The Merriest Knight

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

  But within those knightly plates and that great casque was a mere squire, and a none too self-assured squire, at that—Dennys ap Rhys ap Tudor. At his charger's heels came two mountain ponies with a curtained litter slung between them. Close behind the litter came a formidable figure in a squire's harness and casque, astride Dennys' good brown gelding Hero. Bundles and baskets and a leather bottle dangled from the saddle, along with a mace and a battle-axe, but from the rider's big right fist stood up a two-edged sword of extraordinary length and weight. Then came old Matt and the herdsmen Oggle and Maggon astride mountain ponies, all in leather and iron, and armed to the teeth and hung about with goods and knightly gear; and through and around all trotted a tall dog.

  Clear of the cobblestones of the town and the rank dust of the camp, the little cavalcade broke into a trot; and when they drew rein at the first lift of dawn, the curtains of the litter parted, and a little, frightened face looked out. A soft cry issued from the squire's casque, the sword fell from the great fist and the formidable figure flung itself from the brown hackney's back and dashed to the litter, still crying endearments. There it lifted the occupant up and out and held her close, but tenderly, to a breast of iron; and the child clasped the iron-clad neck with both small arms, crying '"Liza, my 'Liza!" between tears and laughter.

  "A mad world!" muttered Dennys, still up on his high saddle. "And a perilous. An' a haphazard, God wot! My lost friend finds himself a mad king for a grandfather: and both of them witch-ridden. And I find a king's daughter—may all the angles shield her an' guide my hands an' wits!—to carry to safety, mauger my head!—and to her royal home over the sea even, when she is big enough to travel so far."

  He dismounted with deliberation befitting his lordly shield and harness and the height and dignity of the ancient warhorse. His responsibilities weighed on him heavier than his armor; but when he saw Cynara smiling at him across one of Eliza's mailed shoulders, his heart and brain felt like blowing thistledown, and his helmet like a velvet cap, and his footgear of cunningly wrought links of brass like slippers of morocco leather.

  * * *

  After a few hours' rest, Dennys and his party resumed their northern way, but not on the open road. Fearful of pursuit from Carleon, Dennys led his little company through copses and forest fringes. They went by easy stages and at a snail's-pace all day, but when the stars glinted again they returned to the trodden track and made better time. Thus they progressed, at varying speeds and generally northward, and without human interference, until noon of their third day out of Carleon, when Dennys called a halt in a forest glade.

  "Water and grass," he said; and he was about to dismount, when a short spear came flying and glanced and pitched from his gorget.

  The attackers were upon them from all sides—a score of rogues in leather and rusty iron for the most part, but a few in tags and rags of stolen finery, but all armed with knives and boar-spears. Dennys wheeled into action on his tall horse, stooping and striking to his right and left; but Eliza, on the brown gelding, was quicker. Eliza roared defiance and damnation while she slashed and thrust; and the hackney kicked and struck and bit and screamed, even as he had been taught to fight by the mighty Bahram, in the distant valley of home.

  But the attackers were not easy marks for long swords; as all they wanted was horses and goods and gear, they changed their tactics after seven or eight of the more reckless of them had been cut in two by just so many strokes. Now they tried to avoid the knight and squire—little did they suspect that the "knight" was but an apprentice squire and the furious "squire" but a nursemaid!—and at the same time, dispatch the grooms and panic and stampede the beasts of burden. Once in the surrounding tangles of timber and brushwood, where a reserve of their gang watched and waited, the ponies and all they carried would vanish like smoke.

  They were as agile as weasels; but Oggle and Maggon were agile too, and old Matt was crafty. The grooms and Matt were afoot and the five ponies in a tight little herd, with the litter in the middle of it, within two minutes of the first rush of the attack. The dog sprang here and there, gashing leather and flesh to right and left. Dennys was about to dismount, the better to come to grips with the elusive foe, when the old warhorse spared him the effort by stumbling to its knees and pitching him clear of the saddle and everything. He landed on all fours, but was on his feet and running before any advantage could be taken of him. He chased a dozen of the enemy twice around the snorting ponies, shouting a battle cry—"A Lorn, a Lorn! Strike hard! Bite deep!"—the slogan of the friend who had forsaken him.

