The Merriest Knight

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

  For a time Sir Dennys and his squire and their modest retinue were hard put to it to maintain a genteel appearance. But for a prize of five crowns won by Maggon in a wrestling match, and the successes of an Irish gamecock that had been fetched all the way from Cavantown by one of Rufus' fellows, they would have gone hungry more than once. For weeks Sir Dennys took nothing but tumbles in the lists. But his bones were tough; and he set his jaw and hardened his heart. And then came the day when, in a grand passage of arms, he vanquished a mighty earl.

  More good came of that success than the lawfully forfeited horse and armor; for His Lordship had been so favorably impressed by the young knight's courteous treatment when he had him at his mercy on the ground, that he repurchased the lost property at twice its value, and invited Dennys to supper. And that was but the beginning. Fame and fortune were Dennys ap Rhys' for the taking after that; but for a secret bitter whim, he refrained from taking in full measure. Over and over again he turned his back on Opportunity and rode aimlessly in the wilderness, bidding his squire come if he wanted to, or stop behind with one-half of their money and goods if he would; and Rufus always went along, though not happily.

  In the course of years, Sir Dennys went so high (despite his frequent retirements) that he suffered the honor of a tumble from the spear of Sir Launcelot du Lake—and even higher than that, when the greatest knight in Christendom smilingly declined his respectful invitation to engage afoot with swords and daggers.

  "It pains me to refuse you, my dear Denny, but I suspect that it would pain me more to humor you," the peerless champion said, with all of his famous charm; and then he took both Dennys and Rufus to dine with King Arthur and Queen Gwynever, Queen Isoud, Sir Tristram, the Queen of Orkney, and Sir Dinadan.

  Michael MacMurraugh also advanced in those years; and yet he did not seem to be much happier than Dennys was, though he caroused oftener and laughed louder. He too appeared at times to nurse a secret wound or regret. But he prospered in goods and gear and made a reputation as a ladies' man and a wit as well as a man of his hands. He was in no hurry to be knighted, and vowed that he would not accept the accolade from any hand but that of King Arthur or one of the five highest knights in the land. He lost his heart frequently and found it just as often. He learned tricks of repartee and rhyming from Sir Dinadan, and of horsemanship and swordsmanship from the greatest living masters of those skills, only to receive the worst beating of his career at the hands of obscure riffraff in a remote wilderness.

  Chapter Seven

  News of a Princess

  The moment Dennys heard that voice asking the shortest way to the buttery-hatch, he left his chair beside the couch upon which Rufus was dozing uneasily, and went out to greet its owner. The beribboned lute slung to the left shoulder, and a certain artificial airiness of dress and manner told Dennys the stranger's occupation as surely as the voice had told him his nationality.

  "Welcome to this poor retreat, Master Minstrel," said Dennys, with a slightly more successful attempt at cordiality than he usually achieved in addressing strangers or even mere acquaintances. "Come in with me, and the best we have of food an' drink, such as it is, shall be brought to your table."

  The troubadour doffed his cap and bowed, but with a hint of suspicion in his glance.

  "I have a hurt friend here who will be better for your native songs and talk, I think—if you are what I take you for," Dennys said.

  "An' wot might that be?" the other asked, still with only the corners of his eyes on the knight.

  "An Irelander," said Dennys.

  "I be that, however ye guessed it!" the troubadour cried enthusiastically, with both his eyes full upon Dennys' now. "And as straight from Dublin as any man could come by twisty ship an' twisty tracks; an' the divil only knows why I made the trip! But here I be, with regret in me heart an' nought in me belly—but at yer service, sir, for all that. Larry the Rhymer! Maybe ye've heard tell of me?"

  "It's my friend who's the Irelander," Dennys apologized hurriedly. "But come this way now, Master Rhymer, for bite and sup before I take you in to him."

  In a few minutes the minstrel was busy with a jack of strong ale and a cold roast fowl, and Dennys was back beside Rufus' couch.

  "Now that your bones are mended," said Dennys, "all you need is a bit of cheering up; and then well return to Camelot for the pair of gold spurs Sir Dinadan has ready for you."

  The squire's only reply was a wan smile.

