"But madam, I am King Torrice of Har!"
"I'm not talking about who ye are, me darling, but who ye were when I married ye."
"But you mentioned nine years of widowhood, madam; and I assure you, and can prove it, it's over three score years since I was last in Ireland and this is my first visit to Cavanaugh Castle."
"But wot about Castle Kelly, ye rascal? And the sweet little Molly O'Kelly who married Guy the troubadour despite her fond parents' prayers an' sneers. I was first widowed by yerself, ye tyke, the night ye stole away from me bed an' board and the daughter ye'd never seen—and all that was over sixty years ago, sure enough! Don't try to tell me ye've forgot all that now!"
He did not try to tell her anything, but only scuffled his feet and tried feebly to disengage his beard from her fingers. She took him by a wrist with both her hands and led him to a bench against a wall, and there she set him down and herself close beside him, still with the grip on his wrist.
"Now harky to me," she said. "After the birth of our little girl, a man came to the castle and told how Guy the Harper had been slain by robbers and he had seen the corpse with his own eyes. It was a grand story, even if me proud father did invent it and pay the poor man ten silver crowns to tell it—which he confessed on his deathbed, but into nobody's ear but me own, like the grand gentleman he was. Now wot have ye to say to that, me fine flitting troubadour?"
King Torrice said nothing, nor did he so much as glance at her, but she could see he was listening hard and thinking hard too.
"It wasn't long before I married again," she went on, "but this time an Irishman and a gentleman for a change, and was a good wife to him till he went to glory nine years ago; and I've been a good mother to all my children. Me second girl, Kate Connell, married before her half-sister Mary Harper did—she was all Irish—a forty-second Kelly cousin; and their daughter, me own granddaughter, is Queen Brigid O'Cavanaugh herself. Now wot d'ye say to that?"
"What of your oldest child—Mary, I think you called her—by your first marriage?" he mumbled, slanting a quick look at her.
"Our own little Mary—is it herself ye're curious about after sixty years?" she cackled. "Well, I´ll tell ye, Guy Harper or King Torrice or wotever ye call yerself: she married a Geraldine, and I gave her a grand wedding. She's not here, being at Mount Gerald; but her son's here, as ye know without me telling it, ye fox!"
"Your daughter Mary's son, madam?"
"Ay, and yer own grandson!—and if ye don't know it without me telling ye, how come the two of ye to turn up here together as thick as thieves?"
"Madam, if you are referring to my young friend Lorn le Perdu, I assure you that we met quite by chance last June at Carleon, when neither of us knew anything about the other—that's to say he didn't know me to be King Torrice of Har until he was told—and he, poor lad, didn't know anything about himself either, at that time. It's a long story—about bewitchment and the baby he was searching for and everything—and I´ll be delighted to give you all the particulars tomorrow, madam, but you really must excuse me now."
That old quester was out of her clutches and vanished into the confusion of dancers and drinkers and torchlight and queer shadows, as quick and limber as an eel, before she realized what was happening; and she didn't set eye or hand on him again that night. There were hideouts aplenty in that castle; and nobody interfered with anybody that night unless it was to urge another cup of wine of usquebaugh on him. It was a great and joyous occasion: but the grandest celebrations of the return of the little Princess were yet to come.
* * *
The castle was late astir, though it was a glorious day of sunshine and white frost. It was one hour past noon when the head of the parade issued from the gate in the outer wall. Four heralds in tabards of green and silver and gold rode abreast, blowing silver trumpets. Next came King Malachi and Queen Brigid, stirrup to stirrup. Malachi, on a black charger, sat straight as a young knight; and you could see his laughter, though it was drowned by the trumpeting and shouting. The Queen, all in white samite and ermine, rode a white palfrey and blew kisses right and left from rosy fingers. Three cavaliers in rich armor rode in line, with their shields on their shoulders and their vizors raised. On the right was an ancient with snowy whiskers and an eagle-beak and the plume on his casque sprouting from a crown of gemmy gold. In the middle, on a great white stallion whose hooves shook the frozen earth, rode young Lorn Geraldine, who had fulfilled his vow of five years ago by bringing home the stolen princess. On the left, on a horse of remarkable height and dignity, rode the youth whom rumor already named as the greatest champion of the three, though but a Welsh squire called Dennys ap something or other. And the crowds bawled "A Har, a Har!" "A Geraldine, a Geraldine!" "A Dennys, a Dennys!"