  He came up with them and struck, and struck again, and at the screams of the victims, the others turned on him, and yet others joined them, and in a twinkling, they were all upon him like a pack of wolves. They went over him like a wave. He came up, still hacking and jabbing and giving far worse than he got. He went under again, still struggling, but without hope; he awaited the vital stab, the last mortal agony—but instead, and too suddenly to be realized instantly, the weight of battering feet and knees and groping hands was withdrawn. He staggered up, staring in amazement at what he saw.

  No living enemy remained in the glade. A great white horse—Bahram, or was he dreaming!—stood within ten paces of him; and there was Lorn, in half-armor, running toward the ponies, which had finally panicked and broken away in every direction; and there were the grooms and Matt and the tall dog dodging this way and that, and Eliza on the brown hackney wheeling and shouting—one and all bent upon reherding the pack-train. The curtained litter was wrenched from its lashings, and the little damosel Cynara was spilled to the ground, screaming. Lorn snatched her up. In the same tick of time, Eliza hurled herself from the saddle and snatched the squirming child from the knight's hands. Between them, the frail gown and the frailer shift beneath it were torn from neck to waist.

  "God's wounds!" cried the knight. "The Fairy Hand! Little Brigid! I've found her at last!"

  Now Dennys bestirred himself. He staggered to them. Bleeding from several shallow cuts, and bruised and dazed, he steadied himself against stalwart Eliza, who by now had the little girl clasped to her iron bosom.

  "I found her," he said, with a thick tongue.

  And now old King Torrice emerged from the forest on a winded old horse, with mounted grooms and pack-horses following.

  Now they had nothing to fear from attack. Reinforced by the King and the knight and their four attendants, the party was too strong for any wandering company of outlaws. But King Torrice, after hearing the extraordinary thing Sir Lorn had to tell, was impatient to be up and away again.

  "I knew it the instant I saw it," said the Lost Knight; and his tongue was so stiff from disuse that it could hardly shape the words. "I remembered it then—and everything. Nay, not everything. I sought her for years—little Brigid—by that mark—till I forgot her and it—and my sacred vows."

  "One thing at a time, dear lad," said the King. "Are you telling us that you know this child?"

  "Yes, by the Fairy Hand. I set out to find her—long ago. A small infant then—not a year old. I would know her by the mark she was born with. They are not all marked so. One now and then, from remotest times—always of that race. Some call it Queen Mab's Hand. She was a queen of Elfland in ancient times."

  "Never mind Queen Mab now, dear lad," said King Torrice. "It's yourself and this little girl we want to hear about, and how and where you met her before and all that. You said little Brigid'just now. What's the rest of it? Brigid who?"

  "Cavanaugh," said the knight. "That's the name. Her mother is Queen Brigid. Her father is King Malachi. She was stolen out of the castle. Gypsies couldn't do that. It was Prince Seumas. He denied it. But he confessed at last to giving her to a gypsy, and said he would get her back— but that could never be, for in his rage Malachi killed him then without stopping to think."

  "Just a moment, dear lad! This Prince Seumas? Who was he?"

  "Why, King Malachi's half-brother. Younger by thirty years. They promised him the cro
wn, Malachi and Queen Brigid both—that he would be The Cavanaugh some day, if they never had a son—and it was not likely, at the King's age, there'd be any more babies after this one. But when he heard that the Fairy Hand was on her, he knew they'd not keep that promise—for fear of offending the fairies. So he did what he did—and died for it. I made a vow, on a splinter of the True Cross, to seek the infant, and find her and take her home, or perish in the quest. Five others made the same vow. Three were kin to Malachi and three to the Queen. Four were knights, so the King knighted two of us. Then a bishop shrived and blessed us, and we rode our six separate ways. Bahram was a young horse then, not come to his full growth. But Bahram was not his name then—and if he had one then, I cannot recall it. He is a gift from Queen Brigid, and of a noble race. Dame Gwyn named him. That was but last winter."

