The Merriest Knight

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

  "D'ye mean he's a furriner?"

  "Man, to hear him talk, he might be anything. Anybody! Did ye ever get as far from home as across the salt water to any of King Arthur Pendragon's courts?"

  "No."

  "Leave me tell ye, now. If me friend was to give tongue, everybody within hearing, including that scut Cassidy, would twig he wasn't an Irishman. An' wot then? They get to figuring out who he is. They think of all the champions they've heard the troubadours sing of in the last ten years or so: Launcelot du Lake, Tristram de Liones, Lamorak de Galis, Sir Gareth, Sir Gawaine, Sir Ector de Maris, who is King Arthur's half-brother, and maybe of that terrible king himself—an' then wot chance has me friend of finding a fight in this place. All these ferocious spear-busters an' village fire-eaters would be effacing themselves under the surrounding haystacks in no time at all."

  "D'ye tell me he's one of them grand champions?"

  "I tell ye nothing, only mum's the word."

  O'Connor asked: "D'ye reckon he will oblige me by deigning to give Prince Cassidy a tumble?"

  "Sure! But wot does that leave for me to lay on the sod?"

  "Be ye good enough for even a bigger man than Cassidy?"

  "Leave me tell ye about that. Even if I bain't one of the renowned champions I named over just now, that's the company I've been keeping the last nine years, on an' off; and ye can see for yerself I be on ag'in right now. Only show him to me, an' then forget him."

  "The one with the shield checkered black and white. Strong an' tricky! He'd leifer break rules than fight fair, an' rather break backs than rules even. If there was any law an' order here—but nobody minds old Malachi an' the heralds now—he would have been despurred an' drummed out of the country before this. He be too rank for Cassidy's stomach, even: but they be always on the same side, because Cassidy's afeared of him—and maybe he's afeared of Cassidy. The name be Gorfey."

  At that, the talkative stranger twitched from head to foot inside the plates and chain mail of his damascened armor; but it did not show on the outside; and his voice was steady enough when he spoke.

  "Gorfey, hey? I've heard the name. Would this be the King or the Prince?"

  "He calls himself Prince."

  "Does he, now! Well, ye can call him mud now, an' forget him!"

  They took their places. The stranger with the wolves on his shield faced Prince Cassidy, and the chatty one faced Prince Gorfey. The high herald and half a dozen of his assistants were bawling along the opposing ranks, repeating the rules over and over.

  "Obey the orders of the King—and heed the prayers of the Queen and the Princess—and the laws of high chivalry. Let no sharp spear oppose a blocked spear. And let no mounted knight ride down or strike at any unhorsed knight."

  The grandstand was crowded, but the royal box in the middle of it was empty. The talkative stranger asked a question of his right-hand neighbor.

  "Where's the royal family?"

  "Malachi stops at home now, for shame of the way his orders an' commands are ignored an' broken: but the ladies will be here—one or both of them—to cry for fair play an' mercy; an' they might as well stop at home with the old man," was the reply in a bitter voice.

  "Here they come now."

  "Ay, Little Brigie and Nurse Eliza."

  "Little Brigie? But look at the height of her!"

  "Take my advice, Sir Stranger, an' save yer attention for the murdering boar yeVe been fool enough to get yerself opposite to."

  Just then the trumpets sounded the onset. Sods flew from urgent hoofs. Sparks and splinters flew, as forty knights banged together with a variety of results. Prince Cassidy went over his horse's tail for the first time in years. The surprise shook him and shocked him as profoundly as did the initial bang and the thump when he hit the ground combined. What with all three together, he lay like a log until helped to his feet and off the field by two squires. Prince Gorfey also was the recipient of surprises. The first was to find himself half out of his saddle and with only the butt of a splintered spear left in his grasp, and to see his antagonist still firm in seat and stirrups, and swinging half a spear at him like a flail. The second was when that five-foot spar of ash descended upon his crest. He was unharnessed and lying in his own bed when he recovered from that surprise.

  The victory lay with young O'Connor's party, and with plenty to spare. The falls of Cassidy and Gorfey had heartened the weaker side, and weakened the Cassidy contingent more than proportionately, what with astonishment and dismay. The judges gave their decision, and the heralds proclaimed it, and at least three-quarters of the spectators applauded it. Then the Princess summoned Prince O'Connor to her.