Next, high on the shoulders of eight cadets of the best families in the land, came a litter with parted curtains and the recovered heiress of the Cavanaughs, in white fur, laughing out of it to right and left. "A Brigie, a Brigie!" bawled the crowd. Beneath the litter stalked a tall brown dog with amber eyes, and close behind it rode a great wench, fully armored and with a naked sword in her right hand, but unhelmeted. Then came the local chivalry, harnessed and armed, their horses neighing and curveting, followed by archers and pikemen in shirts of mail and steel caps. The grand procession passed through the town and clear around it and back through it again.
There was a kingly feast in the castle that day. It began in sunlight and went on in candlelight, torchlight, and fireshine. At the start, Malachi made a knight of Dennys ap Rhys and rich gifts to Sir Lorn and King Torrice; and Queen Brigid gave each of them a kiss—but she took the fun out of it for Torrice by whispering in his beard, Tve been told all about you by Granny O'Connell."
The feast went on. The Queen and all the ladies retired, but the feast went on and on. King Malachi and young Sir Dennys fell asleep in their chairs. Other gentlemen were overcome by slumber, some on chairs and benches and some on the floor. But King Torrice kept both himself and Sir Lorn wide awake, with whispering and nudging.
Sunrise found King Torrice and Sir Lorn well on their way somewhere.
"That's no life for us, my boy," said the King. "We were born to rove. But should you ever want to settle down, just say so, for you will find me reliable and trustworthy and reasonable, no matter what your grandmother told you about me. Yes, no matter what my failings as a husband, I´ll never fail you as a grandfather or a fellow-quester, mauger my head!"
"Gramercy, Grandfather," replied Sir Lorn, almost cheerfully.
The Merlin Touch
Chapter One
The Forge in the Wilderness
Quests ridden on, and sweated and bled for, and per-adventure perished in, are as multitudinous as the stars. They have been of dreams, vanities, love, ambition, hate, whiffs of temper and idle whimsy; for the Fountain of Youth, the Phoenix's nest, unicorns with golden horns, dryads and nymphs and yet more elusive beauties, the Questing Beast which ran with a noise in its belly as of a pack of baying hounds, and was chased by King Pellinore and others of renown; and latterly the Holy Grail, which was sought by many and achieved—quite obviously with the assistance of celestial hierarchy—by exemplary Sir Galahad.
Almost all questers rode singly, and won their places in song and story as solitary champions, but a few shared their quests and went in couples, and of these were old King Torrice of Har and his young Irish grandson Sir Lorn Geraldine. Once met (as already recorded), only death could break that fellowship or divide its mad adventure.
For more than a sennight they had followed tracks which had come to nothing, day after day, save narrower and rougher tracks. It was fifteen days since their last dealings with a farrier or any other kind of smith; and now, what with broken shoes or no hoof-iron at all, every horse was lame; and every man, whatever his degree, was on his own two feet. King Torrice was in a fretful humor, for pedestrianism was as foreign to his spirit as it was to his feet, and irked his soul equally with his corns. But young Sir Lorn ma
intained his habitual air and appearance of baffled thought and pensive abstraction, walking equably and unconcernedly. In truth, it was only when violently employed with spear or sword that he seemed to know or care how many legs were under him and at his service. Ah, but he knew then, never fear, and made the most of whatever number it happened to be!
"Well be carrying them on our backs before we can win clear of this cursed wilderness," complained the King.
Next moment, one of the squires cried out and pointed a hand.
"A smithy! Look there under the great oak. Forge and anvil complete, by Judas!"
All came to a dead stop and looked, like one man and one horse: and there it was, sure enough—a rustic hut with an open front disclosing forge and bellows and anvil.
"But no smith, of course," said the King. "He's gone off in despair—and small blame to him! A fool he must be to look for trade where there's no population—unless he counted on the patronage of unicorns and wild cattle."
"Nay, sire, look again!" cried the same squire. "At the forge. Stirring the fire. But I´ll swear there was no blink of fire a moment ago!"