  "I have a hungry Irish minstrel out in the hall," Dennys went on. "Ill fetch him as soon as he's emptied his jack and cleared his trencher. He's a Dubliner, but that's better than nothing. His songs and tales will amuse you, lad."

  "Ye've a kind heart, Denny boy," Rufus said, with another wan smile; and then he closed his eyes.

  Dennys waited long enough, then fetched the minstrel, who entered still licking his fingers and his lips. Dennys made him known to Rufus, and Rufus to him, with grave formality.

  "MacMurraugh, d'ye say?" the minstrel exclaimed heartily. "And a very good name too. I've heard it highly spoke of many a time. And I've got a good name meself, which is Toole, me own dad bein' a near cousin to the O'Toole himself, him of the barony an' castle of Bally Tooley. But bein' a tenth son meself, I took to music an' poetry, an' not to the discredit of them difficult arts neither, by the name an' style of Larry the Rhymer. Maybe ye've heard tell of me?"

  "Who hasn't?" Rufus murmured, in a tired but polite voice; and he closed his eyes languidly.

  "Give him a song to cheer him up," Dennys whispered to the minstrel. "His flesh is healed and his ribs are mended, but he's low in mind an' heart. He's been a long time a long way from his native home; and that's his trouble, in my opinion, though he doesn't say so."

  "Why doesn't he go home, then?" asked the minstrel.

  "He wants his gold spurs from one of King Arthur's best knights first. That's one reason."

  "Man, Sir Dennys, if the poor feller be homesick, I can make him a song thatll knock all the gold spurs this side Jerusalem clear out of his mind! Just tell me the name an' whereabouts of his own particular home spot on the darlin' old sod, and I´ll show ye."

  "But I'm only asking you to cheer him up, Master Rhymer."

  "Sure! Sure! But give it a name now, an' leave me show ye wot a real poet can do when he sets his janius to it."

  "D'ye know anything about the Cavanaugh country? Castle Cavanaugh and Cavantown? That's his native home."

  "The Cavanaugh country! D'ye tell me so? Man, ye've put yer finger on it! No one with two ears could help himself from hearin' about the goin's-on in that country when I was fool enough to come away from Dublin. And if I had to leave Dublin, why didn't I go to Cavantown? But never mind that now. Them goin's-on inspired me to song, anyhow. Hark ye to this now!"

  Larry the Rhymer pulled his lute around to his front and went to it like one bewitched as well as inspired.

  "There dwells a queen in Cavantown,

  Full beautiful to see;

  An' there a princess dwells also,

  More beautiful than she.

  So spur ye unto Cavantown,

  If ye would be in style,

  An' see a nation's chivalry

  Competing for a smile.

  "The King sent out his singing men

  To sing his daughter's charms:

  And every son of Ireland now

  Would have her in his arms.

  That king sent out more singing men

  To tell, throughout the land,

  Only the greatest might aspire

  To win his daughter's hand."

  Rufus opened his eyes and sat up and gave Dennys a queer look: but Dennys did not look at him, but white-faced at the minstrel, so he lay flat again. The minstrel caught a few deep breaths, rolled his eyes at the rafters, and went on with the song.

  "Nine kings be there at Cavantown,

  And princes by the score,

  And earls with num'rous kegs of gold,

  An' dukes with maybe mor
e.

  So if yer wealth bes that oflnd,

  An' ye would be in style,

  Go try yer luck at Cavantown

  An' maybe—"

  "Stop!" shouted Dennys, so fiercely and with a gesture so furious that the singer stopped with his mouth still open and Rufus sat up again.

  They both stared at Dennys, but with very different expressions on their faces. Dennys stared at neither of them, but into space seemingly. His lips, as bloodless as his cheeks, squirmed without sound a few times before he spoke again. Now his utterance was faint and broken.

  "This princess? Who is she? Give her a name!"

  The troubadour stammered, "Yes, sir—I was comin' to it—to her name, sir—which is Brigid, the same as that of the Queen."

  Dennys croaked: "She's nought but a child—the little maid. Little Brigie. Cynara to me."

  "She's fifteen," Rufus said quietly. "It was nine years ago we came away."

  He turned to the minstrel and said: "Ye could go to the hall now an' wet yer vocal cords after yer grand performance, me talented friend. Just shout for wotever ye want, and if we have it yell get it. See ye later, Larry lad."