  "That was a joyful surprise to me, Gerry," she said.

  "No more so to you than to me," he replied.

  "When I saw that cruel Cassidy hit the sod, me heart sang; and when I saw that wild boar Gorfey follow suit, I nigh burst with joy!" she cried.

  "Then ye saw how little I had to do with it," he said. "It was the two strangers. But for them, 'twould be the same old story over again—and a few more cripples, liker than not."

  "Where are they?"

  "Gone. They just took a look at Cassidy an' Gorfey on the ground, an' then rode off together in the excitement." "Where to?"

  "I don't know that. And I don't know their names nor where they came from. The one who did the talking refused to tell, an' t'other never uttered a word."

  "Will they be back tomorrow morning?"

  "They didn't say."

  "Well, it was a grand victory anyhow, Gerry, and I´ll hope an' pray for yer side again tomorrow."

  Then Princess Brigid returned to the castle, with the great Nurse Eliza on one side of her, as big as a man-at-arms, and an old dog as tall as a wolf walking stiff-legged beside Nurse Eliza. Two little pages—a Kelly and a Ryan— romped behind her, pretending to carry the train of her robe, but stepping on it most of the day. But they did not find that game as much fun as usual, for not once did she turn and make a slap at them. She seemed to be in a mood of abstraction. Word of the extraordinary outcome of the tournament had flown home ahead of her, and caused such excitement of conjecture and general satisfaction (but the King's satisfaction was spoiled by vague apprehensions) that she gained her own chamber without attracting the attention of either of her parents. And there Nurse Eliza left her, and went to see to the bandages of poor Prince Flaherty, who had been sorely wounded by the mighty Dublin Prince three days before. But Eliza was back in no time at all, to say that Dauber Driscoll requested a few words with the Princess.

  "I won't let him try to paint my picture again, so he might as well go right away," said the Princess.

  "It's not that," said the nurse. "It's something he says he thinks you might like to know; an' since he wouldn't tell me, the jackanapes, and I'd like to hear it, I´ll tell him to come in."

  Which she did, and with no more protest from her royal young mistress than a resigned and affectionate sigh.

  Dauber Driscoll made his best leg and his best bow. The Princess extended a hand to him, which he kissed with all the grace of a confirmed courtier.

  "Now wot is it ye think I'd like to know?" she asked, kindly but indifferently; and then she added, in a changed voice: "But if it be anything ye think about that horrid picture ye painted of me last year, I don't want to hear it!"

  "No, no, Princess Brigie!" he exclaimed, with a red face but a cheerful smile all the same. "Me thoughts of that presumptuous attempt to capture Yer Highness's looks with earthy pigments be the same as yer own. Unspeakable! I want to tell ye about a different kind of picture entirely. Me poor skill bain't a match for transcendent human beauty, I admit; but it has its uses, for all that. Take beasts an' birds, now—dragons an' eagles an' lions an' wolves an' the like. Where be the artist in all Ireland can limn ye a more ferocious an' realistic wolf than meself?"

  Princess Brigid's only answer was to sit forward with a start and widen her eyes. Nurse Eliza looked interested too.

  "Nowh
ere!" the painter answered himself. "And the best wolves I ever painted were on a knight's shield—and still are, or I don't know me own handiwork when I see it. That was years ago—but it came back to me this morning like yesterday. Argent, two wolves passant, proper. But you were maybe too young then to remember, Princess Brigie? Or maybe not?"

  "I never saw that shield before," she said, in the ghost of a whisper.

  "It was covered, that's why—to save the fresh paint, I guess," said the artist. "But it's been touched up many's the time since then, I could see that."

  A hand as big and strong as a pikeman's fell upon his shoulder.

  "Tell it, Master Driscoll, or I´ll shake it out!" Eliza growled.

  "Whose shield was it?" the Princess whispered.

  "Didn't I tell ye? It was that young furriner's—Sir Dennys'—the night before the day he cleared out."

  The nurse released his shoulder, and Princess Brigid stood up and took his right hand in both her hands and cried in a thin voice: "Was that him?"

  "It was his shield, anyhow," he said.

  "Where is he now?" she asked.

  "I don't know that. The two of them rode off when I wasn't looking."

