The Merriest Knight

by Theodore Goodridge Roberts

  I said nothing to that. We were still a long way from Dragon Castle; so I decided to save my breath and strength as far as possible for any distance short of Sir Osbert's grasp.

  We were soon on the march, stumbling in the confusion of misty starshine and forest gloom. Stark led the way, limping, and bare to the waist, save for the longbow and poke on his back. The Norman floundered close on his heels, with a short sword in his right hand and an end of a fathom of rope in his left. He wore my ancestral sword Dragon-killer on his back, hung from his neck. I came next, with the other end of the rope which he held in his left hand knotted to the front of my belt. I was being led like an ox to the slaughter. The damosel came last.

  The heavier of the two pokes of provender was on my back. When Simon stumbled, which was frequently, I was jerked forward, or to the right or left, at the end of that short rope. At times I was brought down on all fours, but managed to scramble up always and stagger on. I was so sore from crown to heel that I moved in continuous pain and with a confused and clouded mind. I thought dully that it would be a long time before we reached Dragon Castle, at this rate, and that the longer the time on the way, the better for me: so I fell again, but this time of my own accord, and remained down on my elbows and knees in defiance of the Norman's savage curses and jerks on the rope.

  We shall never get there, at this rate, I congratulated myself.

  But it was not as well thought of as my dazed brain had imagined, for the Norman turned back and kicked me in the ribs till I stumbled to my feet again.

  Sometime later—sometime before the first crack of dawn—I was dully conscious of a fumbling and plucking at the poke on my back; and though spent almost to the verge of insensibility, I reasoned that it could be none other than the damosel there, as the traitor and Devereaux were both in front of me, may their souls squirm in hellfire! And I wondered stupidly, for the moment, what she was about. But another fall and a few more kicks gave me other food for stupid and painful reflection.

  At the first gray lift of dawn, I fell yet again; and now I was past caring for kicks. I waited in a stupor of indifference. But the kicks did not come. Instead of feeling the toes of Simon's boots on my ribs, I heard his voice calling and cursing. It reached my exhausted consciousness as if from a long way off or through a thick fog. He was calling a name—"Blanche! Blanche!" He shouted it next, with threats and curses. I heard treacherous Stark's whining voice.

  "Have a care, lord! Not so loud! They are roving far and wide, lord, with strung bows."

  "Go back for her, rogue!" the Norman ordered him.

  I thought: If I had my fingers on his fat neck now, he would be dead before their return.

  * * *

  But it was only a mad thought, for I lacked even the energy to try to raise myself from the ground, or my dizzy head on my aching neck even, that I might look at him. Soon he began calling again, but not in full voice, and for both churl and damosel; and next I heard that traitor-cur's whine again, telling that the damosel had turned aside some way back and asking if he should track her down. He was answered with curses, and cuffs too, by the sound. I was not molested. I heard Simon breaking his fast—the champing of his big teeth on meat and bread and the gurgles of a bottle. Only the gurgles interested me—they stirred a craving in my poor stomach.

  "Feed him, rogue," said the Norman. "Keep up his strength for the march home to his stepfather. Or do you want to carry him on your back, dog?"

  I heard Stark's approach. It sounded cautious and reluctant. I heard him set something on the ground, close to my head. Then I came alive with hate and hurled myself like an adder from its coils or a wildcat from its crouch. I struck Stark with my tied hands clasped before me and all my flying weight behind them; and he went over backward, and over again into the nearest thicket. I swerved to my right, jumping with hobbled feet close together. There sat Simon Devereaux, stone bottle in hand, gaping and staring, his stout legs spread wide and flat on the moss. I saw crumbs of bread and trickles of liquor in his curly round beard. Then, with a wild shout, I was upon him.

  Now my hands were unclasped—and behold, the bottle was between them! Now it was at my lips. Gulping fast, I made one more jump, then stood so and continued to swig the strong liquor till my craving was satisfied. I lowered the bottle and looked at the Norman. He sat as I had last seen him, still gaping in astonishment, but now with something added that might well be discomfort, for I had kicked his paunch in my assault upon the bottle.

  There was a dagger in his belt and a short sword lay unsheathed beside him, but both his hands were empty.