  "Never mind the horse now. Tell us of yourself, dear lad, and your quest. For how long did you follow it? Why did you forsake it, and where and when? And when did you cross the sea from Ireland?"

  "Three summers and three winters I searched over Ireland. I don't know when I crossed the sea. I know nothing about that. I was in the mountains of Killarney. A voice called to me from a tower, at the fall of night. There was singing and music sounding from the windows of that tower. A door opened and showed red torchlight. I rode to that door—and came, afoot, to Dennys' campfire in the mountain of Eidyn."

  * * *

  Pressing a hand to his head, the knight sighed.

  "You came a long way without knowing it, poor lad," said King Torrice, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "But that was by necromancy, to say the least of it. Killarney, hey? But we haven't time to investigate that now. One thing at a time—or only two, at the most: that is my rule. Our immediate task is to return the child to her parents' arms and you to your kith and kin. To which of those two are you sib, by the way? The King or the Queen?"

  "The Queen, who was a Kelly," said Sir Lorn—but you could see he was thinking of something else, or trying to, anyhow.

  "Har! A Kelly!" exclaimed Torrice. "But never mind that now. Well see what we see when we get there. We're practically on the way. A bite of dinner and we're jinking."

  Then Eliza spoke up. The great wench had laid aside her armor and all her weapons save a dagger, and now she did her best to look and sound meek and maidenly.

  "Your Grace, Master Dennys took wounds and hard knocks and lost a deal of blood. He will be fitter for the road tomorrow than he is today, Your Grace."

  King Torrice looked from her to Dennys, who reclined nearby on the sward and looked at the green leaves overhead.

  "Forgive me, good lad!" he exclaimed. "So many things on my mind—and so sudden! I've been remiss." He got to his feet stiffly. "I shall now search and dress your wounds, good Dennys."

  "Nay, they've already been searched and dressed, Your Grace," said Eliza—but now there was a shade less of meekness in her voice and likewise in the carriage of her broad shoulders.

  "Quite so, good wench," returned the King hastily. "In that case, good Eliza, we shall press on—and you with us, of course, to mind the child—for we must not delay that sacred reunion a moment longer than need be; and Squire Dennys can follow after at his convenience."

  She was about to reply to that, but Dennys sat up and checked her with a glance. Then Dennys got his legs under him and eyed the old King, and spoke levelly.

  "Sir, I doubt that one day more or less now will make or mar that reunion: but I have no doubt that it had better be a day late than never. And so I shall not let you and Sir Lorn take her from me—nay, not even in true Eliza's care! She is my charge, and I am her guardian, under heaven and despite hell! Cynara or Brigid—tortured waif or princess—I will hold her and bring her to safety, by my halidom! I found her and took her from her tormentors. I have never forgot her nor forsook her. But what of you, Sir King? For all your wisdom and great heart and open hands! Another adventure, a new quest, and you are up and away! And what of this young knight? He forgot his quest and the vows he took on a splinter of the True Cross. I am his proven friend and tested squire, yet he rode off while I slept. I tell you—both of you—with all due respect for your rank and your golden spurs—you are bewitched and not to be trusted. I will die before you take her from me—and not with an unblooded sword neither, by Christ's wounds!"

  The old King stared at him, struck speechless by conflicting emotions. Even Eliza was shocked at the squire's frankness and audacity and the deadliness of his tone and look. Then Sir Lorn rose quickly and close to Dennys and gazed at him earnestly.

  "God's truth!" he exclaimed. "I forsook my quest," he went on mournfully. "And I deserted a friend while he slept. Forgive me, my friend. Twas the head that failed you, not the heart. Bewitched? Ay, devil a doubt of it. Or how else did I forget my vows?"

  He turned from Dennys to King Torrice, who was still breathing gustily through his high nose and plucking at his beard.

  "Dennys speaks truth, Your Grace," he said. "I am bewitched and so untrustworthy. And you too, sir—or something like it. Forgetful, anyhow. Two of a kind, sir. But Dennys is different. As for me, sir—well, I´ll take my time from Dennys; and I pray you humbly to do the same, dear sir."

