The Merriest Knight

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

  Then a horsed knight—but a knave at heart—rode at Lorn with his spear, but to his own undoing, for the Lost Knight avoided the point, and cut it off, and smote the man through the middle in passing. And when King Torrice saw that foul attack from his place among the squires, he mounted and dressed a spear and hurtled into the battle. Seeing that, the squire of one of Arthur's knights hurtled after him. And then all the squires of both parties took to horse and spear; and so it became a double and mixed tournament of knights and squires all together and in equal numbers, the like of which may not happen twice in a century.

  The heralds ran and bawled to the unruly squires to desist, withdraw—only to be knocked and rolled like skittle-pins by squires and knights alike, until King Arthur signaled from his high seat to carry on. Then there was the strangest to-do, and the most jumbled and least decorous and yet, I dare say, the most diverting, that was ever seen on the great field of Carleon. Many a haughty knight was tumbled from his high saddle that day by an ambitious squire; and many a squire was rolled end-over-end by an indignant knight or another squire; and even the great Sir Kay, High Seneschal of Camelot, received such a thrust on his vizor from a froward fellow on a hackney, that he all but went over his warhorse's tail for pure chagrin.

  There was a squire on a tall horse—an aging and crafty horse—who unseated three knights with his first spear, then got a new spear into his hand as if by conjury, and tumbled another of Arthur's champions, then rode clear of the mêlée and the dust of it to breathe himself and his horse. But by and large, the knights had the mastery mounted and the squires proved themselves the better men afoot, save in the case of Sir Lorn le Perdu, who had joined the battle on his own legs (thanks to Bahram's strange indisposition) and continued to cut down knights and squires indifferently, as they came at him or he sought them out.

  So that battle raged back and forth, and this way and that in swirling eddies, with some losses of life but more losses of arms and harness and horses; and no onlooker dared say if the victory would be with the chivalry under King Arthur's banner or with the followers of the Welsh Prince, Llewellyn by name, who was still in the saddle, but groggy from loss of blood. (King Arthur, be it understood, did not lead his party in person—not for lack of courage or hardihood, God forbid! but for reasons of state—and sat in judgment over both sides.)

  The battlers had lessened greatly in both numbers and fury when the most extraordinary thing of all the wonders of that morning happened for all to see: Bahram, that great white warhorse, raised his armored head from the sod and sniffed and snorted. He got his hooves under him and heaved himself up. So he stood for a half-minute, glaring and snorting at the strugglers in the field; then he shook himself till all his war-gear creaked and clanked; and then he bared his teeth, vented a bloodcurdling scream and charged at and into the thickest of the battle. He overthrew horses and their riders with the impact of his weight and fury. Many horses, riderless and otherwise, wheeled and fled at his approach. He dragged a stout knight from a high saddle with his teeth, and would have crushed him in his armor like a clam in its shell but for a shout from his master. Then he wheeled to the Lost Knight, who mounted him straightway, still with his sword in his hand and all but a mere cupful of his blood still in his veins; and at the moment when Bahram carried Sir Lorn into the fight again, the squire and tall horse who had withdrawn to recover their breaths returned to it with renewed gusto.

  It was not long afterward that King Arthur signaled for hostilities to cease, and the heralds repeated and multiplied the order with voice and trumpet. The victory was given to Llewellyn and his party; and that prince summoned Sir Lorn le Perdu and the squire on the tall warhorse to him; and so the three rode slowly to a space of greensward before the galleries full of ladies and great lords and Arthur in their midst, and there dismounted. The Welsh Prince leaned against his horse, and the squire leaned against his, though lightly; but Sir Lorn stood as straight as a tree. Now, at a sign from King Arthur, Prince Llewellyn's helmet, from which the red dragon crest had been shorn away, was unlaced and removed by a gentleman of the court; whereupon Arthur descended swiftly from his place and embraced the Prince, amid the applause of the multitude, and passed him tenderly into the hands of Doctor Watkyn, that matchless chirurgeon, who led him away with care.