  The bewildered minstrel was glad to get out of that room—and not only because he was thirsty. He suspected both the knight and squire of madness.

  "I have something to tell you," Rufus said.

  Dennys gave him a vague look and did not speak.

  "If ye think me trouble is I'm homesick, ye're mistaken," Rufus went on, in a flat voice. "Harky now, and I´ll tell ye— if I die for it. An' good riddance too."

  But Dennys said nothing to that, nor so much as nodded, but sat with his elbows on his knees and both hands to his head.

  "Will ye listen?" the squire cried bitterly. "To me confession. To as mean an' knavish a confession as ever a MacMurraugh had to make, God help me!"

  Dennys looked at him then, but still vaguely, and spoke vaguely.

  "It's the fever, Rufe. Don't excite yourself now."

  "To hell with the fever!" cried Rufus. "It's a confession, d'ye hear! D'ye mind the time the tricky Dubliner gave you the spill, back at Castle Cavanaugh?"

  Dennys, who was now regarding the sick man curiously, nodded assent.

  "Sir Keel was the name," continued Rufus. "He grassed ye hard an' clean, for all to see. And King Malachi laughed even harder than the Dubliners did. D'ye mind that now?"

  "You told me about it," Dennys said, in a low voice. "I couldn't see for myself, for a few minutes."

  "And it was the truth. But listen to this! Ye asked me if Little Brigie laughed. And I told ye yes she did. D'ye mind that?"

  "I've never forgot it—nor ever will," Dennys whispered.

  "Then ye can forget it now," Rufus whispered; and he lay back on the pillow and clapped trembling hands to his face. "Forget it now—for it was a lie! She didn't laugh. She went white as her wimple."

  Dennys spoke first after that, after minutes of silence.

  "Why did you do it?"

  "So's to get ye safe away—then an' there," Rufus moaned. "Safe away from Malachi—an' the deadly mischief I'd talked ye into with the Dublin knights. I was afeared for yer life."

  He paused; but as Dennys did not speak, he moaned on again, still with his hands to his face:

  "Ye were no match for that bog-adder Malachi. And ye were overyoung for those champions. Ye'd be dead a long time now—by treachery or a sharp spear—if I hadn't fetched ye away. But the spell had to be broke first. An' only a lie could break it. So I lied."

  "So that was it!" Dennys said, and stood up. "So that is the truth of it—at last?" He walked to the window and gazed out at the horses in the paddock, but he didn't see them. Instead, he saw a hoof-scarred field, and a grandstand gay with banners, and a little maid with a face as white as her wimple. "She didn't laugh," he said. He walked around the room and then to the side of the squire's couch. "It was a vile lie," he said. "Ay, a villainous lie—but it didn't break any spell. And if it brought me out of there alive, it was a good lie too. For I'm not overyoung now. Horsed or afoot, I'm old enough now for any Dublin knight, or the biggest champion in all Ireland. So I forgive you the lie, Rufe—and I thank you for it."

  Withdrawing his hands from his face, Rufus sat up. But he did not speak, for he hadn't the words for what he wanted to say. But Dennys went on like one talking to himself.

  "Ill start tomorrow. If I keep on, and avoid all combats, I´ll make the seashore in a sennight. If I have luck finding a ship, I´ll be in Ireland in—"

  He was startled out of his soliloquy by Rufus. The sick squire was up on his feet and bawling for his boots.

  "Easy now!" Dennys cried, jumping and taking a gentle hold on the other. "Ye're a sick man, Rufe. Lay down now. It's the fever. I´ll send for the chirurgeon to draw off some more of the poisoned blood."

  "Not so!" Rufus shouted. "There's nought wrong with me blood—wot's left of it—now that poisonous lie is out of me heart. A sick man, d'ye say? Man, Denny, me strength right now is the strength of ten!"

  With a wild laugh, he grabbed Dennys by the shoulders and shook with all his might. But it was himself, not Dennys, who was shaken; for the knight stood as steady as a house founded upon rock. So he ceased that violent demonstration of vigor as suddenly as he had commenced it.

  "'Twould take the strength of twenty to unbalance Sir Dennys ap Rhys," Rufus cried; and with another shout of laughter, he flung both his arms around Dennys' neck.

