"I say she's bewitched!"
Dennys replied without looking up from the stew, and indistinctly because his mouth was full of dumpling. "You're mad. Go to!"
"An' have a care for yourself, young sir," warned Matt.
Dennys swallowed the dumpling and looked up at Matt's solemn face. He frowned, then laughed lightly.
"If I be in peril of witchery too, don't tell me Eliza's the witch!" he jeered.
"Nay, not that great wench," said the ancient slowly, and still as solemn as an owl. He stooped lower and went on in an anxious whisper: "Harky to me, young sir! These eyes have seen things of fair fame an' foul, of this poor human life mostly, but of hell an' heaven too: of all manners of witcheries an' sorceries, an' sleights of magic both black an' white, an' evil in many an innocent guise. Day an' night, the imps of Satan beset our paths in fair an' cunning shapes—of lost an' bereaved damosels an' ladies and—"
"Have a care!" Dennys interrupted, his voice low but dangerous. "One wrong word now, old fool, and I´ll feed your clapper to the crows!"
"Ye mistake me!" protested Matt, shaking with fright but standing his ground. "Tis the mark I warn ye of. I glimpsed it by chance but an hour ago. The birthmark."
"What of it?" Dennys asked, his voice still low and deadly, but now curious too.
Matt's whisper thinned almost to nothing.
"I saw it once before—on a dead king's back—in Ireland, long ago. And I heard of others who carried it— princes an' queens—for good an' evil, but mostly for evil, so I heard in that perilous country. 'Tis the mark of a high royal race—the highest in all that land—branded on them before birth by angels, or maybe devils."
"What of it?" Dennys asked again, but with a quaver of apprehension in his voice now.
"She was stolen from a king's house. Gypsies stole her an' carried her off for a ransom—an' dared not take her back. Sooner or later, they brought her into this country; an' the best they could do was sell her to a pair of jongleurs; an' they too feared the mark, an' so tried to burn it off. Or it may be the gypsies stole her in revenge for cruel acts. However that may be, young sir, a child with that kingly birth-badge on her should be in stronger hands than in a poor squire's."
"What do you suggest?" asked Dennys.
"Give her into King Torrice's keeping."
"Nay, that old King is mad. He cannot guard his own property from knaves and thieves. And he is bewitched, by your own telling."
"To King Arthur Pendragon, then. Ay, to that high overlord himself! Go to him and tell him all, young sir; and he will send men-at-arms to this unsafe inn to fetch her to his castle; and he will take Eliza too, for her nurse."
Dennys stood up slowly; and Matt backed away from him.
"Your years and infirmities save you," he said quietly. "But have a care, old man. Should King Arthur hear of the little damosel, I´ll know whose neck to wring. I took her from her tormentors. I shall take her to safety. And I have sworn, by God's wounds, never to fail her or desert her. A poor squire, am I? So be it. And bewitched? So be it. But the word of Dennys ap Rhys ap Tudor is as good as any king's. Go away now—get out—before I lose my temper."
Chapter Seven
The Return of the Champions
King Torrice sent for enough fine articles of raiment from his wardrobes to furnish forth both himself and Sir Lorn to match even King Arthur, and a warning to all concerned not to expect him until they saw him.
The afternoon passed slowly for Dennys ap Rhys ap Tudor. His temper took on an edge. He thought with increasing irritation and contempt of Matt's homily on witches and evil enchantresses. He thought of the object of the old fool's wicked, ridiculous, cruel suggestion. Cynara, tortured and helpless—that pitiful baby! Cynara, clinging and trusting, that innocent child! He clapped both hands to his head in the stress of thought, and did not notice that he felt no pain from the pressure. Cynara, that small damosel. Cynara, laughing, into his eyes with misty stars and pressing against his lips with dewy petals of roses. He sat down, still clasping his bandaged head. Old Matt entered, with apprehensive looks and conciliatory gestures. Dennys leaped to his feet and shouted:
"What now, fellow?"
"Nothing!" yelped Matt, ready to turn and run for his life—or for his tongue, at least.
Dennys calmed himself with an effort. He blinked at the old man, then spoke quietly, but with a sneer.
"I feared that Sir James had come back and pried open another of King Torrice's strongboxes."
