Igraine the Brave

by Cornelia Funke

  Each of Garleff’s hairs was as thick as the quill of a goose’s feather, and Igraine sank up to her chin in them. Taking out her sword, she cut off a bunch as long as her arm, rolled it up, and carefully put it in the bag she wore at her belt.

  “Ready!” she called, and the giant picked her out of his hair and put her on the palm of his hand.

  He looked thoughtfully at her, as if she were a butterfly who had fluttered down to settle on him. “That story you told me,” he growled, rubbing his mighty nose, “I don’t like the sound of it. And I don’t like to think of you riding through these hills all on your own. You’re rather small, you know, not much larger than my big toe. And there are some really bad people between the hills and the Whispering Woods. I can’t come with you myself. I never leave these hills. It’s only too easy for us giants to tread on the people we want to help and squash them flat. But I know someone who could go with you and perhaps even help you against this man — what was his name again?”

  “Osmund,” replied Igraine.

  “Exactly.” Garleff nodded thoughtfully and lapsed into silence.

  “Yes,” he murmured much later. “I think it wouldn’t be a bad idea to ask him.”

  “Ask who?” inquired Igraine.

  “You’ll soon see,” replied Garleff. He took Igraine in one hand and Lancelot (who didn’t like it at all) in the other, and stood up. Then he marched away with mighty strides over the hills into the dark night, going east.

  13

  Garleff carried Igraine to the foot of a mountain that rose bleak and rocky into the starry sky. Even Garleff looked small beside it. A long, long flight of steps carved in the rock led up to a tower that clung to the gray side of the mountain like a swallow’s nest.

  Garleff carefully deposited Igraine and Lancelot on the wet grass, bent down, and put his finger to his lips. “Hear that?” he asked softly.

  Igraine listened, and heard a sigh, a deep sigh carried down to her from the tower by the wind.

  “It’s like that day and night,” the giant whispered. “Sad and sorrowful, he’s always sad and sorrowful. Yet he was once a great knight. He chased off two giant hunters for me, and he’s often saved the unicorns from hunting parties. He won countless fights. He unhorsed dozens of knights at the King’s tournaments, and he won the whole tournament six times and was rewarded with a kiss from the Princess. But one day he returned to these hills with the most sorrowful countenance in the world. He didn’t go back to his own castle, which is only one valley away, and he asked me to let him build this poor tower instead. He cut the steps out of the rock himself, working until his hands were bleeding. And ever since then, he’s been sighing night and day. He says he’s lost his honor and he can never show his face among men and women again. But I’m sure he’d keep you company on the way home if you asked for his help. If his eternal sighing doesn’t drive you mad, that is.”

  Igraine looked up at the lonely tower.

  “I always wanted to meet a knight who’d won one of the royal tournaments,” she said softly. “Do you really think he’d come with me?”

  “I’m sure he would!” Garleff lowered his voice a little more. “To be honest, I think it would do him good to help someone again. Wait here. I’ll go and ask him.”

  The giant stood up, took a long stride toward the mountain, and peered through the top window of the tower.

  “Hello?” he called. “Hello, anyone at home?”

  Nothing moved on the other side of the window, but a figure rose behind the moonlit battlements on the tower roof. It was the knight. His armor shone, but not so much as a single plume adorned his helmet.

  “Oh, is that you, Garleff?” Igraine heard him say sadly. “What do you want, my friend?”

  “I have a girl with me who rode to these hills all alone from the Whispering Woods to get some of my hairs. She arrived safely, but it would set my mind at rest if you could escort her home.” The giant thrust his enormous nose over the battlements. “Her name is Igraine, and her parents’ castle is being threatened by a nasty piece of work called Osmund.”

  “Osmund?” said the knight. “Oh, I know that name. And I’ve heard no good of him, either. He’s an enchanter, one of the black magicians.” He leaned over the battlements and looked down at Igraine. “She’s wearing a suit of armor,” he said in surprise.

  “She’s a brave little thing,” said Garleff, “but all the same, I’d like to think she had an experienced knight’s company on her way home, if you see what I mean.”