  Now! I thought, my pain and weariness gone. Now is my time! He is at my mercy again, the fumbling fool! Hurl the bottle in his face, then leap in again, and the sword is mine! And then—then I remembered Stark. He was not in sight, but I pictured him standing behind screening hollies with strung bow and notched arrow, watching and waiting for a signal from his new lord. And when my gaze returned to Simon, the sword was in his right hand, and the long dagger bare in his left.

  "Set the bottle down," he ordered.

  "If my hands were free, and if we were alone, I'd match my empty fingers against your steel and send your red soul yelping to hell," I said.

  "Right heady liquor," he jeered. "You will need a cask of it when Sir Osbert gets to work on you."

  Then he cried out for Stark: "Show yourself, rogue! The noble Pendragon has refreshed himself and is ready to march."

  Seconds passed, and a minute, without sound or sight of Stark. The Norman called him again, and louder and with curses, but still without result. He got to his feet, grunting and cursing, and set about kicking at the surrounding thickets and beating them with the flat of his sword. I was as mystified as he was, but felt less perturbed than he did by the churl's failure to show himself.

  "He has gone in search of yet another lord, to sell both of us," I said in bitter jest.

  He turned and glared at me.

  "But not together," I continued, developing the thought. "Nor in the same market. He will sell you first, to the English rebels. The foresters will not be as considerate of your Norman carcass as I was. But he will gain little by that sale, save popularity. So, if he can contrive it, he will keep me hidden from them and take me secretly to Sir Osbert, thus cheating you doubly, first of your life—for the woodlanders will hang you by the neck without argument— and secondly of Sir Osbert's reward."

  He continued to glare at me, but now with fear as well as savagery in his eyes. I uttered a hoot of bitter derision.

  "Or more likely he lies senseless in the thicket here, stunned by the blow I dealt him with these bound hands," I added.

  This I did not believe, though I liked the idea; and if I had thought that, by some miracle, I had broken the false rogue's neck, I would have rejoiced. But the Norman did believe it, evidently, for he thrust his way impetuously into the thicket, with renewed cursing. I could hardly believe my eyes. Now or never! I set the bottle down then, and with my hobbled feet placed close together, I jumped after him. He is a fool, I thought. The blessed saints are on my side. For in there among the hollies and thorns my chances against him will be doubled. But I tripped in my second jump and came down on my knees at the very edge of the tangled wildwood; and before I could rise, I heard a cry of dismay from the heart of the thicket.

  Instead of rising to my feet, I sank forward onto my hands and crept into the tangle. I advanced cautiously, close to the ground, worming my way along with no more sound or stir than a stalking fox. Soon I saw his boots close before my eyes. They were motionless, and their heels were toward me. I rose to my knees, then slowly to my feet, without stirring a leaf or twig. Here he was, and with his back to me. He was breathing thickly. I held my own breath, raised my clasped hands high, made a silent prayer, and struck down on the base of his neck with all my strength. He yelped and staggered forward. I hurled myself upon him, striking again and yet again while he lunged and fell, and then till he lay still on his face. Wor
king with desperate haste, I freed my wrists on an edge of the short sword, and then my ankles. A minute later, his wrists were bound, but behind instead of before him, and his feet hobbled, but with even shorter play than mine had known. I stood astride him and laughed exultantly. But not for long. When I saw what he had seen and cried out at, I stopped laughing.

  For it was the false rogue Stark. He lay face down, a knife sunk between his naked shoulders. It was sunk to the haft. My stricken wits stirred as slowly as the chilled blood in my veins—almost as slowly as the congealing blood on Stark's back. The damosel! And now this rogue! And next—would it be Devereaux or me? Was the slayer foe or friend? I turned and burst out of that fateful thicket, and well clear of it, and turned again to face it. All was still and silent there for minutes. Then I heard, and soon saw, a commotion there; and the Norman hobbled into view and fell. He heaved up onto his knees and gaped at me.

  "Did you knife him?" I asked.

  He shook his head stupidly.

  "And the damosel?" I asked.

  "The little fool," he croaked. "She gave us the slip. She isn't—back there. Only Stark."