"Nay, Yer Worship. Master Gyles has doubled the guard. Eliza sent me, sir. I asked her, sir. If you have no fever, sir—her own words—another horn of small beer will do Yer Honor no harm."
What with the beer, and a visit from Gyles the taverner, who feared that King Torrice would hold him in part responsible for the loss of the jewelry and money and who begged Dennys humbly to say a good word for him, the squire's mind was distracted from a distressful train of thought. His temper returned almost to normal and his manner with Matt to its usual friendliness.
After a supper of roast duckling with green peas followed by a strawberry tart, he told Matt to fetch a cup of French wine without reference to Eliza. The old fellow obeyed, for now he stood more in awe of Dennys than of his masterful daughter. After the wine, Dennys insisted upon a game of chess. They both played very badly, what with sleepiness on the young gentleman's part and nervousness on the old servant's. Both their kings were in check, but without their awareness, when Eliza came into the room. She entered and approached the chess players with a strange air of timidity; and when they looked up at her, she spoke in a voice as timid as her demeanor, and with her gaze on the chessman between them.
"I have brought her from that chamber at the back, and the dog too—all three of us—to one beside this, which I think will be safer," she said.
Dennys came wide awake.
"You did right," he said. "I was about to suggest it. Something of the kind, anyhow. 'Twas well thought of, Eliza. Beside this, d'ye say? Which side?"
She pointed to a wall and said; "You enter it by that door," and pointed to a door, "and then by the door on the left."
"One bang on that wall, good wench, and I´ll be with you with sword an' dagger!" cried Dennys.
"Gramercy, young sir," murmured the woman, but with her eyes still lowered to the ivory pieces.
But her father uttered a little muttering cry of protest.
"But I sleep there—an' Luke an' Dick along with me— at the King's beck an' call! It won't do. He won't like it."
"Fiddlesticks!" exclaimed Dennys, who felt splendid after his pint-sized cup of wine. His heart felt invincible, and his brain vigorous and nimble.
"You and your Lukes an' Dicks can move your cots out back," he said, with a generous gesture of the right hand which overturned half the chessmen. "And if they bandy words about it, or so much as hem and haw, send the rascals to me," he added, with a threatening gesture which overturned the remaining chessmen.
"The beds are already rearranged, kind sir," Eliza murmured, with a quick glance and smile at Dennys.
She turned and went away as she had come, but now with her perturbed sire scurrying after. Left to himself, Dennys nodded and slumped until he slept at last with his face on the chessboard.
* * *
Sudden clatter of iron on stone and a hubbub of voices brought Dennys straight up on his chair. His first thought was of a threat to Cynara—that Eliza's fear of attack was confirmed—and he leaped to his sword. But he realized his mistake before the blade was clear of the scabbard, for there was no suggestion of stealth in the disturbance, to which sounds of banging on wood and the voice of the taverner pleading for patience, and a rattling of bolts and bars were added from within the house. He heard the front door slam open against a wall, a voice raised raggedly in song, and stumbles and bumps in the narrow staircase; and he knew the champions were home, and discarded his sword.
A door of that chamber flew open, and King Torrice, still singing, ba
rged in, with Sir Lorn moving less energetically in his wake. That indestructible cavalier and perpetual quester, bearded like Saint Peter and older than Merlin, flung himself upon Dennys and embraced him. Dennys returned the embrace in self-defense, and they swayed and staggered together; but the young knight sat down on the nearest chair, with a pleasant but vacuous smile on his face. Three old servitors, Matt and Luke and Dick, entered the room. At sight of them, the King released
Dennys and advanced upon them and laid hold of Matt and Luke, each by a beard.
"Sir James?" he demanded. "Where is Sir James?"
"Stole away—run off—with all Yer Majesty's jewelry!" cried old Matt, the note of distress in his voice heightened by the painful pull on his whiskers.
"Hah!" exclaimed the King. "Stole away, d'ye say? Run off with jewelry? So I'm rid of him at last, praise be to God! Fetch wine! Cups and flagons of the best!"
He released his hold on the two beards; whereupon all three servants dashed away to do his bidding.