  "Will he come back?"

  "If he don't—an' that tomorry morning—he bain't the man I take him for."

  "D'ye think he came back to see me?" "Wot else would he come here for?" "But I was only a child then!"

  "Ay, but his squire as good as told me then that ye'd bewitched him."

  "If he isn't here again in the morning, will ye go an' find him for me?"

  He looked uncertain and then murmured: "Maybe I could try."

  Then she kissed him. He blinked. He rocked on his heels.

  "Find him?" he gasped. "Sure I´ll find 'im—an' fetch 'im!" He gestured wildly. "Ay, by the ears, if need be— mauger me head! Ay, if he was twice as big! Alive or dead!"

  He turned and staggered from the room, waving his arms. The Princess blushed and laughed softly.

  "I'd kiss the Dragon of Watley for less than that!" she cried; and she laughed again and kissed Nurse Eliza.

  Chapter Ten

  Pax Vobiscgm

  It was a more orderly junket than usual at the castle that night, but the spirit of it was far happier, even merrier. With both Cassidy and Gorfey absent, the bullying and swashbuckling element was curiously unassertive. Even Cassidy's boon companion and fellow-townsman Sir Keel sat glumly through the feast. His fear was—and it was Prince Cassidy's too—that word of the goings-on at Cavantown had reached the court of King Arthur Pendragon, and that the morning's setback might prove to be only the first of a series of defeats and humiliations for himself and his kind. It was grand fun to knock boys like Flaherty and O'Connor around, and doddering old fools like King Farrell, and village champions generally; but if you ran the risk of a prod from one of Arthur's professionals every time you wanted a bit of sport, where was the fun of it? And he wished himself safe back where he belonged.

  Princess Brigid was in high spirits. The Queen felt gay too, for she both disliked and feared Cassidy and Gorfey.

  So they danced gayly with whoever asked them. It was not long before Dauber Driscoll came up to the Princess, where she was laughing at King Farrell's old jokes and compliments, and requested the honor of the next. The poor artist was so gorgeously attired that she had to look at him twice before she knew him; and old Farrell blinked at him a dozen times, and even then did not know him.

  "Tis borrowed plumage," he whispered; and he laid a hand on her little waist and whirled her away with the music.

  "Did ye find him?" Princess Brigid whispered.

  "I did that—an' sure enough, it was himself, just like I said it would be. A real artist knows his own brushstrokes even after nine or ten years. And he knew me like a shot, an' so did Rufe MacMurraugh, an' if I had been a long-lost brother, they couldn't have treated me better; and when I give him yer message, I could have had his best horse an' best suit of armor, but all I took was his best suit of clothes."

  "What message was that?"

  "I said to him: 'Denny,' I said, T give her me word I'd fetch ye to her, alive or dead.'" "Ye've been drinking, Dauber." "I was thirsty, sure enough." "Did ye fetch him?"

  "Well, now, that bain't for me to say. D'ye see that dark corner over there?"

  "Which one d'ye mean by 'over there'—with us twirling like a whirligig?"

  "The one with the holy friar in it, that's the one. His Reverence has the answer. I´ll know 'im when I see 'im ag'in. But you keep yer own beautiful eyes open too, like a good girl—Princess, I mean—for me own feel kind of blinky with fatigue an' all."

  "A friar? D'ye tell me Denny's gone and turned holy?"

  "I tell ye nothing. Only keep yer eyes open."

  "But he couldn't do that! Not my Denny!"

  "Don't go putting words into my mouth now. I be doing me best for ye, God knows!—an' me poor head going around even faster than me feet, God help me! But this looks like the place. Ay, this be the corner—an' His Reverence himself in it, just like I said."

  He released her and leaned heavily against the nearest wall. She found herself confronting, and at no more than a pace's distance, a tall figure robed and hooded in black.

  "Pax vobiscum" said a muffled voice from the shadow of the hood.

  "What have ye to say to me?" she asked unsteadily.

  "I have to question you, lady, on behalf of the knight Dennys ap Rhys," was the muffled answer.

  "Question me, then—and speak up!" she cried in a cracked voice.

  "Tell me then, lady: do you need this knight?"

  "Yes, I need him."

  "What for?"

