swung at his new adversary. Shea parried awkwardly with the big, clumsy blade, noticing out the corner of his eye that Britomart had reached a knee and was yanking a mace from her belt.
Blandamour started another swing. Can’t do much with this crowbar, thought Shea. He was trying to get it round, when he got a violent blow on the side of the head He reeled, eyes watering with pain. More to gain balance than to hit anything, he swung his sword round like a hammer thrower about to let go.
It caught Blandamour on the shoulder.
Shea felt the armour give before the impact. The man toppled with a red spurt of blood. The world was filled with a terrific blast of trumpets. Men-at-arms with halberds were separating the contestants. Britomart snapped up her visor and pointed to the man in armour at her feet, jerking like a headless chicken.
“A favour for a favour,” she remarked. “This faitour knave struck you from behind and was about to repeat the blow when my mace caught him.” She noticed that the grovelling man’s surcoat bore the green bars of Sir Paridell. “Yet still I owe you thanks, good squire. Without your aid I might have been sped by that foul cowardly blow that Blandamour struck.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Shea. “Are we taking time out for lunch?”
“Nay, the tournament is ended.”
Shea looked up and was dumfounded to see how much of the day had gone. The herald who had opened the proceedings had ridden across to the booth where the judge of the tournament sat. Now he blew a couple of toots, and cried in his high voice:
“It is judged that the most honour of this tournament has been gained by that noble and puissant lady, the Princess Britomart.” There was a shout of approval. “But it is also judged that the knight of the oak leaves has shown himself a very worthy lord and he also shall receive a chaplet of laurel.”
But when Britomart stepped up to the judge’s stand the knight of the oak leaves was nowhere to be found.
* * *
The stands emptied slowly, like those at a football game. Some spectators hooted after Blandamour and Paridell as they were helped out. Shea caught a glimpse of Chalmers, hurrying after the veiled girl who had been his neighbour in the stands.
She moved slowly, with long, graceful strides, and he caught up to her at the entrance to the castle. Someone, hurrying past, bumped them into each other. A pair of intense eyes regarded Chalmers over the low face veil.
“It is the good palmer. Hail, reverend sir,” she said in a toneless voice.
“Ahem,” said Chalmers, struggling to find something to say. “Isn’t it . . . uh . . . unusual for a woman to . . . uh . . . win a tournament?”
“Ywis, that it is.” The voice was toneless still. Chalmers feared he had managed things badly. But she walked by his side down the great hall till a blast of warmth came from a fireplace where a serving man had just started a blaze.
“The heat!” she gasped. “Bear it I cannot! Get me to air, holy sir!”
She reeled against the psychologist’s arm. He supported her to a casemented window, where she leaned back among the cushions, drawing in deep breaths. The features outlined against the thin veil were regular and fine; the eyes almost closed.
Twice Chalmers opened his mouth to speak to this singularly-abstracted girl. Twice he closed it again. He could think of nothing to say but: “Nice weather, isn’t it?” or “What’s your name?” Both remarks struck him as not only inadequate, hut absurd. He looked at his knobby knuckles with the feeling of being attached to a set of hands and feet seven times too big for him. He felt an utter fool in his drab gown and phony air of piety.
Dr. Reed Chalmers, though he did not recognize the sensations, was falling in love.
The girl’s eyelids fluttered. She turned her head and gave him along, slow look. He squirmed again. Then his professional sense awoke under that intent gaze. Something was the matter with her.
Certainly she was not feebleminded. She must be acting under some sort of compulsion — posthypnotic suggestion, perhaps — Magic!
He leaned forward, and was nearly knocked from his seat by a violent clap on the back.
“Good fortune, palmer!” cried a raucous voice. The dark Blandamour stepped past him, one arm bound tightly to his side. “Gramercy for your care of my little rosebud!” With the undamaged arm, he swung the girl expertly from her place in the casement and kissed her with a vigour that left, a damp spot on her veil.
Chalmers shuddered internally. The girl submitted with the same air of preoccupation. She sank back into the casement. Chalmers meditated on a suitably horrible end for this jolly roughneck. Something humorous and lingering, with either boiling oil or melted lead.
“Hi, Doc, how are we doing?” It was Shea. “Hi, Sir Blandamour. No hard feelings, I hope?”
The knight’s black eyebrows came down like awnin
gs. “Against you, you kern?” he roared. “Nay, I’ll give you a meeting beyond the castle gate and spank you with the flat o’ my blade.”
Shea looked down his long nose and pointed towards Bbndamour’s bandaged shoulder. “Be careful that iron arm of yours doesn’t get rusty before you go that far,” he remarked. He turned to Chalmers. “Come on, Doc, we got some reserved seats for the beauty parade. They’re starting now.”
* * *
As they left, Chalmers said: “Harold, I wish I could talk to that girl . . . uh . . . in private. I believe she’s the . . . uh . . . key to what we’re looking for.”
Shea said: “Honest? She’s Blandamour’s lady, isn’t she? I suppose if I fought him for her and beat him, she’d be mine.”
“No, no, Harold, I implore you not to start any more fights. Our superiority over these people should be based on . . . uh . . . intellectual considerations.”
“Okay. It’s funny, though, the way they pass women around like bottles of liquor. And the women don’t seem to mind.”
“Custom,” remarked Chalmers. “Beyond that, deep-rooted psychology. The rules are different from those we’re accustomed to, but they’re strict enough. A knight’s lady is evidently expected to be faithful to him until he loses her.”
“Still,” Shea persisted, “if I had a lady, I’m not sure I’d want to enter her in this beauty contest, knowing she’d be turned over to the winner of the tournament.”
* * *
“Custom again. It’s not considered sporting to hold out on the other knights by refusing to risk an attractive lady.”
They had been bowed into a kind of throne room with a raised dais at one end. At one side of the dais the bearish Satyrane sprawled in a comfortable chair. Six musicians with tootle-pipes and things like long-stemmed ukeleles were setting up a racket unlike any music Shea and Chalmers had ever heard. The knights and ladies appeared to find it charming, however. They listened with expressions of ecstasy till it squeaked and plunked to a close.
The Incompleat Enchanter Page 17