The Merriest Knight

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

  And then he was gone.

  Sir Keel stole away too. His fear was confirmed. He went to Prince Cassidy's room. Cassidy was sitting up to the table, with a cup in his hand and a flagon in front of him.

  "We'd better be packing!" gasped Keel. "The jig's up! One of them's Sir Launcelot. T'other may be Arthur Pendragon himself."

  The Prince hiccuped and sneered.

  "How would either of them know about the smellin' salts?" he jeered. "Ye're a fool! I´ll name the two springals for ye. The young Welshman ye played the trick on when we were here nine years ago, and the local plowboy who went away with him."

  "Which was it laid yerself cold on the sod?"

  "A mere accident! I wasn't expecting a straight spear. It was the furriner."

  "The one I grassed, long ago?"

  "Ay, the same, only bigger. And ye can grass him ag'in tomorrow—for keeps—with help, if need be. I´ll see to it. And our wild pig Gorfey will fix the local boy for keeps too, for he be murderin' mad. So don't ye worry about Launcelot du Lake. Have a drink."

  "How d'ye know it was those two?"

  "A friend of mine was listening at a door when Driscoll the limner was telling Little Brigie."

  "Hah!" exclaimed Sir Keel; and he helped himself to a drink.

  "And with them gone, an' O'Connor an' his like all laid up with broken backs, then well see wot happens to Gorfey an' his pack, by night an' by day," Cassidy continued. "Little by little, ye understand! I got it all planned in me mind. And then—well, it's Little Brigie for me, an' Big Brigie for you."

  "She don't seem to like me."

  "Wot of it? Little Brigie don't seem to like me, neither. Wot of it? The Queen will find ye a pleasant change from Malachi. Drink up."

  Sir Keel sat down to his second cup, and relaxed.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Road to Camelot

  Dauber Driscoll waited impatiently in the blackness of the porch of the garden postern. Now he wore a cloak over his borrowed finery, and beneath it he fairly bristled with daggers. He had done well so far, but this waiting in the dark was beginning to get on his nerves. Ay, he had handled the Princess with firmness and tact; and if he had maybe exceeded his duty in the matter of the Queen—well, he had a heart, hadn't he? Sure he had a heart—and a head too, praise the saints, even if he did let his cardiac impulses push it around sometimes, as in this matter of the Queen.

  But that was not worrying him. He had handled her as tactfully and firmly as he had handled her daughter—and all on the spur of the moment too! And they would thank him for it on their bended knees when they came to think of it. It was this waiting that fretted him. What the devil was keeping them now? He loosed two of his daggers in their sheaths. He stepped out of the little porch into the dim starshine of the garden as noiseless as a cat, and back again as quick as a weasel. He had left the inner door ajar, that he might listen at the crack of it. Now he listened again. Now he opened it softly.

  "Yerself?" he whispered.

  "Meself," whispered Little Brigie.

  They almost filled the porch, but without a sound. He touched a hand to a shoulder on the level of his own and felt iron under cloth. That would be Nurse Eliza: for it was common talk that she was always armored and armed beneath whatever garments she wore. He felt the tall old dog against his knee. He closed the door behind them all but a crack, and stood close to it, with an ear at the crack.

  "Why d'ye wait?" the Princess whispered.

  "One more to come," he whispered back. "An' here she

  be."

  He opened the door wide enough to let a slender cloaked and hooded figure slip through, then shut it tight behind her. He put his arms and folds of his own cloak about her, and shielded her through between the Princess and the big nurse, and out of the porch, like something both sacred and breakable. Then he took her gently by an arm.

  "Folly me now—quiet as mice," he whispered over his shoulder.

  "Sly Dauber!" exclaimed the Princess, in a giggling, hysterical whisper.

  "Mind yerself!" he hissed like an adder.

  They passed from the garden into an orchard. All was dim starshine and hulking gloom. They came to a wayside ditch and crossed it.

  "Who goes?" demanded a rough voice.

  It was a truculent voice too, and there was malt liquor in it.

  "Stop here an' keep quiet!" Dauber whispered. He loosed his hold on his companion and went forward a few paces.

  "Who wants to know?" he asked.

