The Merriest Knight

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

  It had been the same with the Abbess of the White Abbey of Salamanca. After the toils and perils of winning to her, he had lost interest within the minute. That episode too had cost him a poem and a necklace, though both were shorter than in case of the Queen. And it was always so, said Matt. It was always as if the questing King expected to find something different, each time, from anything he had yet found. He was after something more than human beauty, so it seemed to Matt: but when Dennys suggested that the royal search was for heavenly beauty, or for the Holy Grail perhaps, the old gossip shook his head with a skeptical air.

  "There be witchery in it, as sure as God gave me two eyes and a nose," he said. "And maybe deviltry—for the one runs parlous close to t'other, as any hedge magician will tell you for a horn of ale. Which God forbid, for King Torrice is a good and generous lord."

  While Matt rambled on, Dennys' glance wandered idly and was arrested by a black cat. The animal came into his field of vision from the outer chamber, walking slowly but with assurance, and its tail straight up. It had eyes of topaz and a sleek coat. It marched straight to the wreckage on the floor and went to work on it, beginning with the fragments of white and brown meat, then licking up every vestige of broth, but Dennys was so intent on old Matt's jabber that he did not give the cat's behavior a thought.

  "Has Sir James a quest too?" Dennys asked.

  Matt looked all around before answering.

  "Ay," he whispered. "All the lands and goods of the King are his quest. 'Tis his doing that we bide here, year in and year out. He is the devil, that old knight!"

  "Then why does the King befriend him?" asked Dennys.

  "For pity. We saved him from robbers in a wood, in his shirt. They had him tied to a tree, and he was crying like a baby, and a knife was at his throat. It was a sight to melt any heart. But at King Torrice's first shout, the knife was dropped, and all the rogues fled and got clean away. But I have thought since that the fellow with the knife could have stabbed or slit before he fled, if he had a mind to, and still got away. There wasn't a mark on that knight—and him squealing like a stuck porker; and when his bonds were cut, he wriggled on the ground like a worm—the loathly old snake!"

  "What ailed him?" asked Dennys.

  "Nought ailed him. It was all a play for the King's pity. It was a sight to twist the heart worse than a hurt baby— that old knight crying an' squirming at King Torrice's feet for mercy an' deliverance, an' clawing at his knees—and his skinny shanks sticking out of his shirt. Ay, a pitiful sight—but it was all scurvy trickery. The robbers, the knives, the squalls an' tears—all a play! The rogues were in his service. I see it now. And the King, all bemused with his mad quest an' his rhymes, clothed him and armed him from the skin out, and horsed him an' put money in his poke an' took him into his care.

  "And what now? Why do we bide at this inn? A fortuneteller—as black an old gypsy queen as ever you saw—told the King his quest would be achieved here, to his eternal glory an' joy, if he would but wait it. Ay, she read it in the stars, and the palms of his hands, and her crystal ball— an' well she was paid for that telling by Sir James—with a bracelet of rubies from the King's strongbox. And now I see it like the nose on your face, young sir. The old viper fears you and the mad young knight; for King Torrice has shown a returning of his old spirit since your arrival at this inn. So look to yourself, Sir Squire. And look to your befuddled knight. Beware Sir James!"

  "Gramercy!" said Dennys. "Your daughter Eliza has already warned me, and given me a dagger from her garter."

  He produced the dagger. Matt goggled at it. "The wench never showed a favor before to any man," the old fellow mumbled.

  Chapter Five

  Deviltry, Witchery, and a Battle

  Sir Lorn le Perdu took three more tumbles on the second day of the joustings; but with his fourth spear he had better luck, unseating his opponent without coming to earth himself. His score for the two days was one win against six falls—nothing to brag about. The Lost Knight took it philosophically, however, and King Torrice, his acting squire, made the best of it.

  "There was a time—but a very short time and a very long while ago—when even I dented the sod with my rump-plates almost as often as I stopped in the saddle," said the venerable King.

  "This doesn't signify," said Lorn, with a faraway look in his eyes. "This child's-play means no more than did our exercises in the stableyard at Dennys' home. Sharp spears and swords are what we like, Bahram and I. When it's an affair of sharp iron, then we both fight."