  "Who be ye to ask me that? But tell him he would know the answer if he had kept his vows instead of running away when I was a mere baby."

  At that, the friar started and trembled. But he spoke quietly again, in the same muffled voice:

  "I know about that. He was told that you laughed when you saw him unhorsed by that Dubliner, so he rode away. He didn't run away."

  "He was an unkind fool to believe it!"

  "Ill not deny that. But when he heard it was a lie—that you had gone as white as your wimple—he came back to you as fast as he could!"

  "Why did he do that?"

  "You could call it witchery—or you could call it love— or you could call it both. For I love you, my little maid! I'd battle my way through hell for you, my little Cynara!"

  "Denny! Take me in yer arms now—friar or wotever!"

  The painter snapped away from the wall and slipped between them.

  "Hist!" he hissed. "Not now! Get along now, Sir Dennys, an' leave this to me. The windmill—inside an hour. Beat it! Here comes snoopy old Farrell! Get out! Leave it to me!"

  The tall friar strode from that corner, pushed his way through revelers to the outer door and disappeared. Dauber Driscoll laid hold of the trembling Princess by the left wrist.

  "That was himself," he whispered. "D'ye still want him?"

  "Yes," she whispered.

  "Enough to ride to Camelot with him?"

  "Yes. Where did he go to? Leave me go after him!"

  "Easy, now. Go change yer dress, now, an' meet me at the garden postern. An Big Eliza. An' the old dog too, if ye want."

  She snatched her wrist out of his fingers and went darting and skimming away. And here in her place was King Farrell, peering and blinking.

  "I thought I saw Princess Brigie here," said King Farrell.

  "Ye did that, sir. She was right here just now. She went to look for the Queen, sir."

  "Did she that? I was looking for the Queen meself. Have ye seen Her Majesty lately?"

  The artist was on the point of saying, "I see her now," but he changed his mind, for a reason as queer as it was sudden, and said he had not. So he was instantly left to himself, to act upon that queer, impulsive change of mind. He made his way quickly to Queen Brigid, where she had escaped momentarily from her admirers to a patch of wavering da
rkness in the opposite corner.

  "I beg the honor of a few words with ye, madam," he murmured.

  She looked at his gorgeous clothes (which were a mite too big for him in every direction), and did not know him. "Alexander Driscoll, ma'am," he prompted her. She gave him a pretty smile.

  "So it's yerself, Master Dauber! A dozen words, if ye say so, me friend—only don't ask me to sit for me picture again!"

  "It's about the Princess, ma'am." "Little Brigie? What about her?"

  "D'ye mind a young knight ye once befriended named Dennys ap Rhys O'Tudor?—the same wot fetched Little Brigie home to ye nine or ten years ago?"

  "Why wouldn't I mind him, poor boy—and with shame every day of me life for the way Malachi treated him! What about him?"

  "It was Sir Dennys grassed Cassidy this very morning, and it was Rufus MacMurraugh grassed Gorfey."

  "Glory be! So he's still alive an' hearty, thank God! What be his plans?"

  "Easy now, and I´ll tell ye. He plans to take Princess Brigie away, clear out of Ireland, mauger his head."

  "He can't do that!"

  "Why can't he—if she don't object?"

  "He can't take her away from her own mother! Not even from all this wicked clashing an' clawing, an' a greed-crazed, twisty father! Not away from me!"

  "Easy now, Queen Brigie. I was thinking the very same thing meself. Why would he? Sure he wouldn't! Not him— nor any other right-minded gentleman. With Little Brigie gone, it's yerself would be carried off by Cassidy or Gorfey or some other crazy ruffian. For who would stop them, once they'd finished off young O'Connor an' old Farrell an' all the decent kind? Not King Malachi, that's sure! The most he'd do would be send the sherriff after them with a bill for damages. But ye've got to stir yer sticks now, lady! Tempus fugit!"

  "Wot d'ye mean?"

  "I mean, go change yer dress now, an' meet us at the garden postern in no time at all. Quick now! Here comes that scut Sir Keel. Now or never, ma'am."

  He gave her a pinch and a little push. She gasped—and was gone.

  "I saw the Queen here," said Sir Keel.

  "Yell be seeing stars when Sir Launcelot du Lake takes a bang at ye tomorry morning," sneered Dauber Driscoll.