  The knight said nothing. He went on saying nothing for a small eternity. Then he sighed again. “In truth,” he said, “a knight must help a damsel in distress, even a knight who has lost his honor.”

  “Oh, for the stars’ sake, don’t go on about that again!” said Garleff, lifting the sighing knight off the top of his tower.

  Lancelot snorted when the giant put the knight down on the grass next to him, but he bravely stood his ground behind Igraine.

  “Noble lady,” said the knight, bowing to her, “I am the Sorrowful Knight of the Mount of Tears, and as you are obviously in dire straits, I offer you my services.”

  “Th-th-that’s very nice of you!” stammered Igraine. “Really. Er — could you come right away? You see, I’m in rather a hurry.”

  “As you wish,” replied the knight. “Let me just call my noble steed.”

  He gave a low whistle, and a gray mare appeared between the trees. The sight of the giant didn’t seem to alarm her. She trotted up to the Sorrowful Knight at her leisure and stopped in front of him. The mare was saddled and bridled as if for a tournament.

  “Come now, Gray,” said the knight. “The noble Igraine needs our protection, so we will go adventuring once more.” The horse whinnied softly as the knight swung himself up on her back. Lancelot pricked up his ears, curious. Igraine made sure once again that the giant’s hairs were safe in the bag at her belt, then she picked up Lancelot’s reins.

  “Thank you, Garleff!” she called up to the giant. “Thank you for everything!”

  Garleff knelt down on the grass in front of her and carefully shook her hand, which was smaller than his fingernail. “My regards to your parents!” he said. “And tell them to be a little more careful casting their spells from now on.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Igraine.

  Then she mounted Lancelot, waved back one last time, and rode away beside the Sorrowful Knight.

  Garleff watched them go for some time, and did not lie down on the thorny hillside again to look at the stars until they were out of sight.

  14

  The knight’s gray mare was not quite as fast as Lancelot, but they made good progress. Nothing stopped them in their swift ride. The night was quiet and peaceful, and the sky was full of stars.

  The Sorrowful Knight was a silent companion. Igraine asked him about the tournaments he had won, the hunters he had driven away, the unicorns he had saved. She asked why he didn’t have a squire, and what the King’s daughter looked like close up. But the knight just sighed, murmured sometimes “Yes,” sometimes “No,” and now and then simply “I forget.” Igraine, however, had dreamed for so long of riding beside a real knight one day that she went on asking questions. What did the coat of arms on his shield mean, she asked. Did he prefer fighting with a sword or a battle-ax; was the King really as useless at tilting with a lance as people said? That question made the knight laugh. And finally he began talking.

  By the time they left the Giant’s Hills behind and reached the marshy plain that stretched all the way to the Whispering Woods, the sun had risen and Igraine had learned quite a lot about the knight’s adventures. But she hadn’t yet found out why he was so sad.

  “How much farther is it to your parents’ castle?” asked the Sorrowful Knight as they watered their horses at the Elfin River, which was said to flow all the way to the sea.

  “Oh, it can’t be much farther now,” Igraine said, yawning. “If we don’t stop to rest, we can be there
just after sunset.” Her stomach was rumbling, and she was dreadfully tired after the long, endless ride, but she couldn’t wait to be home again.

  “We should rest our horses,” said the knight, and slipped out of the saddle. “Nothing hostile has met us yet, but it still may, and in that case our horses had better not have weary legs.”

  Igraine could hardly disagree with that, and Lancelot was obviously pleased when she let him wade in the clear water of the river. But Igraine herself could think of nothing but Pimpernel Castle. Had Osmund attacked already? Suppose she came too late?

  “I am rather worried, you know,” she told the Sorrowful Knight softly.

  “And I fear you have good reason,” he said. “Tell me more about this man Osmund.”

  “He’s our new neighbor. His castle is east of Pimpernel. In fact all our neighbors are horrible now, because to the west there’s the One-Eyed Duke, and he has a bad reputation, too.”

