Shea gathered he was expected to wash his hands. They needed it.
“In the name of Castle Caultrock,” said the little Bevis, “I crave your lordship’s pardon for not offering him a bath. But the hour of dinner is now so near—”
He was interrupted by a terrific blowing of trumpets, mostly out of tune and all playing different things, that might have heralded the arrival of the new year.
“The trumpets for dinner!” said the page who was wiping Shea’s hands for him, somewhat to his embarrassment. “Come.”
It had fallen dusk outside. The winding stair up which they had come was black as a boot. Shea was glad of the page’s guiding hand. The boy sure-footedly led the way to the bottom, across a little entry hall where a single torch hung in a wall bracket. He threw open a door, announcing in his thin voice, “Master Harold de Shea!”
The room beyond was large—at least fifty feet long and nearly as wide, wretchedly lighted—according to American standards—by alternate torches and tapers along the wall. Shea, who had recently been in the even dimmer illumination of Bonder Sverre’s house, found the light good enough to see that the place was filled with men and ladies, gabbing as they moved through an arch at the far end into the dining hall.
Chalmers was not to be seen. Britomart was visible a few feet away. She was the tallest person in the room with the exception of himself, and fully equal to his own five feet eleven.
He made his way toward her. “Well, Master Squire,” she greeted him unsmilingly, “it seems that since I have become your lady you are to take me to dinner. You may give the kiss of grace, but no liberties, you understand?” She pushed her cheek toward him, and since he was apparently expected to do so, he kissed it. That was easy enough. With a little make-up she might have been drawn by George Petty.
Preceded by the little Bevis they entered into the tall dining hall. They were led to the raised central part of the U-shaped table. Shea was glad to see that Chalmers had already been seated, two places away from him. The intervening space was already occupied by the cameolike Amoret. To the evident discomfort of Chalmers, she was pouring the tale of her woes into his ear with machine-gun speed.
“—and, oh, the tortures that foul fiend Busyrane put me to!” she was saying. “With foul shows and fantastic images on the walls of the cell where I was held. Now he’d declare how my own Scudamour was unfaithful to me; now offer me great price for my virtue—”
“How many times a day did he demand it?” inquired a knight beyond, leaning down the table.
“Never less than six,” said Amoret, “and oft as many as twenty. When I refused—as ever I must—the thing’s past understanding—”
Shea heard Chalmers murmur: “What, never? No never. What, never—”
The knight said: “Sir Scudamour may well take pride in such a wife, gentle lady, who has borne so much for his sake.”
“What else could she do?” asked Britomart coldly.
Shea spoke up: “I could think of one or two things.”
The Petty girl turned on him, blue eyes flashing. “Master Squire, your insinuations are vile, and unworthy the honor of knighthood! Had you made them beyond that gate, I would prove them so on your body, with spear and sword.”
She was, he observed with some astonishment, genuinely angry. “Sorry; I was joking,” he offered.
“Chastity, sir, is no subject for jest!” she snapped.
Before the conversation could be carried further, Shea jumped at another tremendous blast of trumpets. A file of pages pranced in with silver plates. Shea noted there was only one plate for him and Britomart together. Looking down the table, he saw that each pair, knight and lady, had been similarly served. This was apparently one of the implications of being a knight’s “lady.” Shea would have liked to inquire whether there were any others; but in view of Britomart’s rebuff at his mild joke at Amoret, he didn’t quite dare.
The trumpets blew again, this time to usher in a file of serving men bearing trays of food. That set before Shea and Britomart was a huge pastry, elaborately made in the form of a potbellied medieval ship, upon which the page Bevis fell with a carving knife. As he worked at it, Chalmers leaned around Amoret’s back, and touching Shea’s sleeve, remarked: “Everything’s going according to plan.”
“How do you mean?”
“The logical equations. I looked at them in my room. They puzzled me a bit at first, but I checked them against that key I made up, and everything fit into place.”
“Then you can really work magic?”