  A big but fumbling hand seized him by the throat. There was a grunt, and right after it a queer thumping sound on the hard road, like the flopping of a great new-landed fish. Then silence.

  "This way now," he whispered, but with a catch in his voice. "A step to yer left now, if ye please."

  He didn't want them stumbling over a corpse—even that of a wild MacGorfey—and getting all panicky. He took the nearest to him by an arm again. But at that moment the Princess, just behind him, cried out in a piteous, sobbing voice:

  "Me mother! I clean forgot her! I can't leave her—all by herself there!"

  At this, the Queen snatched herself away from Master Driscoll and turned and grabbed the girl in her arms. And there they stood embraced, sobbing and crying endearments in the middle of the track, for any night-hawking knave to hear. Poor Dauber! He reached into the confusion and laid a hand on Nurse Eliza.

  "To the mill with ye now!" he besought her. "Tell Sir Dennys I got them both—this far—an' to come lend a hand before they wake up the whole town! Run, now!"

  And without a word of question, Eliza ran. And she was back, with Dennys and Rufus, and spare horses, in no time at all.

  * * *

  Eight hours passed before King Malachi missed his wife and daughter. Another hour was spent in searching through the castle and around about. Then an old gentleman of the household said that in his opinion the ladies had flown the coop, and small blame to them. Malachi called him a knave and a fool, and said there was not a better husband and father in all Christendom than himself; and he grew so wild at the endangering of his ambitious plans that he lost all sense of discretion and accused Prince Cassidy of having had them carried off and hidden somewhere.

  Cassidy gave him the lie. But it was an idea. So the Dublin Prince straightaway accused Prince Gorfey of it, right there in front of their host. Gorfey gave Cassidy the lie, and a tweak of the nose along with it; whereupon they both drew daggers and went to it, without the manners to go outside or into the next room, even. And they stabbed and slashed till the wild boar was dead and the elegant Dubliner drained to the last pint of his blood. The excitement and confusion were such, what with one thing and another, that it was past noon when young O'Connor thought of the two strange champions who had won the prize for his side the day before. Then he mounted the first saddled horse he came to, and took the shortest road to the sea. . . .

  Two days later, and on another horse (which he had bought with a diamond ring), he came to a wayside chapel and questioned the priest in charge.

  "Sure I saw them," said the priest, with a satisfied look. "It was at this same time yesterday. It was me first sight of the Princess, but I'd seen Queen Brigie before, bless her sweet face! And I married them meself—the girl to Sir Dennys O'Ray or something like it—and a truly liberal young knight. An' the Queen giving her away instead of the King, himself being indisposed as usual, or playing at it anyhow, the old fox!"

  A few hours later, and after dinner, young O'Connor mounted and headed back the way he had come, riding at a snail's pace. The road to Camelot was not for him, poor prince—without a princess and on a spavined horse.

  LEGEND'S END

  Revolt in the Forest

  Chapter One

  The Pendragon

  It was a golden morning of September, with the smoke-blue of Michaelmas daisies like wisps of mist under hanging wood and brambly hedge. Sir Osbert placed a hand on my shoulder and addressed me in honeyed tones, but loudly enough to be hea
rd by others.

  "Dear son, I hope you feel inclined for the chase this glorious morn, for the larder is sore in need of a fat young buck, or even two, by Saint Hubert's favor."

  I bowed and mumbled my readiness for the chase with such grace as my lack of inclination, and my native honesty, permitted. My hazy but lively intention had been to rove the forest alone and unarmed, in romantic and inoffensive search of a hamadryad, or a naiad beside the river, or the White Damosel of Copel, or even of something less illusive in the vicinity of Ralph Forester's rustic dwelling.

  But I made no protest. I was not Sir Osbert's son. He was a Norman: but in my father there had only been a one-fourth part of that upstart blood, and in my mother no more of it. They had been English; but in their veins had run a yet older strain than that of Angle and Saxon and Dane—a hot, high pulse of the blood of British heroes and princes. All these forests and farms around me were of my ancestral domain of Dragonland; and my name was Patrick Pendragon, as my brave father's had been; and yet I bowed and murmured acquiescence to my stepfather's smiling suggestion. An accomplished and untiring smiler was this Sir Osbert de Montfoi.

