By midafternoon, I was on the height-of-land, and I was over it when the sun sank before me, beyond the sloping, spreading forests of my own Dragonland. I ate again, made a couch of dry heather, lay down with the great sword Dragon-killer unsheathed at my side and was soon asleep. . . .
Sometime later a great bird beat at my face with its wings. I put up a hand, but found nothing. A dream. But it came back and beat again, and harder. I made to hit it away, but there was nothing. I sat up then and stared about me. There was no light. There was no sound.
But I was wide awake. My right hand closed on the hilt of the old sword. I lifted it noiselessly and got to my feet as noiselessly. Seeing nothing, hearing nothing, yet I felt deadly peril like a cold hand on my heart. I stood with Dragon-killer bare on my right shoulder and both hands on the long hilt, and strained every sense to detect the threat. There! A small, dry rustle of twigs. Silence again. I held my breath. There again—the stir of a fumbling, cautious foot on moss this time, dull and heavy, but fainter than a whisper. And yet again!
I moved backward one slow move, and another as slow, without lifting my feet; but the naked steel lifted a little from my shoulder as if of its own accord. And yet again—a labored breathing now, but not mine; and then a swish in the sightless air, in my very face—then a stroke on the ground at my very feet—on the dry heather of my bed—and a gusty grunt.
Then Dragon-killer struck—struck and found flesh and struck again. ... I staggered back, with all the strength of fear and rage gone as suddenly as it had possessed me. I slumped to my knees. All was still and silent again. The heavy, struggling, inarticulate commotion on the ground had ceased. Releasing my hold on the great sword, I slumped lower, even onto my hands. I had killed something. Something lay dead there. It had come to kill me in my sleep, but I had killed it. Thanks to the beating wings that had wakened me, or to the dream of them, I was still alive. I turned and crawled away, dragging the old sword with me—but not far. I slumped flat to earth; and there I lay in a daze, too spent to move, till dawn.
When the silver wash of a new day reached me, I roused and stood and turned. I looked at Dragon-killer. The great blade was dim and brownly stained. I cleaned it on the nearest clump of fern, sheathed it, and hung it at my back again. Then, with a sharp effort of will, I forced my way, through coppice and underbrush, toward the place of the blind kill. I went slowly, reluctant yet eager, urged by a fearful curiosity. What had I slashed and hewn to death in the dark? What—who—had struck at me in the dark? I reached the spot. ... He lay face down, sprawled, cleft from shoulder to waist, slashed halfway through—a sodden red mass. I knew him by his boots and sword. I had left that long sword somewhere and forgotten it; and he had remembered it, recovered it, and followed me—only to slash it down across a bed of dry heather. I turned and fled.
Chapter Nine
The Rendezvous
The sun was high before I paused to drink at the nearest stream and break my fast. Then westward again, until hunger and weariness stopped me again for a little while. At the fall of dark I crawled into the heart of a thicket, where I lay in dreamless sleep till sunrise. Now I was in familiar country, deep in Dragon Forest; so I traveled with renewed vigor, though every weary muscle and sore bone protested. I was midway the length of a grassy glade, staggering slightly but at a good pace, when a clothyard shaft appeared upright suddenly in the sod before me. I came to a staggering stop, and cried out, as suddenly.
"Pendragon!" I cried.
A figure appeared from the forest gloom in front of me, a quarter bowshot off, and stood. His bow was unbent before him, but a second arrow was notched on the slack string.
"Sam Bowyer!" I cried. "Don't you know me, Sam? Your true lord?"
Then I laughed, and toppled and fell, and scrambled to my knees and remained so, still laughing. The bowman jumped and came running. He dropped his bow, stooped and laid hold of my shaking sides with mighty hands, and lifted me. He pressed me to his leathery breast, then held me off at arm's-length and stared.
"Young Pat!" he cried. "Lord Patrick! And we mourned you for dead. God's wounds! Alive an' laughing!"
"I'm not dead—of a certainty," I gasped.
"But they are," he shouted, in gusty mirth. "All three of them: Jacques an' Noel an' Martin. One by one. I got Jacques that very day—through the neck. A pretty shot at a hundred paces. And Watkin caught Noel that night, behind Dick Miller's woodstack. And only yesterday Martin's corpse was fished from the moat. That would be old Nick Pottle's doing, liker'n not. So perish all your foes!"