  “Yes, I have never heard anyone speak well of him.” The Sorrowful Knight drew his sword and ran his finger over the blade. “Well, what do you say? I see you carry a sword. Would you care for a little passage at arms to loosen up our weary limbs?”

  “Really?” Igraine leaped to her feet.

  Swordplay with a real knight! So far she had never fought anyone but the leather dummy, the grooms at Darkrock, and Bertram — and Bertram wasn’t exactly quick on his feet. She drew the sword she had brought. It was short and not too heavy, as if made for Igraine’s hand. The words engraved on the blade said that it had been a present to her great-grandfather on his thirteenth birthday.

  “If you will allow me,” said the knight, “I’ll choose a long dagger as my weapon. My sword is clumsy and awkward compared to yours.”

  “Of course, whatever you like,” replied Igraine, getting into position. “Shall I put my helmet on?”

  The knight smiled. “That won’t be necessary. You’re fighting a friend,” he said.

  Igraine’s heart was in her mouth as she countered his first attack. After she had parried his blade for the third time, the Sorrowful Knight stopped in surprise. “Well done!” he said. “My word, you’re not at all bad!”

  Igraine felt the blood shoot into her face. “Well, I’ve had quite a lot of practice,” she faltered.

  “Good. Then now I’ll show you a few things that you may not have practiced yet,” said the Sorrowful Knight — and he didn’t seem quite so sorrowful anymore.

  They fenced and fenced while the horses grazed by the riverbank and rested their tired legs. At last Igraine mopped the sweat off the end of her nose, gasped for air, and let herself drop into the grass. “I can’t go on,” she said.

  The knight sat down on a stone beside her and smiled. “You fight very skillfully for your age,” he said. “Even experienced squires are slower. But always remember the two rules of chivalry: Never turn your skill with the sword against weaker opponents, use it only in self-defense — and never use it to enrich yourself.”

  “Of course not,” said Igraine, sitting up again.

  “Good,” said the Sorrowful Knight, and he looked at her thoughtfully. “Then let me tell you two more rules that you may not have heard before. Always remember that your opponent may not be keeping to the rules himself, and remember,” he added, bending his head, “that you will never be as good as the knight who does nothing, day in and day out, but practice fighting.”

  Igraine looked at him, taken aback. “But I want to be the very, very best knight of all,” she said in a low voice.

  “And spend the rest of your life practicing fighting? Every hour of every day?”

  Igraine stroked her gleaming armor. “Well, perhaps not every hour,” she said.

  “But that is what some knights do,” said the Sorrowful Knight. “I myself once knew such a knight….” And he drove his sword into the ground.

  “I bet that Iron Hedgehog practices all day, every day!” said Igraine. “He has iron spikes all over his armor, and his face is as white as snow. As if he never takes off his helmet.”

  The Sorrowful Knight looked at her in astonishment. “What are you saying? What knight do you mean?”

  “He’s Osmund’s castellan.” Igraine knelt down by the bank of the river, cupped her hands, and filled them with cool water. “It gives you goose bumps just to look at him. Well, not me. I’m not afraid of him, I mean …” She cleared her throat, embarrassed. “I mean, the only thing I’m really frightened of is spiders. I know it’s stupid, but — is there anything you’re afraid of?”

  The Sorrowful Knight didn’t answer. He took his sword out of the ground, wiped it clean, and put it back in the sheath. Then he sighed.

  “I am indeed afraid of certain things, noble Igraine,” he said at last. “But I fear nothing in the world more than the knight of whom you spoke just now. His name is Rowan Heartless. He is the man who robbed me of my honor. I have challenged him to joust three times since then, and each time he defeated me with his first lance-thrust. I will keep my word and escort you back to your parents’ castle, but I can’t help you against Heartless. No one can.”

  “Well, we’ll see about that,” said Igraine, straightening up again. “How did he rob you of your honor? Not just by defeating you?”

  “No, a knight does not lose his honor when he is defeated in a fair fight. He did worse, much worse, and I became the Sorrowful Knight of the Mount of Tears.”