“I’m pretty sure. I tried a little enchantment on a cat that was strolling around. Worked a spell on some feathers and gave it wings.” He chuckled. “I daresay there will be some astonishment among the birds in the forest tonight. It flew out the window.”
Shea felt a nudge at his other side, and turned to face Britomart. “Will my lord, as is his right, help himself first?” she said. She indicated the plate. Her expression plainly said she hoped any man who helped himself before her would choke on what he got. Shea surveyed her for a second.
“Not at all,” he answered. “You go first. After all, you’re a better knight than I am. You pitched Hardimour down with a spear. If you hadn’t softened him up, I couldn’t have done a thing.”
Her smile told him he had gauged her psychology correctly. “Grace,” said she. She plunged her hand into the pile of meat that had come out of the pastry ship, put a good-sized lump into her mouth. Shea followed her example. He nearly jumped out of his chair, and snatched for the wine cup in front of him.
The meat tasted like nothing on earth. It was heavily salted, and sweet, and almost all other flavors were drowned in a terrific taste of cloves. Two big tears of agony came into Shea’s eyes as he took a long pull at the wine cup.
The wine reeked of cinnamon. The tears ran down his cheek.
“Ah, good Squire Harold,” came Amoret’s voice, “I don’t wonder that you weep at the tale of the agonies through which I have passed. Was ever faithful lady so foully put upon?”
“For my part,” said the knight farther down the table, “I think this Busyrane is a vile, caitiff rogue, and willingly would I take the adventure of putting an end to him.”
Britomart gave a hard little laugh. “You won’t find that so easy, Sir Erivan. Firstly, you shall know that Busyrane dwells in the woods where the Losels breed, those most hideous creatures that are half-human in form, yet eat of human flesh. They are ill to overcome. Secondly, this Busyrane conceals his castle by arts magical, so it is hard to find. And thirdly, having found it and Busyrane himself, he is a very stout and powerful fighter, whom few can match. In all Faerie, I know of only two that might overthrow him.”
“And who are they?” asked Erivan.
“This one is Sir Cambell, who is a knight of great prowess. Moreover, he has to wife Cambina, who is much skilled in the white magic that might pass both through the Losels and Busyrane’s enchantments. The other is my own dear lord and affianced husband, Sir Artegall, justiciar to our queen.”
“There you see!” cried Amoret. “That’s the kind of person who was after me. Oh, what sufferings! Oh, how I ever—”
“Ssst, Amoret!” interrupted Chalmers. “Your food’s getting cold, child.”
“How true, good palmer.” A tear trickled down Amoret’s lovely pale cheek as she rolled a huge ball of food between her fingers and thrust it into her mouth. As she chewed she managed to exclaim: “Oh, what would I do without the good friends who aid me!” There was certainly nothing weak about the frail-looking lady’s appetite.
###
Trumpets sounded the end of the course, and as one set of serving men took away the plates, another emerged with more dishes. Pages came running to each couple with metal bowls of water and towels. Sir Erivan, beyond Chalmers, lifted his wine cup and then set it down again.
“Ho, varlet!” he cried. “My wine cup is empty. Is it the custom of Caultrock to let the guests perish of thirst?”
The servitor signaled another, and a small, wizened man in a fur-lined jacket hurried up and bowed to Sir Erivan.
“My very gracious lord,” he said, “I crave your pardon. But a most strange malady has befallen the wine, and it’s turned sour. All the wine in Castle Caultrock. The good Fray Montelius has pronounced an exorcism over it, but to no purpose. There must be a powerful enchantment on it.”
“What?” shouted Sir Erivan. “By the seven thousand demons of Gehenna, do you expect us to drink water?” And then, shrugging his shoulders, he turned toward Chalmers. “You see how it is, reverend sir. Daily we knights of Faerie are compassed closer about by these evil spells till we know not what to do. I doubt not they will make trouble at the tournament.”
“What tournament?” asked Shea.