He took me to Ralph Forester, carrying Dragon-killer and the poke for me. Several more bowmen, attracted by Sam's loud talk and laughter, joined us on the way. Hob and outlawed Luke ap John were among them. Each in his turn knelt to me, then sprang up straight and embraced me manfully.
Ralph was there, with a score of fellows loosing their shafts at marks in his forest clearing. He leaped to me with a shout of joy and embraced me like a father; and all the fellows within sight and hearing—born Dragonlanders to a man—tossed their bows and caps in the air and bawled my name. I leaned on Ralph and asked him what news of Ben Tinker.
"A messenger came in last night, with good news," he said. "They have the Devereaux holed up and just about smoked out, an' theyll be on their way any minute now to help us smoke out our own precious Normans. All's well, my young lord! Pendragon an' England for ever!"
"I could have told you that myself," I said, leaning yet more heavily upon him and pressing a hand to my head. "And more! Old Devereaux slipped out and now lies dead and deserted in the gypsy's cave. But Ben doesn't know— unless he's found him since. And Simon Devereaux is dead too—I killed him myself, with Dragon-killer. But hold! The damosel is astray in the forest—somewhere this side of the mountain! The Damosel Blanche. She's garbed like a scullion boy. She befriended me. Gave me a knife. I´ll go find her."
Whirling blue spots and golden sparks flew alternately across my vision, and I sagged in the big forester's arms. He eased me gently to the ground. Someone raised my head and pressed a horn of mead to my lips. I grasped it, drained it, let it fall, and scrambled to my knees and then to my feet.
"Ill find her," I cried, staggering around. "Make way! Follow me! A score of you—of the best—follow me!"
Then I lay down again on the comfortable ground and floated away on soft clouds. . . .
I was in a hut when I recovered consciousness, supine on a narrow cot. By the wavering shine of a smoky hearth-fire and the feeble gleam of a tallow dip, I saw that I was not alone. An old man with a long white beard sat huddled on a stool within reach of an arm.
"Who are you?" I asked.
He raised his head with a jerk that lifted the tail of his beard from the floor, and straightened his back with another jerk and turned his face to me.
"Hah!" he exclaimed. "Alive, huh? I mean awake."
"Who are you?" I repeated. "And where am I?"
"Calm yourself, young man," he said. "Your Lordship, I am your preserver, Doctor Matson. Don't you remember me?"
"Yes, you once pulled out a tooth of mine."
"Quite so. But I've done you a greater service since. Your Lordship was on the point of death when I arrived and let the fever out. I drained it from your brain and heart in the nick of time."
"Gramercy! But where is Ralph Forester?"
"Gone—and all the people with him. Gone to the castle, to play a tune on Sir Osbert's ribs."
"Gone there without Ben Tinker? He was to wait for Ben! And for me. I'm lord here!"
"Nay, the gypsy came, with two score bows. And they all went together—six score of them."
"Did he bring my horse Star Boy?"
"There's a great horse tied in the shed. Don't you hear him kicking?"
I sat up.
"Lie down!" cried the doctor. "Calm yourself!"
But I lowered my feet to the clay floor and stood up.
"My boots! Hah, here they are!"
But when I
stooped to put them on, my head spun and I all but fell. So I requested the doctor to help me. He refused. Then I saw the great sword Dragon-killer upright in a corner, with the gems of hilt and scabbard burning red and green; and I stepped to it and drew out the long blade like a leaping flame. The ancient chirurgeon changed his tune at that sight, and helped me into my boots, and then into my jerkin and tunic, most obligingly. He opened the door for me, snatched a brand from the fire, and followed me from the hut into the night—all eagerness now to be rid of me and Dragon-killer. The night was still and blind and chill.
"To my horse!" I ordered.
The doctor waved the smoldering brand to enliven the flame, then held it high; and just when its lurid shine disclosed a structure of planks and poles, the nearest wall bulged and quaked and the air shook in our ears to a mighty blow.
"There he is," said the doctor.
