The Merriest Knight

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

  With that, I turned sharply and ran toward the larger of the two hovels, but checked at the entrance, my hot indignation dispelled by a cold stab of thought—and most of my vainglorious courage with it. The skull! It lay within, in the heavy dark. The sweating skull! But old bones do not sweat, I told myself. 'Tis a madman's raving. But the place is evil: damned and bedeviled. The old avenger's bloodlust has bewitched it. It is accursed. Natural laws do not rule in this cruel and unholy darkness. But I stooped and bunched my muscles and twitching nerves for the plunge. I would fetch out that bacon if I died for it—to shame the ungrateful girl. I began a defiant oath, changed it to a desperate prayer, shut my eyes and—staggered backward, yanked violently by my belt. I twisted around—and Sylvia's arms were about me. Her face was a pale mask, and her eyes were black holes in it. She cried out in a broken voice:

  "Not there! If you enter there—that place of evil and sorcery—and perish, body and soul, if you are already bit by that madness—what of me? Oh, dear Lord Christ, if Mark is mad, let the same madness bite me too—that I may perish with him!"

  Her arms fell from me. She pressed her hands to her face, and sobbed wildly. I pressed my hands to her shoulders and tried to still her shaking and trembling. Now all my fear was for her, and it mounted to a terror deeper than my fear of sorcery.

  "Be still, dear heart! Nay, I am not mad! What have we to do with madness—you and I, who have never shed innocent blood? I´ll not enter there, I swear it! I was a fool to think of it instead of the smokehouse!"

  I lowered my hands to her waist, lifted her and held her against my breast. Her sobs quieted, and her arms slipped up and about my neck, but she did not speak. . . . And then I remembered the mad old avenger; and I set her on her feet and loosed our embraces suddenly.

  "My knife!" I cried. "It was Brother Ambrose's gift!"

  I ran back to the base of the knoll and to the side of the corpse. Or was it a corpse? Now I was full of caution, and I hesitated about stooping and looking closer for the knife. I would have prodded the crumpled thing with my staff, but for the fact that I had dropped it somewhere. But now Sylvia was beside me; and she had my staff. No spoken word passed between us: but she stooped forward and poked at the figure on the ground with the iron-shod end of my staff. She thrust hardily five times.

  "Dead," she whispered.

  Then I went close and stooped low, and soon found the haft of my knife and laid hold of it; and all the while I was aware of the staff being pressed against the thing on the ground, for my protection against trickery, by all of my companion's strength. I withdrew the short blade.

  "Is it bloody?" Sylvia asked in a fearful whisper.

  I held it close to my eyes.

  "Yes," I said; and I thrust it into the turf, and again and again, as if to clean it.

  But it was a lie. The blade was as dry as if I had stabbed a skeleton.

  "God be praised!" cried Sylvia. "He was no warlock, but only a cruel old human devil after all. Glory be to the saints!"

  I said nothing to that, but returned the knife to its sheath with fumbling fingers. She was right, but she would not think so if I told her the truth. He had been nothing but a cruel old madman. I had thought so myself, for I did not believe in warlocks and their kind. Dear Brother Ambrose had schooled me well. But there had been no blood or any moisture on the blade that had pierced his evil heart and sped his hateful life!

  * * *

  And so I went back to the huts in silence, for the lie to Sylvia irked my conscience, even though I had told it for her own comfort. I went to the smokehouse and opened the door; and when the smoke had thinned, I found by touch and lifted out a great ham and threw it on the ground. Sylvia was beside me again, silent but watchful, and still armed with the iron-shod staff.

  "The loaves are in there where he slept and cooked—if any are left," I said.

  She shook her head, vastly to my relief; for I did not relish the thought of entering there.

  "I could not stomach bread of his kneading," she said, and shivered in distaste.

  I stepped to where the long sword still stood upright in the sod and laid my right hand on the hilt.

  "This is a knightly weapon and may serve us well," I said, making to pluck it to me.

  But it did not come away, though it was sunk by only a hand's-breadth in the ground. I tried to work it clear, but without avail. Then I tried to draw the great cross-hilt toward me. It stood stiffer than a tree. I set both hands to the hilt and pulled hard and harder, but without effect— till it came away so suddenly that I staggered back and all but fell. But I held tight to the great sword, which was now free and responsive to my hands.