“The tournament of Satyrane, the woodland knight, at his forest castle, three days hence. It will be a most proud and joyous occasion. There’s to be jousting, ending with a mêilée, for the prize among knights, and also a tourney of beauty for the ladies after. I’ve heard that the prize of beauty is to be that famous girdle of the Lady Florimel, which none but the most chaste may bind on.”
“Oh, how you frighten me!” said Amoret. “I was kidnapped from a tournament, you know. Now I shall hardly dare attend this one, if there will be enchanters present. Just think, one might win the prize of valor and I be awarded to him of right!”
“I shall be in the lists for you,” said Britomart, a trifle haughtily.
Shea asked: “Does the winner of the men’s prize get the winner of the prize of beauty?”
Sir Erivan looked at him in some astonishment. “You are pleased to jest—No, I see you are really a foreigner and don’t know. Well, then, such is the custom of Faerie. But I misdoubt me these enchanters and their spells.” He shook his head gloomily.
Shea said: “Say, my friend Chalmers and I might be able to help you out a little.”
“In what manner?”
Chalmers was making frantic efforts to signal him to silence, but Shea ignored them. “We know a little magic of our own. Pure white magic, like that Lady Cambina you spoke of. For instance—Doc, think you could do something about the wine situation?”
“Why . . . ahem . . . that is . . . I suppose I might, Harold. But don’t you think—”
Shea did not wait for the objection. “If you’ll be patient,” he said, “my friend the palmer will work some of his magic. What’ll you need, Doc?”
Chalmers’ brow furrowed. “A gallon or so of water, yes. Perhaps a few drops of good wine. Some grapes and bay leaves—”
Somebody interrupted: “As well ask for the moon in a basket as grapes at Caultrock. Last week came a swarm of birds and stripped the vines bare. Enchanter’s work, by hap; they do not love us here.”
“Dear me! Would there be a cask?”
“Aye, marry, a mort o’ ’em. Rudiger, an empty cask!”
The cask was rolled down the center of the tables. The guests buzzed as they saw the preparations. Other articles were asked and refused till there was produced a stock of cubes of crystallized honey, crude and unstandardized in shape, “—but they’ll do as sugar cubes, lacking anything better,” Chalmers told Shea.
A piece of charcoal served Chalmers for a pencil. On each of the lumps of crystallized honey he marked a letter, O, C, or H. A little fire was got going on the stone floor in the center of the tables. Chalmers dissolved some of the honey in some of the water, put the water in the cask and some of the straw in the water. The remaining lumps of honey he stirred about the table top with his fingers, as though playing some private game of anagrams, reciting meanwhile:
“So oft as I with state of present time
The image of our . . . uh . . . happiness compare,
So oft I find how less we are than prime,
How less our joy than that we once did share:
Thus do I ask those things that once we had
To make an evening run its wonted course,
And banish from this company the sad
Thoughts that in utter abstinence have their source:
Change then! For, being water, you cannot be worse!”
As he spoke, he withdrew a few of the lumps, arranging them thus:
“By the splendor of Heaven!” cried a knight with a short beard, who had risen and was peering into the cask. “The palmer’s done it!”
Chalmers reached over and pulled the straw from the top of the cask, dipped some of the liquid into his goblet and sipped. “God bless my soul!” he murmured.
“What is it, Doc?” asked Shea.
“Try it,” said Chalmers, passing him the goblet.
Shea tried it, and for the second time that evening almost upset the table.
The liquid was the best Scotch whiskey he had ever tasted.
The thirsty Sir Erivan spoke up: “Is aught amiss with your spell-wrought wine?”
“Nothing,” said Chalmers, “except that it’s rather . . . uh . . . potent.”
“May one sample it, Sir Palmer?”
“Go easy on it,” said Shea, passing down the goblet.
Sir Erivan went easy, but nevertheless exploded into a series of coughs. “Whee! A beverage for the gods on Olympus! None but they would have gullets of the proper temper. Yet methinks I should like more.”
Shea diluted the next slug of whiskey with water before giving it to the serving man to pass down the table. The knight with the short beard made a face at the flavor. “This tastes like no wine I wot of,” said he.