  “Oh, come on!” Igraine reached for his hand. “It can’t be as bad as all that. But you don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to. Just come to Pimpernel with me and you can watch my parents turn Osmund and the Spiky Knight into tadpoles or wood lice. They need the giant’s hairs for that, however, because they’re pigs at the moment, I’m afraid. Very pretty pigs, though.”

  A tiny smile appeared on the Sorrowful Knight’s lips.

  “I suppose magic isn’t allowed in chivalry, is it?” asked Igraine.

  “No. That would be dishonorable,” replied the knight.

  “Well, never mind.” Igraine went over to Lancelot and put his bridle on again. “I’m very bad at remembering magic spells, anyway. Let’s ride on, and you can tell me what else is dishonorable.”

  “As you wish, Brave Igraine,” said the Sorrowful Knight, mounting his horse. “Do you know, I am sure you will be an excellent knight someday.”

  15

  Igraine dared not ride past Darkrock carrying the precious giant’s hairs. So they turned west, where the One-Eyed Duke ruled the land and its people. Neither Igraine nor the Sorrowful Knight had ever ridden this way, but Igraine knew that the Elfin River would lead them to the Whispering Woods.

  Soon dense woods came down to the banks of the river. They offered protection from prying eyes, but progress was slower among the trees than in the hills. The horses grew restless; they picked up the acrid scent of bears and wolves. Igraine and the knight had their swords at the ready, but apart from a couple of robbers who made off at the sight of their armor, nothing but hares and deer crossed their path.

  It was a hot day, but under the trees it felt cool, and early in the afternoon Igraine saw the Duke’s castle on a hill not far away. It was surrounded by miserable straw huts, and the peasants with their children were toiling away in the fields outside, sweating in the baking sun.

  Igraine reined in her horse. “Look at that,” she said. “Even the children have to work from sunrise to sunset while the Duke goes out hunting. I wouldn’t want to end up that sort of knight.”

  The Sorrowful Knight smiled. He was smiling more and more often now.

  “I hardly think we need worry about that, noble Igraine,” he said.

  They went on following the river. Soon it made its way, foaming, through a ravine with steep and densely overgrown sides. Only a narrow path led along it above the water.

  “Why don’t you live in your castle anymore?” Igraine asked the knight as they followed the path side by side. “It must be terribly cold and drafty in that tower.” And
there were probably any number of spiders, but presumably the knight didn’t mind them.

  For some time he didn’t answer. And when he finally did, his voice was dark with sadness. “I was once the guardian of a castle,” he said. “Three ladies lived there, and I was appointed to protect them.”

  “What for? Couldn’t they protect themselves?” asked Igraine.

  “They weren’t like you,” replied the knight.

  “What became of them?”

  There was another long pause. Then the knight said, “Rowan Heartless, whom you call the Spiky Knight, stole them away, and I could do nothing to stop him.”

  “Oh!” Igraine looked at him in dismay. “But how could they just let themselves be stolen away like that?”

  The knight never got around to answering her. There was a rustling in the bushes on the slope to their left. Lancelot shied away as something slithered down the ravine with a loud squawk. It landed in front of the stallion’s hooves in a shower of leaves and twigs that had been torn loose, rolled on, and fell into the river with a mighty splash.

  “What was that?” asked Igraine, bending over Lancelot’s neck.

  Three heads emerged from the river, spluttering, the third one noticeably smaller than the other two. They all belonged to a moss-green dragon that hauled itself out of the water, snorting angrily, and stared grimly up at Igraine and the Sorrowful Knight.

  “Oh, no! Two more of them!” growled the smallest head. “It’s one of those days again.”

  “What are you gaping at?” bellowed the other two heads. “Are you out hunting dragons for fun, too? Do you need a dragon’s head to hang over your castle gate? Look at my third head, will you? The One-Eyed Duke cut it off, and it still hasn’t grown back any larger than one of your silly human heads. I really am sick and tired of this. And today that fellow’s after me again! Don’t you and your sort in those tinpot helmets have anything better to do? What the …”