The wine came, in flasks and flagons accompanied by cups; and the King, the knight, and the squire drank to themselves and one another and the confusion of their enemies. The King was toastmaster. Some of the toasts he proposed, and all three honored, were beyond Dennys' comprehension. "To the joint quest!" was one of these. "To the soul of beauty in seven shapes!" was another. But Dennys was not in an inquiring or analytical state of mind. His heart glowed with affection and admiration for his companions. Was there ever before such a good comrade and glorious champion as Lorn le Perdu, or so friendly and generous a king as Torrice of Har? He sat on his cot and applied himself gallantly to the task of acknowledging every toast by draining a full cup. Old Matt saw to the replenishing. And the Lost Knight sat on the other cot and drained his cup—a smaller one than the squire's—every time old Dick filled it; and Dennys noticed that the vacant look had taken on a simper of complacency.
But the King did not sit, nor even stand still. He could not have stood still if he had tried to, for his body was in constant danger of toppling and crashing like an axe-smitten tree; and so, to avoid the fall, he had to keep his legs under him by quick footwork in spurts of speed now to the right, now to the left, now in a circle. This did not interfere with his vocal cords or his swallowing muscles, however; but it was hard on poor old Luke, whose duty it was to keep the royal cup replenished.
Dennys reclined on his cot, then lay flat. His right hand sank to the floor, his limp fingers relaxed their grip, and he heard the empty cup clatter and roll. He smiled and closed his eyes; and his cot became a cloud, a floating and gently swaying and slowly revolving cloud, upon which he was lifted like a cherub, up and around and through the ceiling to heaven.
Chapter Eight
The Awakening of Dennys
Dennys became conscious of a wet face, and of more drops and dribbles of moisture descending upon it, and he supposed himself to be out in the rain. Asleep on the mountainside, that was it. Nothing new in that. Nothing important enough to wake up for and inquire about, certainly. So he sank back to unconsciousness without having so much as attempted to open his eyes. . . . Again he became conscious of a wet face, but now it was not a mere drip and dribble, like a rain from the south on the hills of home, that caused the awareness. This was a blow, as if from a wild surf—as if a wave had struck and broken against his face and deluged his head and breast.
Suffocating, half-drowned, choking and gasping for air, he sat up and opened his eyes. Eliza! She stood over him, with a dripping but empty bucket still bottom-up in her hands. Her face was haggard, and her eyes were tragic; but they changed for the better instantly, as if despair had changed to hope quicker than thought. He got his breath, closed his eyes, and would have fallen back to his wet pillows and disrupted slumber, but she was too quick for him. She set the bucket aside and grabbed and held his wet shoulders.
"No, no, yeVe slept long enough!" she cried.
He brushed a hand across his eyes; and now he saw the taverner and Matt where they stood a few paces off, regarding him.
"What now?" he mumbled. "I was asleep. Unhand me, good wench. I was late to bed last night."
"Nay, not last night," she told him, in a shaken voice and with fear in her eyes. "You slept like the dead all last night— and all the day before too. Rouse ye now, for Christ's sake!"
"D'ye say so? What ails me, then? Did some rogue break my head again?"
"Nay, 'twas the wine you drank with the King and Sir Lorn."
Wine? Ah, he remembered it now—that wine in flasks and flagons and cups; and that old king staggering this way and that, and ranting of quests and adventures and the seven shapes of the soul of beauty; and the Lost Knight sitting on his couch with a faraway but kindling look on his face, lifting and lowering his cup of silver-gilt in silence.
"And what of them? Do they still sleep?"
"Nay, they awoke betimes, and bestirred themselves, young sir—but that was yesterday."
"Yesterday? Do they joust again, those two champions? And me still skulking with a sore head!"
"They went away, horsed and harnessed—but not for the joustings here in Carleon. They're gone on a high quest—to the world's end, like as not—or into Fairyland."
"Nay, Lorn would not leave me thus—just for the want of waking!"
"'Tis God's truth, young sir!"
"The devil's truth!" cried old Matt. "Both mad! The King as mad as yer bedeviled young knight! Bewitched, the both of them, to forsake us here!"
Dennys, dumbfounded, regarded the old man with stricken eyes. Eliza, still stooped over him, though she had released his shoulders, spoke again, and yet more gently.
"It is better so, good sir. Those two fey-struck champions would prove mad company for a sane gentleman and—" she lowered her voice to a sigh "—unsure, untrusty guardians for a little, imperiled lass."
The taverner advanced and spoke for the first time.