  "What was it?" cried Sylvia.

  "Nothing," I said, steadying heart and lungs. "Stuck in an old root or something. But now—see, it is like a wand in my hands! Now we are free again—even as this knightly sword is free again—to go on our way to Camelot."

  She came close and murmured: "Take me in your arms again, dear Mark, for I am still faint with fear."

  I laid the sword down gently, then took her in my arms and held her tenderly.

  "Now kiss me," she murmured, with her face against my breast.

  I thought of Brother Ambrose. He had taught me that all sin is not of cruelty and hate and violence and treachery. He had told me that sin may be sweeter than honey.

  "That I may not do—not here and now," I stammered. "Not that I do not want to! That would be different. To kiss you against my wish and desire would be no sin. But as it is—my heart and my very soul craving your kisses—it would be a grievous and parlous sin."

  "Did your old Brother Ambrose tell you that?" she murmured, still with her face in the hollow of my left shoulder.

  "Yes, he did—but at the time I did not know what he meant, exactly," I answered, still stammering. "Then I did not understand," I added.

  "Nor you don't know now!" she cried. "Nor understand. Nor did that foolish hermit understand. And you are a man now—and he is still a hermit—and a coward. Only a coward would be afraid of kisses. Only a coward—or worse than a coward—would run away from kissing and jousting and feasting and adventure to these miserable wild mountains. Or what else did he fear? Had he committed murders and robberies, like vile jongleurs and lawless gypsies? Ah, that is it! Your saintly old Ambrose fled and hid from worse than kisses, methinks! He was more concerned about his mortal neck than for his immortal soul, I trow!"

  I cried out that it was not so, with a rough oath. And I pushed her from me with rough hands. Who was she—this ignorant girl I had saved from the jongleurs at risk of my life—to revile and defame my dear, gentle, honorable friend and guardian? She was beautiful; but how would her beauty have served her if I had not been at hand? And would I have been so eager to defend her, and so able to strike and kill for her, had I not learned Christian charity and knightly chivalry and battle courage from Brother Ambrose?

  I felt a hot, base impulse to slap her face. Instead—and red of face for my shame of that knavish impulse—I clapped a harsh hand to each of her shoulders. God, how frail and tender they felt! But they did not flinch away from my fingers. And still I wanted to hurt her. I drew her to me roughly and crushed her soft lips with my lips. . . . She made no struggle or attempt at outcry; and suddenly and shamefully the burning anger and passion turned to pity in my heart. I freed her from my brutal embrace, and stepped back and staggered blindly onto the lumpy sward, dazed with shame.

  "God forgive me!" I moaned. "Christ pity me!"

  Sylvia came to me and steadied and held me with hands and arms and all her slender body.

  She whispered, "For what, dear Mark?"

  It was a tremulous sound, quivering on the verge of tears.

  "For hurting you!" I cried. "For defiling you! I'm no better than the loathly knife-thrower—or the beastly madman!"

  I sank to my knees and begged her forgiveness. I fumbled for and found her small hard hands and pressed them to my face, that she might feel my
tears. She stooped low and spoke tenderly against my abject head.

  "I am not hurt, dear Mark. You should have whipped me for speaking so of your good friend. But I meant no word of it, my dear. I am your friend too. I will never imperil your soul, which is more precious to me than my own. And you did not hurt or frighten me—or in any way offend me. But now you are breaking my heart, dear Mark—with your tears on my hands."

  I blundered to my feet.

  "Will you ever trust me again?"

  "I have never distrusted you, poor boy."

  She drew my face down to hers and brushed the tears from my eyes with tremulous lips.

  Chapter Six

  The Cutthroat Packman

  We went away from the Mere of Herons, burdened with weapons and smoked wild meats. A few stars showed, among them a few known to me by name and position, thanks to Brother Ambrose; and so we held to the southward, in the general direction of Camelot. But the way was tough and obscure and our progress slow and stumbling. I went in front, fumbling; and Sylvia kept so close to my heels that she bumped against me frequently. After hours of it—two or three—we both were tottering from hunger and fatigue.