  And now, at a word, Sir Lorn le Perdu sank lightly to one knee; and when his helmet came off and that pale and bemused and romantic countenance was seen, the shrill applause of the ladies rose above the wondering acclaim of the men, and a shower of roses fell. Arthur gaped, forgetting his kingly manners for a moment, then raised him and embraced him.

  "Have I seen you before?" the King asked, in a bewildered voice and a bewildered yet searching look.

  The knight replied: "Not to my knowledge, sir."

  "How are you called? asked the King.

  "Lorn le Perdu, sir," replied the knight.

  The King muttered, "More of this anon," and stepped to where the formidable squire stood at a shoulder of his tall horse. The squire would have knelt then, but Arthur checked him.

  "Do you know that young knight?" he whispered.

  "I am his squire," said the other.

  "More of this anon, young man—at dinner and supper," said Arthur; and at his nod, the squire stooped to the unlatching and unlacing hands of the courtier.

  At the appearance of the bald pate and the magnificent snowy whiskers of King Torrice of Har from a squire's casque, Arthur gasped and recoiled a pace, and uttered an astonished oath, and the startled courtier vented a yelp and dropped the helmet to earth, as if he had scorched his fingers.

  All of this was hearsay to old Matt, but from the mouth of the head groom Peter, who had beheld every stroke and then crept forward at the tail of King Torrice's horse to hear every word.

  Chapter Six

  More of Cynara

  Dennys sat alone for hours. His first exultation for his friend's mighty deeds and their royal recognition soon began to sour within him. He did not begrudge the Lost Knight his success, nor was he surprised at it, but he envied the old King—older than Merlin!—his part in that tournament and his share of that glory. He, Dennys ap Rhys, had been cheated by Fate of his rightful place and opportunity. But for a cobblestone flung by a base knave in a disreputable slum, he, not King Torrice, would have squired Sir Lorn this morning and joined the fray at the first excuse and acquired merit and renown. He did not doubt, at the moment, that his deeds of arms would have matched the old King's. He told himself that even if his mounted performance had not matched the King's, he would, like Lorn, have wrought such prodigious havoc afoot, after and if he had been unhorsed, that King Arthur would have knighted him on the spot. Arise, Sir Dennys! How would that have sounded? But no, by a scurvy trick of Fate, his great opportunity had fallen to the lot of one who had no need of it—to a puissant lord rich in baronies and manors, and a knight who had been a known champion long before the birth of any other contender in that tournament. And he cursed the injustice of it. Tears of self-pity and unreasoning anger misted his eyes.

  "And now my head feels almost as good as ever it did!" he cried. "By tomorrow I could have given and taken hard knocks with the best of them. If the battle had been called for tomorrow instead of today, I'd have been there, mauger my head! Or if that accursed cobble had hit me a day sooner. But that could not have been, for we were still on the road then. If it had never hit me—that would be better still. That would be best—if I'd never got my head broke in a brawl with lousy rascals—if I'd but stopped in my bed that morning."

  And then he heard himself. The meaning of his wild words struck into his heart, and his jealous anger and self-pity were consumed in a hot flare of shame.

  "God forgive me!" he cried.

  He sprang to his feet and paced the floor, cursing himself for a knave. All he felt for himself now was loathing. Again he heard the screams of a terrified tormented child. Again he saw the small quivering body, and the red-tipped awl in the man's hand
, and the faces of the tormentors turned to him like gaping masks.

  "I killed him," Dennys muttered. "Good! It was well done. And I brought the child away—little Cynara." Again he felt those thin soft arms about his neck, and that soft face against his lips. "It was well done. No knightly deed at joustings and tournaments was ever better done! Lord Jesus, I thank you! I fought on Your side then, and You on mine!"

  Now he felt in better conceit of himself, and his rage against Fate was forgotten. Now he sat down and thought with a degree of composure; and though the sense of gratitude to the Divine Mercy was still with him, all the pictures in his mind were of the child Cynara, as he had first seen her and held her in his arm and run with her for dear life, and as he had last seen and held her this very day.

  Old Matt entered on the tottering run, with more news. Sir James was nowhere to be found. Matt himself, and several others, had searched the inn from cellars to garrets. And the strongest of King Torrice's strongboxes had been broken into and emptied. The King had always kept his most valuable jewels and a few full purses in that box. Well, it was empty now.