"Enough of this!" he exclaimed. "Heed her not, Sir Squire—nor old Matt, neither. The King will return soon, and yer noble friend with him. He told me so. They but ride on some chance small adventure of chivalry to pass the time till Yer Honor's full recovery. His Kingship told me so, in them very words. An' he left his great horse Rex in his stall, saddle an' rich trappings complete, and a mort of arms an' gear an' knightly harness. You an' yours can rest easy in my strong house an' my trusty care, Sir Squire."
"Gramercy, good Gyles," muttered Dennys. "Let me sleep now, good friends, for my eyes are hot and heavy."
* * *
So the three left him; and despite the weight of his eyes and the ache in his brain, he saw, and wondered at, the taverner's care in herding Matt and Eliza from the room before him and in closing the door. But he was in no condition to wonder long. He closed his eyes, and drifted into black oblivion. . . .
Dennys sneezed once and again and sat up and grabbed with both hands even before he got his eyes open. He stared at finding old Matt in his clutches.
"Hush-hush!" shushed Matt. "Quiet now. I but tickled yer nose with a feather, to wake ye. Lay back now, an' if that rogue taverner comes back, shut yer eyes. For rogue he is. Eliza's right. Lay back now—he's maybe spying on us—an' harky to me, if ye love yer life."
Bewildered but impressed, Dennys lay flat again.
"Eliza's right. The little damosel's not safe here. Nobody nor nothing worth a groat's safe now the King's not here. An' I've a bag of silver crowns he gave me for the road; and the horse Rex is for you, with all else he left behind. We got to clear out before another dawn, or the rogue taverner will have all, an' the little lass, an' our dear lives. Eliza spied on him last night, an' saw him hiding lordly jewels in cracks in the wall, like a magpie. Maybe he was hand an' glove with Sir James. If that false knight is ever found, 'twill be down a well. An' the King an' Sir Lorn will never return for ye, young sir, mark my words."
"Why not?" whispered Dennys.
"Quiet now! The King has got the notion into his poor head yer bewitched kn
ight is his grandson, or maybe great-grandson. I heard him telling it to Sir Lorn. And it could be, even if he cannot name the grandmother offhand. So they've gone in quest of her."
Matt stopped short; and Dennys beheld such an acute grimace of warning on the old man's face that he checked a stream of questions on the very tip of his tongue. He saw Matt straighten up and step back a pace; and then he heard the voice of Gyles the taverner, smooth and unctuous, from a few yards off.
"How fares our poor young gentleman now?"
"Fever," sighed Matt. "The wine fuming inside the cracked skull—God forgive us! He mutters an' raves, poor lad!"
At this Dennys began to mutter, for he could think fast at need. The innkeeper entered his field of view; and he narrowed his eyes and continued to mutter. Gyles came close and stooped, with a smile on his wide ruddy face. Dear Lord Christ, what a smile; it bared the greedy teeth, and all but hid the gloating eyes. Dennys felt a grip on his heart as of icy fingers, but he kept on with his crazy mutter; and he widened his eyes into what he hoped was a crazy stare.
And now he glimpsed, beyond the taverner's stooping shoulders, that which all but silenced his muttering and deflected his stare. Old Matt, standing straight in rear of the taverner, raised his right arm high—and in his hand was a short-shafted, spike-headed mace: but it was not until the mace began its swift descent that Dennys shut his eyes and lost his voice entirely. He heard the impact of mace on skull—the crack and crush of bone—and simultaneous grunts from striker and stricken. The sudden corpse, still quivering, fell across him, and rolled and thudded to the floor; and while in the act of quitting the cot himself, he heard old Matt gasp proudly: "As stark a stroke, by Judas, as ever I struck!"
Chapter Nine
Dennys Heads for the Hills of Home
They rode softly, as the saying is. Once mounted, and until they were clear of town and camp, they showed no evidence of haste or the need of it. No one would guess, by their movements or appearance, that they had left behind them one man dead and two men bound and gagged. The leader was up on a tall, pale, gaunt warhorse which trod with impressive deliberation rather than vigor. He was in full armor even to the plumed helm, but the vizor was open. The armor was of the best quality, but an outmoded style. The great shield, which hung on his left shoulder, was dented, and displayed an imposing though somewhat dimmed device; but any herald could have read it—gules, a unicorn rampant and armed, argent and or.
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