  Then I found a deep cleft between leaning rocks. It was roofed with sprawling ground-hemlock and with juniper and floored with dry moss. I made fire and soon built up a comforting and illuminating blaze; and by its wavering shine we discovered enough large gnawed bones of deer to tell us that wildcats or wolves had denned there in the past. I gathered and threw out the old bones while the damosel sliced smoked venison and bacon with my keenest knife. I gathered dry fern and heather and laid Sylvia's bed at the back of our retreat, and my own at the mouth of it, with the fire between.

  We ate many slices of the broiled meat, and wiped our fingers carefully on heather.

  "See what I have!" said Sylvia.

  She held it up. I recognized it as one of the leather bottles which the mad old squire had set out at his solitary feast.

  "It's not the one he guzzled from," she said.

  She pressed it into my hands.

  "After you, damosel," I said, politely.

  "Nay, you drink first, dear Mark," she returned. "Your thirst is the greater—and I don't know what it is. It may be poison."

  We laughed at that. We were very gay. I withdrew the wooden stopper and sniffed. I sipped. Old, strong mead. Honeydew. There was no mistaking it. Brother Ambrose was an expert at just such brewing. I sipped with more confidence, and passed the bottle back to Sylvia. Turn and turn about, we sipped and sipped. Sylvia's eyes sparkled. Our tongues wagged with wit and laughter. Now and then I placed fuel on the fire. Back and forth between us passed the leather bottle, losing weight slowly but surely. Sylvia sang a song about daffydowndillies, but I had to deny an urge to reply in kind, owing to the lack of appropriate words and a fitting air. Brother Ambrose had overlooked the lighter branches of my education.

  But the thought came to me, like an inspiration, that I might dance for her in return for her merry ditty. Dancing, it seems, is a form of self-expression which comes naturally to the young; and I had often skipped and hopped for my own satisfaction, without instruction or encouragement even from Brother Ambrose, like the young of goats and mountain sheep. I was about to get to my feet and commence the artless performance, when my companion, bottle in hand, leaned forward suddenly above our failing fire and stared past me with terrified round eyes.

  "Look! Quick! A great wolf!"

  Her voice was shrill with horror.

  I flung myself about-face and onto my feet in one violent, scrambling motion. I snatched up the handiest weapon—the dead jongleur's short sword—and plunged blindly forward to dispute the beast's passage at the mouth of our retreat. I did not see him. But what of that? The light was bad; and my own shadow, cast by the low fire behind me, was black before my eyes. I plunged through the narrow way, and out of its rocky jaws, stabbing and slashing fiercely at my own retreating shadow. Just outside, I lurched to an unsteady stop; and although the wolf was still invisible to my blinking eyes, I continued to hack and thrust and shout defiance. Then laughter rang in my ears, high and shrill and merry. I backed into the mouth of our shelter. With my left shoulder against one of the leaning rocks, I turned my head and looked within.

  Sylvia was laughing. Seated there beyond the little fire, she shook and swayed with laughter, and waved the leather bottle. I stood gaping, bewildered.

  "O funny Mark!" she cried. "O dear silly brave Mark! There wasn't any wolf. Wolf—wolf—wolf! And there isn't any wolf!"

  It seemed funny to me too; and I laughed. The more I laughed, the funnier it seemed to me. What, no wolf? My mirth almost overthrew me. And when the bottle fell from Sylvia's hands onto the red embers and the spilling liquor caught afire and set up a high blue flame, I was utterly overcome with the humor of it. My shoulder slipped, my knees folded, and I tumbled to the ground. I straightened my knees, rolled onto my back and closed my eyes. . . .

  I was stiff with cold and damp with dew when I opened my eyes. Dawn was in the sky. I raised my head from the sod, only to drop it again, heavy as iron. Heavy and hot and painful. I felt all over for bumps and cuts, but found neither. I wondered dully and painfully what could have happened to my poor head. There seemed to be something wrong with my stomach too. . . .

  The sky was brighter when I turned over onto my hands and knees and crawled back into the rock-walled shelter. The fire was a little mat of gray ashes with a twisted scrap of charred leather on it. I remembered the both of them. I looked across the ashes and saw Sylvia sleeping on her couch of heather and fern. Then I remembered how merry we had been, and wondered innocently if the unaccustomed food or the more unaccustomed drink had been the cause of it.