  "He's well rid of the old snake, even if he took the worth of five thousand crowns with him," said Matt. "For his plan was to beggar us all to the bone. But when he saw that the King was beginning to distrust him an' to weary of him— which was the very night you an' yer worshipful master came to this place—he lost his cunning. He tried to poison you, but only killed a cat. He poisoned the great warhorse, but not to kill him. I see his snaky plan. He would have had that horse on his legs for just long enough to carry the knight into the battle, but sluggishly, and then to fail him suddenly in the first fierce clash. But it did not happen so, and your master joined the battle afoot, unscathed and vigorous and in a destructive temper of concern for his horse. When that viper heard the truth, he saw the failure of all his cunning and the end of his wicked play. And so he robbed the strongbox and stole away."

  "Did he take a horse?" asked Dennys.

  "Nay, nor yet a mountain pony. He left his knightly arms and harness too. An old cloak and hat of Luke's are missing. He has not gone in a guise to catch the eye, but like a poor whining mendicant, or maybe a sufferer in a lost cause or for a new philosophy, mark my words. No longer a snake with a snake's fangs and cunning, he is a worm now with wormy cunning—an' with a prince's ransom hid next his skin!"

  "You talk like a philosopher or a clark yourself," said Dennys admiringly.

  "You are a young gentleman of uncommon discernment, sir; and I´ll not deny that my mind and soul are far above my worldly station, sir," the old fellow replied, with a mock-modest smirk.

  "If ever I come by a castle of my own, I´ll make you my seneschal," Dennys promised him.

  The old man moved closer to the young one; and now he had a new look in his eyes that was at once considering and anxious and hopeful; and he spoke in a lower voice:

  "And in the meantime yell maybe say a word to the King on my behalf, sir—just in case he should think that I had neglected my duty in the matter of the ravished strongbox?"

  "Ill do that," Dennys promised.

  "And now," he went on, "I must ask you to fetch victuals and drink to me; and I don't mean chicken broth. I am hungry and thirsty as a hunter. Let it be red meat, and pudding, and a horn of ale. Nay, a jack of strong ale. And bring word of my little lass. See that your daughter wards her safe and sure."

  Matt departed; and Dennys took to pacing the floor again, but calmly now. His head felt as good as new, save to the touch, and as clear as glass. And his limbs were vigorous. Nothing was amiss with him now, physically, save an empty stomach and a dry gullet; and his spirit matched his head and limbs. He was at peace with his soul. He had lost an opportunity to shine on the field of glory, but now he felt nothing of regret for it, nor of his first jealous envy of the old King. And there would be other opportunities. Once he had Cynara in the great valley of home, where every hand would befriend and protect her, and even the ghosts of his ancestors would stand watch and ward, he and his enchanted knight would put forth again on the quest of glory. He was still Sir Lorn's squire and oldest known friend. King Torrice was older, true enough—older than Merlin!—but had known him for less than a sennight: whereas he, Dennys ap Rhys ap Tudor, had known and cherished the lost knight these nine months past. And if Lorn and the King held to each other's company, well and good! As they were both bewitched, what could be more natural? In that case he, Dennys, would squire them both.

  His train of thought was broken by the entrance of Eliza, Cynara, and the tall dog. Once within the room, the little damosel released the woman's hand and came running to him and laid hold of him as high as she could reach. Eliza and the dog advanced much more soberly. Cynara clutched the breast of his jerkin and pulled on it.

  "I would buss you, Denny," she piped. "But you are too high. Come down. Or take me up."

  Dennys was about to stoop to her, when Eliza's voice checked him.

  "Leave be!"

  Dennys glared at the woman, then stooped and kissed the child's upturned face lightly, then stood straight and glared again. And she glared back at him. But his eyes did not waver, and he bent his brows fiercely. He was no longer helpless in bed. He saw her black gaze change and waver, vastly to his relief. But he gave no sign of relief or uncertainty.