"Star Boy!" I shouted. "I'm with you, lad! Stand still now. Here I come."
Then Star Boy trumpeted. I found the door in a few wobbly jumps and opened it; and even as I made to enter, he came thrusting forth. I steadied myself against his massive chest, with both my arms in a fond embrace of his massive neck. Now we were in darkness, for the doctor had fled back to the hut, torch and all. Star Boy was without saddle or bridle, but I scrambled onto his back.
"Home, lad," I said. "You know the way. But take it easy."
And so I set out on the last stage of my return to my ancestral castle, with the same horse under me and a feeling in my still confused consciousness that the acquisition of the mighty sword on my shoulder more than made up for my shortage of saddlery.
Chapter Ten
Saint George for England!
Star Boy went along as if he could see in the dark, with many short divergings, but few and only momentary checks. Not once did he stumble. Now and then he swung his head and breathed a warning of scraping boughs. I sat him with assurance, depending on my legs only to keep my seat, and gripped Dragon-killer's hilt with both hands so as to keep the great blade flat and steady on my shoulder. I was conscious of the strength of my legs and arms, but at the same time, dimly aware of a lack of corresponding vigor above and between my ears. In fact, my head felt as light as a blown-up pig's bladder for children and fools to play with.
"That old doctor drew off too much of my blood," I complained. "My brain feels like feathers. He drew off the fever, so he says, but he should have left enough blood in my head to keep my wits from blowing away."
I babbled of this and that; and though I heard myself, and without approval, I babbled on. Star Boy acknowledged my ramblings with occasional gusty snorts which sounded sympathetic.
"That rogue we caught in a tree—Stark—played me false. But he is dead now. Sold me to Simon Devereaux. That fat fool kicked me grievously. But where is he now, that blubbery Norman? Ask Dragon-killer. He carved him like Sir Philip. You know what we did to Philip. You were there, lad. Cut him in two pieces. But the damosel gave me a knife and ran away."
* * *
Later the blackness around us turned to woolly gray; and I told Star Boy of it. And when the gray brightened to silver, I told him to that. A little stir in the chilly air brought a tang of burning; and now I saw that all the wood before us was blue with smoke rising from little fallen fires, and mingling and drifting with the frosty mist.
My heart leaped and swelled.
"Up, lad!" I shouted. Tm home again! Up, sluggards! Saint George for England!"
The smoldering fires took to sparks and flame, and men in wool and leather and shaggy fur came crashing through brush and brake, bending and stringing their bows. Star Boy pranced majestically and trumpeted loud and long; and I flourished Dragon-killer high and wide, sweeping and turning the great blade till it shone and flashed like a living flame in the waxing light.
"Patrick—our true lord!" the men shouted. "A Pendragon! A Pendragon!"
"And the old sword!" I cried, whirling it yet higher and wider. "Dragon-killer, the Avenger! Dragon-killer and Norman-killer!"
They crowded around, clamoring; and though Star Boy showed nothing of either hostility or alarm, he took this moment to indulge in a mighty shake from muzzle to tail, like a wet dog, and so unwittingly twitched me from his back—Dragon-killer and all—and into the arms of half a dozen of my people. . . . Supported by a dozen hands, I was drinking from a long horn when Ben Tinker thrust his way through to me and grabbed me to his armored breast, and splashed the good ale over both of us in doing so.
"How's this?" he cried. "Alive, by my halidom—by my pots and pans! I left you at death's door, lord. Old Matson let a raving fever out of your brains—and I feared he had let your dear life out with it. But I dared not tarry, lest the churls lose heart and scatter back to the coverts before the usurpers were hanged from your battlements. Praise be to God for your miraculous recovery, my dear young lord. My heart rejoices."
"Gramercy, good Ben. I'm well enough in my legs and arms, but I'm not so sure of my wits. There's a thought in my head—or should be—I can't put a finger on. What have I forgot? Did you say you hanged Sir Osbert? And did he stop smiling?"
"Nay, sweet lord, not yet. But all in good time. We've not got in at him yet. But the knaves are coming out to us, like rats from a doomed ship. Five swam the moat last night and gave themselves up most politely. Hah!"