“Most true,” said Erivan, “but ’tis proper nectar, and makes one feel wonnnnnnderful! More, I pray you!”
“May I have some, please?” asked Amoret, timidly.
Chalmers looked unhappy. Britomart intervened: “Before you sample strange waters I myself will try.” She picked up the goblet she was sharing with Shea, took a long quick drink.
Her eyes goggled and watered, but she held it well. “Too . . . strong for my little charge,” said she when she got her breath back.
“But, Lady Britomart—”
“Nay. It would not—Nay, I say.”
The servitors were busy handing out the Scotch, which left a trail of louder talk and funnier jokes in its wake. Down the table some of the people were dancing; the kind of dance wherein you spend your time holding up your partner’s hand and bowing. Shea had just enough whiskey in him to uncork his natural recklessness. He bowed half-mockingly to Britomart. “Would my lady care to dance?”
“No,” she said solemnly. “I do it not. So many responsibilities have I had that I’ve never learned. Another drink, please.”
“Oh, come on! I don’t, either, the way they do here. But we can try.”
“No,” she said. “Poor Britomart never indulges in the lighter pleasures. Always busy, righting wrongs and setting a good example of chastity. Not that anyone heeds it.”
Shea saw Chalmers slip Amoret a shot of whiskey. The perfect beauty coughed it down. Then she began talking very fast about the sacrifices she had made to keep herself pure for her husband. Chalmers began looking around for help. Serves the Doc right, thought Shea. Britomart was pulling his sleeve.
“It’s a shame,” she sighed. “They all say Britomart needs no man’s sympathy. She’s the girl who can take care of herself.”
“Is it as bad as all that?”
“Mush worst. I mean much worse. They all say Britomart has no sense of humor. That’s because I do my duty. Conscientious. That’s the trouble. You think I have a sense of humor, don’t you, Master Harold de Shea?” She looked at him accusingly.
Shea privately thought that “they all” were right. But he answered: “Of course I do.”
“That’s splendid. It gladdens my heart to find someone who understands. I like you, Master Harold. You’re tall, not like these little pigs of men around here. Tell me, you don’t think I’m too tall, do you? You wouldn’t say I was just a big blond horse?”
“Perish the thought!”
; “Would you even say I was good-looking?”
“And how!” Shea wondered how this was going to end.
“Really, truly good-looking, even if I am tall?”
“Sure, you bet, honest.” Shea saw that Britomart was on the verge of tears. Chalmers was busy trying to stanch Amoret’s verbal hemorrhage, and couldn’t help.
“Thass glorious. I’m so glad to find somebody who likes me as a woman. They all admire me, but nobody cares for me as a woman. Have to set a good example. Tell you a secret.” She leaned toward him in such a marked manner that Shea glanced around to see whether they were attracting attention.
They were not. Sir Erivan, with a Harpo Marx expression, was chasing a plump, squeaking lady from pillar to pillar. The dancers were doing a snake dance. From one corner came a roar where knights were betting their shirts at knucklebones.
“Tell you shecret,” she went on, raising her voice. “I get tired of being a good example. Like to be really human. Just once. Like this.” She grabbed Shea out of his seat as if he had been a puppy dog, slammed him down on her lap, and kissed him with all the gentleness of an affectionate tornado.
Then she heaved him out of her lap with the same amazing strength and pushed him back into his place.
“No,” she said gloomily. “No. My responsibilities. Must think on them.” A big tear rolled down her cheek. “Come, Amoret. We must to bed.”
###
The early sun had not yet reached the floor of the courtyards when Shea came back, grinning. He told Chalmers: “Say, Doc, silver has all kinds of value here! The horse and ass together only cost $4.60.”
“Capital! I feared some other metal would pass current, or that they might have no money at all. Is the . . . uh . . . donkey domesticated?”
“Tamest I ever saw. Hello, there, girls!” This was to Britomart and Amoret, who had just come out. Britomart had her armor on, and a stern, martial face glowered at Shea out of the helmet.
The Complete Compleat Enchanter Page 15