  "But for his sprained leg, your brother would hunt too," he added, still smiling.

  I looked at Roger de Montfoi, who lolled on a bench. He did not meet my glance; nor did he smile, but continued to stare sullenly at the floor. He was no brother of mine, nor yet half-brother, but Sir Osbert's son by an earlier marriage of the smiling Norman's than that to my widowed mother— by Sir Osbert's telling, at least. He was five years my senior; and I had been ignorant of his very existence until his sudden appearance at Dragon Castle six months after my mother's death. Now I went to the table and broke my fast with a wheaten scone, half a cold roasted capon, and a horn of ale.

  "'Ware the crossbowmen," old Nick Pottle breathed at my ear, without moving his lips, as he set the trencher before me.

  I did not look at him; and he was gone in a moment, and I did not turn my head and look after him. But I glanced up at Sir Osbert, who stood some five paces off and still smiled with his face toward me; but whether the smile was for me or for his own thoughts, only the Norman and the devil knew.

  "You will take our three best crossbows, Martin, Noel, and Jacques, dear lad; and Ralph Forester will be on the watch for you, with his hounds," he told me.

  I bowed dutifully and said nothing. But I thought something. Why those three black-visaged foreigners? They were newcomers to Dragonland, and neither woodsmen nor huntsmen, fowlers nor hawkers, but captainless soldiers, or worse, by their looks at the time of their hiring by Sir Osbert. There were a dozen better suited for the purpose in the household and garrison, and scores on the surrounding farms and crofts. Why these three strangers for the chase? Though the question was put to myself only, and silently, I lowered my glance to the trencher while asking it, so that he might not see the shadow of it in my eyes.

  "Keep them in front of you," Nick Pottle breathed at my ear, setting the horn of ale before me.

  I looked straight into the old butler's eyes this time and read the desperate warning there.

  "Gramercy!" I exclaimed.

  He withdrew instantly, bowing and backing, and was gone.

  "For the long horn," I added; and I grasped it and lifted it in my right hand, smiled straight and innocently at my watchfully smiling stepfather, and took a deep draught.

  It was in truth a long horn, and rimmed, banded, and stepped with silver; ancient and revered as an heirloom come down from the mighty Arthur himself, who had (according to Thomas the Rhymer) mastered the monstrous wild bull that had grown it, with his bare hands.

  When I lowered it, Sir Osbert nodded approvingly, and his smile was even more benevolent than usual.

  "Drink well, dear son, but do not tarry needlessly, for your horse and the knaves await you at the eastward postern," he charged me, in an unctuous voice; and in the act of turning away, he added, "Good hunting, Patrick"; and then, without a backward glance, he glided from the hall.

  I made short work of what was left of the capon and the bread, wiped my knife and sheathed it, drained the horn, and got to my feet.

  "Come here, young fellow," said a low and toneless voice.

  I was startled, for I had forgotten Roger de Montfoi. He still lolled on the bench, but now stared at me instead of at the floor. He lifted a hand and beckoned. I went to him.

  "You have a good horse," he said. "And you can ride. Ride, then—before you get a quarrel in your vitals."

  I gaped at him, speechless.

  "Keep those rogues in front of you till the covert is thick, then spur into it and ride for your life," he continued impatiently, scowling up at me. "And take this." He passed a little deerskin purse from his hand to mine. "A few crowns, and a few of your mother's rings. Pouch it, you fool—and get out! And ride hard and far! Wake up, dolt— an' God assoil you!"

  Then I understood.

  "Would he murder me—on me own land?" I gasped.

  He grimaced savagely and hissed: "Save yourself, fool!"

  This was it. I was to go hunting and die of a mishap. Old Nick Pottle's warnings had not convinced me of the stark-ness of my peril, though they had disturbed me. For years now I had suspected, known even, that my stepfather would trick me out of my heritage in his own good time, with Norman "justice" on his side and that untiring smile still on his face, leaving me in the situation of a favored poor relation or privileged retainer; and I had begun to consider the prospect philosophically: better the heel of the loaf than no bread. I was not ambitious.