  "Time we were on the road to Camelot," I muttered. I subsided upon my own unruffled couch and slept once more.

  * * *

  It was past noon by the time we were afoot and moving again. We moved slowly, placing our feet cautiously so as not to jolt our heads. Sylvia said that she was to be more pitied than me, for she had drunk more than I did.

  "And so did Brother Ambrose whenever he fermented wild honey," I said. "He never let me have more than one cup."

  Sylvia began to laugh, but stopped because it hurt her head. She pressed her hands to her temples and eyes.

  "That old Ambrose took better care of you than I do, dear Mark," she said, stumbling over tussocks.

  She sat down on a mossy rock, still clasping her head.

  "But I shall try to be a better guardian from now on, poor boy," she cried through her hands.

  "I shall never leave more than one cup for you, in future—just like good Brother Ambrose."

  She laughed a little and wept a little.

  "What ails you?" I asked.

  "You looked so funny—made such a terrible jump— when I cried Wolf!'" she gasped.

  Our progress was slow that afternoon. At dark, we slept where we fell. When I woke at dawn, I found Sylvia beside me with her bright head on my breast. I slid out from under gently, and pulled and bunched an armful of bracken and placed it beneath her unconscious head. She smiled sweetly in her sleep. I knelt to kiss her, but thought better of it.

  "At this rate, we would never get clear of this wilderness," I muttered.

  I sprang to my feet again. My head and eyes were painless and clear once more, and my heart was singing. The still air was chill; so I pulled heather and fern and covered my companion beneath a deep drift of the stuff, leaving only her head exposed. I bathed my face and eyes at a tinkling ice-cold brook. The shallow wound on my cheek was cleanly healed. I made fire, heated flat stones, and fried bacon and smoked venison. I had eaten half a dozen slices, and was still slicing and frying, when Sylvia flew out of her nest with a joyous cry, scattering heather and fern, and came skipping to breakfast.

  We traveled fast and far and gayly that day. The highest of the mountains were behind us now. We saw a score of long-fleeced, white-faced sheep in a green glen, whic
h looked larger and fatter to me than the wild mountainy sheep I was accustomed to.

  "They are tame sheep; and soon we shall see a shepherd and his dogs," said Sylvia.

  I had heard of shepherds and dogs from Brother Ambrose, and had read of both, but had never seen any of either.

  "There is a dog," she said, pointing a hand. "Come away before he scents us or sees us. They are very fierce in guarding their flocks. They are stronger and fiercer than wolves."

  The beast stood at the far edge of the glen. He was as tall and long as any wolf I had ever seen. We slipped aside into a grove of firs without attracting his attention and continued on our way. Later we saw more tame sheep, and another dog, and a man in a sheepskin shirt and kilt. We held on our way, furtively. Sylvia whispered that the shepherds were as savage as their dogs. That night, our fire was only large enough to cook at; and we let it fail and fade out after we had eaten. Sylvia had a terror of these half-wild shepherds. We passed the night in a copse of holly and flowering may, with last year's fern and heather to keep us warm.

  The two following days were without adventure; and then things began to happen to us:

  "Hark!" whispered Sylvia, halting me with a hand on my arm.

  I could hear nothing but the rattle and slobber of a small, swift stream beyond a bank on our left.

  "Moaning and cursing," whispered Sylvia. "Somebody's hurt. Come cautiously, for it may be a beggar's trick."

  We advanced by a narrow path; it twisted among rocks and bushes and dipped down to the stream. At this point the stream was very shallow, and dotted from shore to shore with stepping-stones. At the near end of the ford, at the edge of the quick water and within a few paces of where we halted and crouched, sat a man with his left leg stretched out before him and both his hands gripped about the knee of it. He moaned and groaned in agonized tones. He rocked his large body back and forth in time with his lamentable utterances. He was a big man, and the black hair of his head and face was long and streaked with gray. He wore woolen cloth and tanned leather. A wide-brimmed hat and an iron-shod staff lay beside him on the pebbles, and a large, bulging leather sack slumped lumpishly against a boulder near at hand.