"Our trusty old servants?"
"Nay, those dear innocents be too old to risk cold water. Five of his hired bullies, lord. Normans, or some such mongrels. And more of them will swim it tonight, mark my words."
"Did you hang the rogues high?"
"Nay, my dear young lord—fie upon you!—neither high nor low. We treated them with the nicest consideration. They passed without a yelp. I´ll venture to suggest, Lord Pat, they didn't know they were quit of this wicked world till they found themselves heels over head in hell. Hah! And even now five true Dragonlanders in Norman jerkins, and with bottles and horns in their hands, are displaying themselves to the envious watchers in the castle. There be less painful ways of entering a stronghold than breaching its walls."
Because of the sensation of lightness and fuddled effort in my head, I was not as vastly impressed by the gypsy's cunning as I should have been. I complimented him, however; and when food was put before me, I ate hungrily, the while Star Boy disposed of a measure of clean barley. By that time, the tinker captain had returned to his task of inspecting and alerting the six score beleaguering bowmen, and to hearten them with the news that their true lord and the old avenging sword had rejoined them. A bed of fern and wolf-skins was spread for me beside a sheltered fire; and there I lay down and slept, with the sword Dragon-killer beside me, and Star Boy not far off.
My sleep was sound and dreamless and long—all day long, for the sun was down again when I opened my eyes and sat up. The fire beside me had sunk and broken to coals and the coals had filmed with gray ash. I fed it a handful of dry fern and a few dry sticks that lay within my reach, and it blazed up. By that wavering shine I saw Star Boy, who came to me instantly, but no other living thing. All had gone to join the gypsy's tightening grip on Dragon Castle.
"Hist! Patrick!"
I lifted the old sword and sprang to my feet, and Star Boy wheeled.
"It's me—Roger."
The horse relaxed. Something came crawling into the firelight. It was Roger de Montfoi, foul with mud and slime. He crawled to my feet and clasped me about the knees.
"Save me, good Pat—as I saved you!"
"So you did. Why did you do it?"
"My mother was English. Help me now—a horse now— and youll see no more of me!"
"Not so fast! What of Sir Osbert?"
"Dead—of a clothyard shaft. And the old men and the scullions are turned upon the soldiery with spits and burning grease."
He freed my knees and sprang up and ran to Star Boy and made to mount him, but Star Boy swung around and bared his teeth. Even as I cried out a warning, Ben Tinker's horse—the tall roan I had taken and
given to him—crashed into the firelight and stood staring. He was saddled and bitted, but the reins dragged, and he had one foot through them. Had the gypsy come to grief? I moved forward to see if there was blood on the saddle, but Roger moved faster. He cleared the reins, sprang to the saddle, wheeled, and went crashing away.
"Mad," I said to Star Boy. "Crazed with terror. Hell break his neck, poor fool! Couldn't he trust to my protection? I am lord here, God wot!"
I harkened to the swiftly diminishing sounds of Roger's flight till distance swallowed them, then threw more dry stuff on the fire and got myself and the great sword up and onto Star Boy.
"Well join the fight," I said.
Before he could lift a hoof, a man in leather dashed into the light and stumbled against my left leg, grasping and sobbing. I bent down and gripped him by a shoulder with my left hand.
"What now, fellow?"
"A horse! A great red horse! He came this way!" "Be still, fellow! What of it?"
"The gypsy's horse. He broke away from me—and I´ll be flayed alive. Leave me go—for Christ's sake!" I tightened my grip on him.
"Don't you know me, rogue? Your true lord—and the old sword Dragon-killer? Harky to me now! How goes the fight for my castle?"
"Spent, lord. Over an' done. The drawbridge came down, an' now it's full of Englishmen bawling 'Pendragon!' an' every Norman's dead. But the captain's horse, lord! Leave me go!"
"He went that way," I lied, and released him; and he plunged into the thicket. "Home, now," I said.
But Star Boy had moved only a few paces into the dark beyond the fireshine when I checked him with a word.
"The damosel! I must seek her. She befriended me. She gave me a knife."
"I am here," said a small voice in the dark; and then: "I've never been far away," it added.
"Is it you?" I asked. "Can you get up?"
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