  After a pause in which I fumbled for another thought, I asked: "Had he his bow and shafts?"

  He only gaped at that.

  "On his back?" I continued. "Bow and quiver and poke—when you last saw him—alive?" He nodded stupidly. "Not now," I said. "They're gone."

  His wits were even slower than mine, for I had given him a sorry pounding. Seconds passed before he got my meaning. Then he uttered a thin scream of terror, heaved up from his knees, started to run on his hobbled feet and crashed to earth. Again he lay senseless—but this time of his own doing. I turned him over on his back and sat him upright, but he thumped flat again. I fetched the bottle and forced liquor into him, waiting all the while for the twang of a bowstring and the sudden agony of iron in my vitals. He opened his eyes.

  "Why don't I cut your throat and be rid of you?" I cried.

  He moaned, and shut his eyes.

  "Get up!" I cried, and cursed him.

  He sat up, but kept his eyes shut tight.

  "On your feet!" I snarled; and I laid hold of him and yanked him upright.

  He stood swaying, but now with his eyes open and rolling fearfully. I took the great sword Dragon-killer from him and hung it at my own back. I picked up the bottle, found it empty, and flung it down. Now my wits were desperately clear and active. I stepped well away from the swaying Norman. Making a slow and complete turn, I challenged the surrounding coverts.

  "Here I am, Patrick Pendragon, if it's me you want— whoever you are. And there's Simon Devereaux, my enemy. Whoever you are—friend or foe—loose your shaft and have done with it."

  Nothing stirred. No one answered. It was broad day by now, and bright and still. I stepped back to my captive and told him that we would return to where the damosel had lost touch with us and cast about for her tracks. He muttered that he was hobbled too short for walking.

  "Then youll have to hop," I told him.

  I hopped him along before me, with an occasional gentle prod of the short sword, till he fell exhausted. I left him flat and gasping, and went on alone. I soon found the spot where she had turned aside. The imprints of her heels were still sharp on moist ground, but only for a little way. Then they were gone utterly, though the ground was still moist; and then I knew that she had removed her boots; and so, thinking of the fumbling and plucking that I had felt at the poke on my back hours before, I knew that she had not parted company with us by accident. I pulled the bag around to my front and looked into it. Its contents were less than I remembered them, for a certainty. But what was this? I plucked it forth and stared at it incredulously.

  "A knife!" I cried. "A knife?" I repeated, in a lower voice. "But why? That damosel? To cut myself free? But she could have cut me free. But no, for my hands were tied in front of me—and I was roped to her brother. He would have caught her at it. But why?"

  I put the knife in my belt and went back to my captive like a sleepwalker. He was where I had left him, but now sitting up and looking wildly around.

  "Ease my arms—or strike me dead!" he screamed.

  "So you are not easy?" I said, trying to fix my thoughts on him. "In torment, even? But what was the torment you promised me at Montfoi's hands?"

  He cursed—and I laughed. He prayed. I jeered at him for a blubbering, soft, shameless knave.

  "Your poor arms!" I jeered. "And what would have happened to my arms—arms and legs and eyes and skin—had you got me to Sir Osbert?"

  He begged for mercy—of me, and of the blessed saints, and at last of the holy Mother of God. I cried out in shame at that—in shame for him!—and stepped behind him and severed the cords that bound his wrists. His big arms fell to his sides like lead. I stooped before him then and slapped his mouth.

  "Gramercy!" he mumbled.

  I turned away in disgust.

  What next? I asked myself, trying to think. To Ralph Forester's now. Stark did not give my message to Ben Tinker. The gypsy will look for me at Ralph's. Stark sold me to this Norman. And now he is dead. . . . The damosel gave me a knife. She took food from my poke and left a knife in its stead. And she took her boots off so as to leave no tracks. She could have killed me—sunk the knife between my shoulders. I killed her Philip.

  The Norman startled me out of that maze with a yelp of laughter. I turned upon him savagely and would have struck him on the mouth again but for the look of him. He was mad. It was in his eyes and on his lips.