  But that my life was in danger was a possibility that had never occurred to me till now. The ancient butler's whispers had no more than disturbed my peace of mind, but Roger's words and looks convinced me of the worst. I was to die of a crossbow quarrel in my front, or in my back, while chasing a fat buck in my ancestral forest, unless my wits and my horse could save me. Dazed with terror and self-pity, I left the hall.

  The narrow postern stood open. I halted in the inner gloom and looked forth. There in the soft sunshine stood my big colt Star Boy with a groom at his head, and the three foreign hirelings stood a few paces farther out, each with his crossbow in his hands and a short sword at his belt. I wondered, stupidly, which of the three was my murderer. Or would they share the deed evenly, as they would doubtless share the reward? My throat was dry, and my joints felt like water. Sagging weakly at the knees, I prayed desperately for strength to mount, to gain a vantage-point of thick covert with the men of blood still in front of me, then to ride for my life. My knees were stiffened, but my heart was all but stopped, by a touch on my shoulder. It was Sir Osbert. He stood close beside me, with a hand on my shoulder; and he was smiling, though not at me, but straight before him and with the look of seeing nothing in particular.

  "Come, my son," he murmured.

  We moved together, side by side, from dark to light. And suddenly I hated the golden sunshine with the blind hatred of fear. All eyes turned to us; and the three foreign hirelings stiffened their backs. Now I saw Nick Pottle and two more old servitors grouped a little to the right, motionless and watchful. Did I start, or was it the Norman's hand on my shoulder? Was he too surprised at the presence of these old men? But it would be madness to hope for help from them, poor helpless souls!

  And now my despairing glance was caught and held by the weapons of the three foreigners. The short bows were fully bent, the stout cords winched back full stretch. They had naught to do now but lay each his bolt in the groove, take aim and twitch a finger—and my blood would spatter and drench the ferns and smoke-blue flowers like any stricken buck's. I must have moaned, for my stepfather gave me a quick glance, then followed the line of my horrified stare as quickly.

  "What's this?" he cried. "What do I see? Bent bows? God's wounds! Release them, fools!"

  He left me and moved swiftly to within a few paces of the three crossbowmen.

  "Knaves, fools, rogues!" he berated, for all to hear. "What would you, dogs—shoo
t a farmer's cow, or one of our peacocks, or some poor crofter, even, twixt here and forest's edge? Such things have happened—and knaves like you have hanged for them! Harky to me, fools! 'Twill be time enough to crank your bows when the forester joins you with his hounds, and time enough to lay your bolts when the hounds give tongue."

  I heard all this and did not believe a word of it. My wits were steadying, and the horror and despair that had all but stopped my heart were burned out suddenly by anger—anger and hate, pulsing now hot and now cold. I mounted Star Boy and wheeled him, and sent him prancing straight at the three ruffians, who had to scatter to save their toes.

  "Lead on!" I cried at them, with curses.

  I did not look at the Norman in passing him; nor did I give him a backward glance later, but herded the bowmen out of the yard and across the bridge that spanned the moat and off over the fields toward the nearest point of wood. It was not the way to Ralph the Forester's lodge, for I knew now that all my stepfather's talk of joining that honest huntsman and his hounds was a lie. Now, with curses and menacing gestures, I hunted the rogues before me. They too cursed while they ran; and they gesticulated with their useless weapons, the sprung bows of which I gave them no time to winch taut.

  I dragged a pole of oak from the mill's woodstack in passing, and with this projected now like a spear and now swung like a quarterstaff, I kept my intended slayers from slackening their pace or scattering. And so Star Boy and I harried them into the greenwood and plunged in close on their heels.

  There they scattered like running partridges, but we went straight on, through thick and thin. I flung the miller's pole away and crouched low. I gave Star Boy his head. He knew as much about this sport of woods-running as I did, for it was one of our favorite pastimes. I had taught him the elements of it as a yearling; and now when he was a four-year-old, I had only myself to think of—to guard my head and keep my saddle. He ran fast, but not wildly. He leaped mightily, but never blindly. Despite his tireless action, he kept his wits about him, and always legs enough under him for a quick swerve to right or left, from heavy timber, or a quick jump to clear suddenly disclosed boulder or prostrate tree trunk.