  "Tell me, my boy," prompted the King, with gentle urgency.

  Lorn pressed a hand to his brow and thought hard, but could not recall any other mortal combat than the battle with savages in a storm of snow.

  "But there were others, I assure Your Lordship," he said earnestly. "I have worsted—ay, and slain—strong knights as well as mountainy savages. They are here, but they sleep." And again he pressed a hand to his head.

  The main event of that sennight of jousting was to be a battle unto death or surrender of thirty knights of King Arthur's train against thirty knights collected, for the occasion, under the banner of a Welsh chieftain or prince named Llewellyn. It was to begin in the morning, and if need be, last all day. It was not till after supper on the second day, and when King Torrice and Sir Lorn sat with Dennys, that the young knight's intention to take part in the morrow's conflict became known to his friends. The King had given an amusing account of his squelching of the rumbumptious grandson of the late Sir Rustard of Ruswick; and Dennys had laughed at the picture of those royal and venerable whiskers emerging from that humble squirish helmet, pressing both hands to his own tender head in the act. Lorn had sat throughout the recital with his wonted faraway look and air of melancholy abstraction, and never a word; so when he spoke at last, the effect was startling, though his voice was mild.

  "It will be different with me tomorrow. Sharp spears and swords."

  After half a minute of startled silence, King Torrice said: "Well take a good rest tomorrow, lad, while those zanies bash and slash like unicorns and wild boars; and so youll be ready for the knightly combats of the next day. Mob fighting is for them that like to grovel and roll like mad dogs, and butt and slash like rams and wolves, without art or honor."

  "I like it," murmured the other. "And so does my horse."

  "But 'tis to the death or surrender!" cried the King.

  "Ill not surrender, worshipful sir," murmured Lorn.

  The King protested with a dozen arguments, and Dennys protested too.

  "Would you have Bahram killed?" asked Dennys, on the verge of tears. "You promised him to me if ever you had no more need of him."

  "Ay, consider that noble horse!" urged the King, glad of another argument. "Theyll hamstring him! Then theyll slaughter him! I know what I'm talking about, dear lad. It's the riffraff of chivalry that engages in melees. They fight for ransoms and harness and horses. A knaves' business!"

  "Not a suitable form of exercise for a green knight, certainly," said a voice from the shadows; and Sir James advanced into the candlelight.

  "What the devil?" cried King Torrice.

  "Nay, puissant lord, 'tis but your poor servant James of Redrock," whined the old knight. "I nodded at the supper table. I dozed. Weight of years and my enfeebled stomach and head. That grilled marrowbone. And that second cup of sack. But permit me, young sir, to add my voice to my royal benefactor's sage counsel. The rough-an'-tumble of sixty murderous, greedy battlers armed sharp of point and edge is not for untried and delicate young gentlemen like yourself. I beg you to heed the advice of King Torrice, my young friend."

  Then Lorn le Perdu stood up and swore by the knucklebones of all the Apostles that he would have to-do in the morrow's tournament, and show friend and foe alike the stuff he was made of. Sir James sighed profoundly, and turned and went away, bowed as if with sorrowful resignation.

  * * *

  When Dennys awoke, the sun shone level through the window, and Lorn le
Perdu was gone. His heart was like a cobble in the very pit of his being—as hard and heavy as the great stone that had laid him low in that foul lane. He sat up. His head did not stab or spin. Good! He would arm and join that battle and save his knight, mauger his head. He was on the edge of his couch when Matt arrived with a bowl of broth. The old fellow cried out at him to lie down.

  "Have no fear for your master," the old fellow cried on. "The King will fetch him out alive, mauger his head!"

  Dennys would have argued the point, but for Matt's threat to fetch Eliza from the nursery.

  "I don't object to your daughter," he said. "We're good friends." But his mind was distracted from one loyalty to another. "I want to see her. And her little charge Cynara. How does she fare?"

  "Like a princess," Matt assured him.

  Dennys spooned up half the bowl of broth, greedily but with his thoughts shifting and flickering.

  "What of Sir James this morning?" he asked.

  "Faugh!" cried Matt. "That viper! He mopes in his chamber—but there's a gloating glimmer in his snaky flat eyes."