  "You didn't find her!" he hooted. "But shell find us!" Then he sank his voice to a flabby-lipped, blubbering babble. "She slew Courtville and the churl. Dead as mutton. And took his bow an' quiver. And me next. She's a fiend from hell."

  "So are you—and a fool to boot! How could she slay the churl? It was a strong man's stroke."

  "She's a witch. So was her mother. Out of Wales."

  By now he was the complete idiot, rolling his head and slobbering.

  "But what have you to fear from her?" I asked. "Even if she killed Stark—and only a madman would think it—why would she kill you?"

  He gave me a sly look.

  "She hates me," he whispered. "I forced the marriage. And she tried to kill him, that night—but he fled an' turned traitor—but she got him at last. Let him fry in hell, that traitor! But she killed him in stark hate. And she hates me too. A she-devil! And shell kill me too."

  I shook with disgust and senseless anger. I dropped the short sword on the moss beside him and stepped back one pace and drew a dagger.

  "Stand up!" I cried. "There's your sword. Arm yourself an' stand—and God's wounds! I´ll kill you like a toad!"

  He rolled his head, and his eyes in his head. He was a driveling idiot. Cursing, I stooped and recovered the sword. But why waste curses on him? He was already accursed.

  "I slew Courtville!" I cried in his foolish face. "Do you hear me? He was always a traitor, and worse, rot him! Slashed him in two. And I would to God I'd served you the same way, while you still wore the semblance of a man."

  He rolled his eyes and his head, and his flabby mouth hung open and awry.

  Chapter Eight

  A Fight in the Dark

  I had a rendezvous with Ben Tinker at Ralph the Forester's hut; and if I succeeded in keeping it, I would send out a strong party of my own people, led by my trusty friend Ralph himself, to find the lost damosel and bring her safely to me. For she deserved my good opinion after all, it seemed, and so my help and protection: for had she not hated Philip de Courtville and tried to kill him? Or was Simon a liar even in his madness? And she had thought to befriend me.

  I knew this for true, by the knife in my poke. And by then I would be in my ancestral castle again, and the biggest oaks of the home park would hang as thick with Sir Osbert and his hirelings as an orchard with apples. And there, in Dragon Castle, she would be safe, though every other Norman in England perished. To the fate of Simon Devereaux, or of Roger de Mont
foi, I did not give a thought, so hot was my eagerness to make amends to that pitiful desolated homeless wench in scullion attire for my unjust harshness. My heart ached with remorse, and with pity as if for a wounded fawn, or a hurt and homeless dog, or any cotter's brat lost and affrighted and uncomforted.

  Great was my haste. When weeping Simon fell and cried for mercy before we had gone a rod, I paused only long enough to cut the hobbling bowstring at his ankles, then stepped over him. He might follow, or lie and die right there of starvation or by the hand of the mysterious killer, for all I cared. I went fast, then not so fast, and very slowly after a few miles. I was still sore and weak from the Norman's handling and footing, and the way was rough; and now the knife in Stark's back, and the disappearance of his bow and quiver and bag of food, were at the front of my mind again.

  I cast fearful glances before me and around, and strained my ears and tried to steady my heart for the twang of a bow and the buzz of an arrow, as I staggered onward. When I stumbled and fell, I lay and gasped for breath; but when Simon came stumbling, and fell beside me and lay whimpering, I scrambled to my feet and ran again. Now detestation for the mad Norman put the threat of the hidden slayer from my mind. Now I ran better than before, watching the ground to save my feet, and skirting obstructions instead of bursting through them or floundering over them; and when I fell, I continued to advance on all fours until able to rise and run again. When I splashed into a cold brook, I rested a little and cooled my throbbing head, and drank sparingly. And so—running, creeping, resting, and running again—I continued upon my westward course.

  I rested and ate at noon, listening all the while for sounds of the mad Norman's approach. I heard a deer start and bound away in the underbrush, but nothing of Simon. I wondered—without emotion of any kind—if the mysterious killer had made an end of him, or if he had stopped to drink, guzzled too much cold water, and tumbled in and drowned. Or had he simply lost all track of me, in his terror-ridden madness? I did not care what happened to him. I wondered idly what he would do when he felt the pangs of hunger—if he lived so long; for he was without food. But I did not care.