  After a brief silence, during which his breathing became quieter, the old King smiled and said, with a sigh, "So be it, dear lad!" And he smiled at Dennys too, and then at Eliza, and added, "But don't keep me kicking my heels here any longer than need be, I beg you!"

  Chapter Ten

  Cavanaugh Castle

  Though it was five years since the loss of their infant daughter and only child, King Malachi Cavanaugh and his young queen were still as doleful a couple as you would find in Ireland. It was close upon five years since the six knights, three of Cavanaugh blood and three sib to Queen Brigid, had ridden away so bravely to recover their little kinswoman or perish in the attempt; and as nothing had been heard of any one of them, it was only natural to believe the worst. Malachi, though neither young nor physically fit (he had been dragged, more dead than alive, out of many an intertribal battle in the years of his long, lean bachelorhood and hard apprenticeship to the crown and lands of Cavanaugh), continued to lead local search parties whenever he was able to fork a horse, from which he was always brought home in a litter, cursing.

  At sunset of the winter solstice, he returned from the last expedition of the kind he would ever make and was carried straightway from the litter to his bed, as usual; and, as usual, Queen Brigid knelt beside the bed and tried to comfort him. But it was cold comfort, for she wept. They were thus employed—the man cursing his helplessness and the woman sobbing with grief and pity—when the bray of a horn caught the Queen's attention. She raised her head and stilled her sobs.

  "Hark," she whispered.

  "What now?" he complained.

  "A horn on the hill. There—again—and shouting below. And the inner gate!" She sprang to her feet and turned from the bed to the door. "They are opening the gate—and everyone shouts—in the yard and on the walls—everywhere—all shouting like mad!" She took up the candle and ran from the room.

  Now the hall was full of people and clamor and the tossing red and black of a dozen torches. A great wench, unhelmeted but armored to the chin, placed the little girl in the arms of the dazed Queen. And three knights knelt before her, looking up at her. She knew one for her young kinsman Lorn, who had ridden away so assuredly so long ago. Now he muttered, "Better late than never, Brigie," with a shamefaced smile. And the old one, whose gold-inlaid breastplate was half-hidden by a snowy beard, smiled at her too, but roguishly. But the third, who was no more than a youth, looked at her gravely, even critically. She whispered down to him, stooping above the child in her arms: "Is she—I'm afraid to look—truly my baby?"

  "The mark is there, as it was when I found her," said Dennys; whereupon the Queen uttered a glad cry and turned and ran up the winding stairs.

  The three cavaliers rose from their knees and were instantly jostled and clasped an
d pulled from hand to hand by ladies and damosels of every age and favor and courtiers of every rank and condition. Lorn was kissed by Kellys and Connells, Cavanaughs and MacMurraughs, Bryans and Ryans and Flynns and Geraldines, for the hero he was; and King Torrice and Dennys, though strangers, fared very well too. Cups of wine and horns of mead and ale were thrust into their hands, or splashed on them, from every direction. Two fiddlers struck up the far-famed Jig of Cavan; and every heart and foot started prancing to that tune, including those of King Torrice and Sir Lorn, armor and spurs and all; but Dennys went out to see how old Matt and the grooms and horses were faring.

  King Torrice was looking for a quiet corner to sit down in and catch his breath and maybe another cup of wine, when something flew against him and grabbed his beard and screamed a name that stood him stock still in his tracks. It was a little old lady in brocade and gemmy gold chains and bangles, with eyes like green fireflies and a tiara of emeralds askew on her white curls.

  "Guy, ye rascal, ye can't deny it!" she screamed. "And I´ll not deny it, wotever it makes of me who's passed for a decent widow these last nine years!"

  He took hold of her thin wrists to ease the drag on his whiskers.

  "You're mistaken, madam—for I haven't the honor—my name being Torrice," he gabbled.

  At that she fell to laughing and to twisting his beard gently instead of pulling it; and then she whispered: "Don't lie to me, me grand Guy Harper—me poetical husband—for I'd know ye any time, anywhere, by the roving gleam in yer eyes and the flyaway twitching of yer high nose."