  "Your daughter warned me," Dennys mumbled, as if talking to himself. "Gave me a dagger. Charged me to take nothing from him. So I knocked the bowl of broth from his hand with a knee, quick as winking. But it wasn't wasted. The little black cat lapped it up."

  "Hah!" exploded Matt: and he stooped and gripped the front of the squire's nightshirt with jerky fingers. "Black cat, d'ye say? How d'ye know that? Speak up, young man!"

  "Not so loud from you, old man," Dennys reproved the fellow, with squirish dignity. "And spare my shirt. You might have seen if for yourself, but for your babbling about King Torrice and the Queen of Spain. A small black cat came in and ate the gobbets of chicken, and licked the floor clean and went away. What of it?"

  Matt released the shirt and straightened up. He cried "Hah!" again, rocked on his heels and finally folded up on a stool.

  "They found her this morning," he whispered. "That little mouser—stiff an' stark under the King's bed."

  "Stiff an' stark?" queried Dennys, with a stiff tongue, as if a sudden frost had struck its root.

  "Dead," Matt whispered. "As dead as you would be if ye'd drunk it." He got nimbly to his feet and came close to Dennys again, and continued to whisper, but now with a note of relish: "We've got him. I´ll tell the King. Youll tell him. This will open his eyes. We've got 'im now, the snake! This will pull his fangs! Now well be rid of 'em—as soon as the King gets back from the tourney."

  Dennys was vastly shaken by the thought of his narrow escape from death. And such a death! A cat's death! So deeply was he shaken that he set the half-empty bowl aside and averted his glance from it, with a shudder. He got between the sheets again at Matt's bidding, but refused to finish the broth. Matt went away with the bowl, after charging him to lie still and at the same time watch out for treachery, and promising to be back in a few minutes.

  There were two doors to the room. With his head high on the pillows, Dennys could keep both doors under surveillance without moving anything but his eyes. He had not been alone more than two minutes before his vigilance was rewarded. An edge of one door stirred, then remained so still for the count of ten that he began to doubt his eyes. But it stirred again. It came away an inch from the jamb—another inch, three inches—moving softly and slowly. Dennys narrowed his eyes and watched through the lashes. A head came into view around the edge of oak, and the flat, shallow, mica-pale optics of Sir James appeared, sliding and glinting. That horrid scrutiny remained upon Dennys' face for seconds, then slid aside. Now the scrawny neck appeared, weaving and twisting. A thin shoulder followed. Then all became still, as if struck to bone; and a moment later head and neck and shoulder withdrew, and the door closed as smoothly as it had opened.

  Dennys got out of bed and into his clothes at top speed, without a thought for his damaged head; and he was tying the last of his points when a door opened—not the one around which Sir James had looked in—and old Matt's Eliza entered hurriedly, with the little girl in her arms and the tall dog at her heels. The dog sprang past her and fawned on Dennys. Eliza came close to Dennys and stood staring at him, and Cynara turned in the woman's arms and smiled and put out her hands to him. He took the little hands in his, and smiled back through his bandages. But the stalwart woman Eliza wore a grim visage.

  "I heard of the cat," she said, in a voice to match her face.

  "I owe you my life," said Dennys. "But for your warning, I'd have drunk the stuff instead of knocking it from his hand. Gramercy, good Eliza! Look to me for protection, from now on. I'm not a king, nor yet a knight, and I have a broken head—but Dennys ap Rhys ap Tudor is at your service, good wench. Look you to our little damosel, and I will fend for both, mauger my head!"

  For seconds she continued to regard him with hard, inscrutable eyes, and then eyes and mouth softened suddenly, and she said, "I believe you," and pressed the child into his arms.

  Cynara clasped him about the neck, and he held her tenderly. He was deeply moved by the woman's belief in him as a protector, and yet more deeply by the pressure of the little girl's arm and face, which seemed to him expressions of something more and sweeter than mere faith. He tightened his hold slightly on the small soft body, and stood in a daze until Eliza spoke again.

  "Our good king is mad, for all his kind heart," she said.