All except Sir Lorn gasped and gaped in astonishment, and even he looked interested; for there, for all to see, was a human figure where naught but wood and iron and the leather bellows had been visible a moment before. A lively figure, at that, with the right hand busy at the red glow in the blackness of the forge, and the left raised high to the upper beam of the bellows; and while the travelers still stared as if at a warlock, the bellows creaked and exhaled gustily, and the fiery heart amid the black coals pulsed and expanded. A piece of white-hot metal was withdrawn in the grip of long pincers and laid on the anvil and smitten with a hammer, and sparks spurted and flew.
Then King Torrice bestirred himself; with a mutter in which irritability was somewhat tempered by awe, he turned left into the ferns and brambles, and advanced upon the smithy stiffly but resolutely, with his hoof-sore charger stumbling after, and did not halt until his whiskers were threatened by the sparks. Then he spoke in a loud voice, but the tone was constrainedly affable.
"Greetings, good Master Smith! Well met, my fine fellow!"
After six more hammer-clangs of cold iron on hot, the smith looked up from the anvil. He too was of venerable appearance and whiskery, but most of his snowy beard was tucked out of view and danger into the top of his leather apron, whereas Torrice's luxuriant appendage flowed broadly down his breastplate even to his belt.
"So here you are!" said the smith. "Well and good! One score and three completed, and this one will fit the tally." He nodded toward clusters of horseshoes of various sizes dangling from spikes in a wall, then thrust the cooling iron in his pincers back into the heart of fire.
"What d'ye say?" the old King-errant gasped. "Irons ready for six horses? Even so—and I don't believe it!— theyll not fit my six!"
"Ill attend to you in a minute," mumbled the smith.
The bellows creaked and snored, and the fire glowed; and soon that piece of iron, again white as noonday sun, was back on the ringing anvil, and the sparks were flying again like golden bees. King Torrice stood silent, gawking like a boy, until the iron was beaten exactly to the smith's fancy, and pierced for nails, and finally plunged into a tub of water with a hiss and jet of steam. Now the smith was at his horse, and old nails and fragments of old shoes and hoof parings fell simultaneously.
"He must have six hands!" muttered the King.
Now a little hammer went tapping as fast as the sedate charger could lift and lower his feet.
"Next!" cried the smith.
Sir Lorn's great white horse came next, then the squires' hackneys, and last the two pack-horses led by grooms, but all so fast—for every ready shoe fitted—that the King and the squires began a suspicious inspection. The smith straightened his back, tossed his apron aside and uttered a cackle of laughter.
"You are wasting your time," he said, and fell to combing his whiskers with a golden comb that appeared in his hand as if by magic. "All is at is seems, if not more so," he added, and cackled again.
"In all my life I never saw anything like it," said the King.
"You could forget a few things in that length of time," said the smith.
Torrice stiffened and asked loftily: "What do I owe you, my good fellow?"
"Ill name you a special fee, a mere token price, having taken a fancy to Your Worship," replied the smith. "What d'ye say to paying for the nails only, and never mind the shoes and the labor? One farthing for the first nail, a ha'penny for the second, a penny for the third, and so on?"
"I can afford to pay what I owe," said Torrice, with a royal air, "and am accustomed to paying more, so you will oblige me by stating your charge and having done with it."
"Not so fast!" cried the squire who had spotted the forge. "What d'ye mean 'and so on,' old man? Tuppence for the fourth nail and fourpence for the fifth, is that it?"
The King exclaimed fretfully: "Enough of this vulgar talk of farthings and pennies! Pay him what he asks, good Peter."
"Nay, sir, mauger my head!" cried the squire. "I learned that manner of computation from a farrier at Saint Audrey's Fair, in my youth, an' would still be in his debt— and I had but one beast, mark ye!—if I hadn't settled the score with my stout cudgel, there an' then."
The smith laughed heartily, patted Squire Peter's shoulder and chuckled: "Spare the cudgel, friend, and I´ll be content with a horn of ale."
"I don't get it," muttered Torrice. "All this jabber about nails. But let it pass." His voice and brow cleared. "But ale you shall have, worthy smith, and a share of our supper, and three silver crowns for your pouch."
"Gramercy," said the smith.