  "Mind your manners, wench!" he said, in a voice so harsh and menacing that he scarcely knew it for his own. "Have a care lest I look for another nurse for my little ward."

  At that, the rugged cheeks went as gray as a dishcloth, the mastiff-jaws quivered, the formidable head drooped, and the shoulders, as wide as a wrestler's, sagged and trembled. Then, moving swiftly but heavily, she sank to her knees and clasped him about his knees before he could check or avoid her. Dennys would have wrenched himself clear with violence, but for the little girl; for she too had been caught in that embrace, and was now pressed between the woman and himself.

  "What the devil?" he cried in sudden panic. "D'ye mean to crush the child? Ease your hold, or I´ll twist your neck!"

  Cynara, pressed tight though she was, managed to look up at him with a smile and to speak, though somewhat breathlessly.

  "Don't hurt 'Liza. She's crying. Poor 'Liza."

  It was true. That masterful being of bone and muscle and arrogance was sobbing and blubbering and quaking in a pitiful manner; and as her convulsions of grief increased, the clasp of her arms loosed. Dennys swore in consternation and again in pity. His anger fell away with the slackening of the pressure of those terrible arms.

  "Give over!" he begged. "I didn't mean it. You're a grand, trusty wench—and if Cynara wants you, so be it! Now unhold me—let the little lass clear, and get up on your feet."

  She obeyed, moving with an appearance of slow heaviness, but swiftly, as bears move. She turned in the act of rising from her knees, and withdrew a few paces and stood with her back to him and Cynara. Her massive shoulders, still stooped, continued to quake with half-stifled sobs, and her head remained bowed. Cynara, still close against Dennys but pressing now instead of pressed, laughed softly and spoke softly.

  "Don't cry, 'Liza. Dennys will be good to us. He won't ever send you away. But if you ever again try to stop me when I want to buss him, maybe I will send you away."

  Dennys stared down in astonishment at the childish upturned face, which smiled instantly back at him. He was amazed. He was confused.

  "No, no, my little Cynara, you would not do that!" he protested. "Not to brave good Eliza—who loves you so dearly, and will guard you like a dragon."

  The child laughed up at him again and said: "You love me dearly too."

  "Yes. Certainly I love you. Haven't I proved it—with a broken head? And you love Eliza, who takes such good care of you, and doubtless thinks she does everything for the best."

  "I love 'Liza, but I love Dennys more."

  At that moment Matt entered with a horn in one hand and a trencher in the other, and a fellow from the kitchen bearing a great cover
ed dish.

  "A horn?" exclaimed Dennys. "Are you deaf, good Matt? I told you a jack; and now I am even thirstier than I was then."

  "Ay, sir, a jack of strong ale it was," Matt agreed. "But Eliza said no, 'twould be too much for Yer Honor's poor head an' like to rouse a fever. So 'tis but a horn, young sir, and of small beer, at that."

  After a moment of hesitation, Dennys took the horn. He saw the woman raise her head and look at him over a shoulder.

  "Eliza was right," he said. "I'd be a fool and a knave to question it. She saved me from a cat's death—a fact I forgot a few minutes ago, God forgive me!—so why wouldn't she save me from a fever? Gramercy, Eliza!"

  He drank then, and by the time the long horn was drained, the woman and the child and the dog were gone, and also the scullion who had fetched the great dish, and only Matt remained. The old man stood goggling at Dennys with round eyes, and wagging his whiskers and muttering.

  "I never saw the like of it. Tears in the eyes of that masterful wench. Tears of humility an' devotion, by Judas! She has brought tears to others' eyes many a time, by the slapping of faces an' banging of heads on floors an' walls—of herds an' foresters an' saucy scullions. But her own eyes! Bewitchment, mark my words, young sir! The little damosel has bewitched her."

  "You talk like a fool, old man," Dennys replied, but good-humoredly. "She's fond of the child—an' why not? She has a soft, motherly heart behind her iron ribs."

  He uncovered the dish and set to work, with fingers and a small dagger and a horn spoon, on a stew of beef and dumplings. Matt looked on in silence until fully half of that mighty stew had passed from the dish to the squire's interior. Then he spoke again.