  "Mad an' bewitched. And your young knight is mad. . . . Mad, and bewitched too, as any fool can see. I can smell madness and bewitchment in both of them, for all the King's learning an' twenty baronies, and your master's gentle an' melancholy visage. But you are whole in mind an' heart, for all your broken head. Skulls mend. So I beg you to take our little lass away from here before further evil befalls her."

  "She is safe here, in our care," Dennys protested. "The only menace in this house is Sir James, and the King will deal with him soon enough. No peril from outside can touch her."

  "You speak like a numskull!" flared Eliza. "What of the rogues your master caught behind the arras? Were they from inside—of the King's people or the taverner's even? They were from outside, where hundreds more like them slink and watch, ready to slit a throat for a tuppenny bit, and where that woman is. You were the death of the man, but the woman got clean away. D'ye think she will not try to recover what you robbed her of—what she paid silver to the gypsies for—and you hold now in your arms? Why did they burn the child's flesh? For love, think you?"

  "God knows!" Dennys exclaimed. "I don't, that's sure: but I do know that hellcat will never wrest her back from me. Do you know the answers to your own questions, woman?"

  Eliza glanced fearfully around, then came even closer to him and lowered her voice to a whisper. "It is the mark."

  "What mark?" he said. "I saw but a red burn."

  "There's no burn now," she told him. "The chirurgeon's salve cured it like magic, and now there's only the sign God or Satan or the fairies marked her with before she was born."

  "What is it?

  "Do you want to see it?"

  "Why not? Who has a better right to see it? 'Twas I brought her away from the torturers. God's wounds—I am her savior and guardian!"

  "Swear then by those same holy wounds you will never fail her or desert her in her need, while you have life!"

  Dennys swore as bidden; whereupon Eliza took Cynara from his arms and undid the gown of samite and gold, and bared the narrow back to his view. And he saw the mark half a span below the left shoulderblade, blushing on the milk-white skin like a wild rose, like rose petals in tint and texture, but in shape a little hand, as though the right hand of a newborn babe had been laid there and had left its imprint there by some trick of alchemy. Looking closer and blinking a quick mist from his eyes, Dennys swore again by the wounds of spikes and thorns and spear; and he stooped yet lower and touched his lips to the mark quickly, and then stood straight as quickly; and at that the child twisted around in the woman's arms, quick as a kitten, and laid hold of him with both hands and drew hi
m down to her till their faces were pressed together. To straighten himself, he had to take her from Eliza, for the grip of the small soft arms was like the strangle-hold of a wrestler. Eliza, who had released Cynara without protest, uttered a strange note of laughter.

  "Are we all mad?" she cried. "All of us bewitched and bedeviled?" She laughed again, but the sound was of consternation and bewilderment and at once an acceptance and a defiance of Fate. "Ye've swore a mighty oath, young sir, and a parlous, like than not, God have mercy on us!"

  Dennys, trying gently to ease the pressure of the small damosel's arms and face with his left hand, and at the same time holding her body closer, all unwittingly, with his right arm, paid no attention to Eliza. It was not until Cynara was wrenched from him—the embraces of both broken suddenly and violently by that powerful woman— that he became aware of Matt's advent. The old man came on with upflung arms and waving whiskers, tottering in his haste.

  "All's well!" he cried; and he tottered against Dennys and clung to him for support. "Word from the tourney," he gabbled, gasping and clinging. "By a trusty messenger. The King is safe. An' your witless knight too."

  Eliza told him to sit down and recover his breath and then tell all he knew; and he obeyed her; and this is the gist of his tale:

  Sir Lorn le Perdu was of the Welsh Prince's party. When the signal to join battle was given, Lorn's white charger, the mighty Bahram, refused to move; and so it was that twenty-nine knights of the Prince's banner rushed in thunderous line to meet King Arthur's onrushing thirty, leaving Sir Lorn like a statue at the starting-point, to the surprise of all beholders. Then Sir Lorn cast away his spear and drew his sword and dismounted and ran afoot toward the battle; and the great horse lay down. Sir James had drugged the horse's corn, swore Matt. But to no avail, praise be to God, for Sir Lorn soon found an unhorsed knight of King Arthur's party and cut him down with the third stroke. And he cried, "Strike hard! Bite deep!" and pulled a large knight from his saddle to the ground, and helped him courteously to his feet, and then mastered him with five strokes.