  "Did ye think to go without me?" he chuckled. "Man, Denny boy, for all yer prowess, not to mention me own, wot would you do without me back at Cavantown now, an' all the liars in Ireland collected there?"

  "Easy now, Rufe lad!" begged Dennys. "Ill not go without you, perish the thought! If you can fork a horse tomorrow morning, well an' good. If not, well jounce you along in a litter. But leave my neck for some of those kings an' princes to try to break, I beg you!"

  Rufus released him and ran, somewhat unsteadily, to grab his boots from the fellow who had answered his shouts. The troubadour appeared in the doorway at the same moment, with a horn of ale in his hand, attracted by the hubbub; and while he stood gawking on the threshold, a small man in a fur-trimmed gown, holding a barber's basin in one hand and a lancet in the other, darted past him from behind. But not far; for Rufus, though but half booted and hopping on one foot, was upon him like a pouncing hawk.

  "So it's yerself, Doctor!" cried Rufus. "Yell have no more blood of mine, ye doddering vampire!"

  He gave the little man a spin and grabbed the mazed minstrel by the front of his jerkin.

  "And for yerself, me grand balladmonger—if it's high jinks in dear old Ireland you want to sing about, turn right round an' come to Cavantown with Sir Dennys an' me," he shouted fiercely, but grinning all the while; and he gave big Larry the Rhymer a spin, then pulled on his second boot, draped a long cloak about him and strode wobblingly away to inspect the horses. . . .

  They left that place next day, in the coolness of the early spring morning. Trusty Oggle and Maggon rode in front, right squirely armed and mounted. Dennys and Rufus rode next, in half-armor; the knight on a great impatient black warhorse that had been the property and pride of a first-rate champion of King Arthur's court less than a year before. Chester was its name. The squire rode easy-gaited Hercules, whose red roan coat was now frosted with white hairs, but who was still a charger in a thousand, save in the matter of wind, despite his fifteen years and a few scars which ached in wet weather. Dr. Goffkyn was on a mule; and the troubadour, who had arrived on his own feet, bestrode a good horse. Spare chargers, beasts of burden, and armed and mounted grooms completed the imposing cavalcade.

  Chapter Eight

  The Royal Family of Cavanaugh

  It was April again, and again King Malachi was on the receiving end of more royal and noble and generally high company than he had pictured in even his most ambitious dreams of over a year before. It had been fourteen months before, to be exact, that he had sent out the first five m
instrels to tell the world of the beautiful princess who would some day wear the crown of Cavan Land as liege lady of all the tribes and clans of the innumerable mountains, bogs, forests, and fat farms of a one-twentieth part of the surface of Ireland, in the commendable hope of getting himself the richest and most powerful king or prince in the Emerald Isle for a son-in-law.

  With such an ally, he would achieve great things. What with trickery here and force there, by manor and barony and now and then an earldom, he would expand his borders till his power and possessions were second only to those of Anguish of Dublin. But he would have to continue to be careful of his health; so all hand-to-hand physical encounters would be the business of his son-in-law. It was a grand ambition. So, in March, he had sent out more minstrels; and the minstrels' efforts had commenced to bear fruit in April. And now it was April again.

  King Malachi lay on his bed and clawed his beard and the thin hair of his scalp, and Queen Brigid sat in a chair by the window and gazed at what she could see of the landscape between narrowed lids, and with a queer smile on her pretty face.

  "Did ye say four already?" asked the King.

  "Six now," the Queen murmured.

  "Can't ye speak out?" he barked.

  "I said six now," the Queen cried; and then she added, in even louder and more derisive tones: "But I should have said seven, at least, for here's another party just topping the hill."

  Malachi cursed and groaned.

  "If they keep on coming like last summer, I'm ruined!" he wailed. "Ate us out of house an' home! An' for wot?"

  "It was yer own idea," she reminded him.

  "The idee was all right," he yowled. "Did I invite every hungry an' thirsty bum in Ireland to come an' live on me? Not so, by Judas! All I told them rhymesters was to let the world know about the beautiful young princess who's me only child an' heiress to the crown of Cavan Land, an' that the best prince in all the world will be lucky to get her. An' wot happened?"