The horses, all firm of foot now, were soon unsaddled, unloaded, and hobbled in a nearby glade of sweet grasses to which the smith had led the way. But now the sun was behind the westward treetops. A small pavilion was pitched; a small keg was broached; and a fire was made of dead wood from thickets of underbrush. By the time the black pots were boiling, the smith's horn had been replenished twice, and a white star was glinting in the East.
It was a simple supper of boiled corned beef and bacon and wheaten dumplings, barley scones, and cheese and honey; and for drink there was malt ale for all, and mead and usquebaugh too for the knights and squires and thirsty guests. The smith ate and drank more than anyone else, and at the same time, did most of the talking. The King, who had been taught never to drink with food in his mouth, and never to speak with his mouth full, was horrified at the simultaneous flaunting of both rules of behavior: and at last he cried out a protest:
"There's plenty of time, friend! Have a care, or youll choke!"
The smith laughed, and said: "I apologize for offending your quality, of which I cannot pretend ignorance, for this is not our first meeting. I would know you anywhere and at any time for what you are, no matter how small your retinue and how restricted your commissariat at the moment. But don't misunderstand me. Your present company makes up in character and promise what it lacks in strength. This young knight is suffering from a misadventure, but the fact that he survived it with nothing more serious than a gap in his memory and a grievous void in his heart is proof that he is destined for great things."
"What do you know of that?" Torrice interrupted, loudly and with a violent gesture.
"What I see," replied the smith coolly.
"And what's that? There's nothing to see!"
"Nothing for dull eyes, you mean. But as I was saying, this is the first time I have known the munificent Torrice of Har to lack a few flasks, at least, of French or Spanish wine."
"So you know me?" the King cried. "But I was never in this forest before!"
"Nor was I," the smith chuckled; and while all save Sir Lorn gaped in wonder, he added: "Are you so old, my friend, that you no longer recognize the master touch?"
The King clapped a hand to his head, and sighed and muttered.
"Merlin! I should have known it at the forge
. But you were not so helpful at our last meeting—on the contrary. But that was long ago." He stood up and did the correct thing, though still dazedly. "Duke Merlin, this is my grandson Lorn Geraldine—an Irish grandson. And these two gentlemen are our squires Peter and Gervis."
Sir Lorn stood up and louted low, cap in hand, but no slightest flicker of eye or twitch of lip paid the tribute of recognition to that potent name. But the squires' reaction was entirely flattering. Standing bareheaded and bowed double, Peter and Gervis regarded with awestruck eyes and blanched faces the person who had so lately shod their horses; and the uncouth fellows at the far side of the fire sat with podding eyes and hanging jaws, powerless to stir a muscle. The great magician looked around with a gratified smirk.
"Gramercy, friend," he said. "You have heard of me, it seems—and only good, I'm sure. But sit down, gentlemen, I pray you. Let us be at ease together again."
King Torrice said to his squire: "Peter, be so good as to fetch that flask of green glass you wot of."
"Good Master Peter, by fetching all four flasks you wot of, two green and two brown, you will spare yourself a deal of footing to and fro," said Merlin dryly.
"Quite," said the King resignedly; whereupon Peter moved off hastily toward the stacked baggage.
Those treasured flasks contained potent foreign cordials, and not wine at all. The squires took their shares of the first one, then slept where they lay. The young knight went onto his share of the second flask, then retired to the pavilion on wavering legs but with unabated dignity. This left the two ancients tete-a-tete; and the talk, which had been anecdotal, changed in its character.
"A fine young man, your grandson, despite what happened to him," said Merlin. "Bewitched, of course! His case suggested the fine and merciless art of—but why name her? She goes by more names than Satan, and has done so since before Stonehenge was set up, like as not: Lilith, Circe, Queen Mab, la Belle Dame sans Merci, the Maid of Tintagel, the Lost Lady of Caer Loyw, Fair Fiona, Dark Essylit, Weeping Rosamund, the Damosel of the Tower, and as many more as I have fingers and toes, but all one and the same perilous and indestructible witch, in my opinion. There are other and lesser enchantresses abroad; and as one can never be quite sure of one's ground in such matters, a man is well advised—ay, even such a man as myself—to avoid them all. I have taken chances, naturally— but as you see, without serious consequences.
The Merriest Knight Page 35