The Princess, the Crone, and the Dung-Cart Knight

by Gerald Morris

  XI

  The Trial

  For three days Sarah and Charis rode back and forth across the lands of the Castle Logres. They cut through dense forests and climbed into rocky crevices, searching every hidden spot, every narrow corner, but they found nothing. Jean had simply disappeared. And every day they took food to Gawain and Terence, but neither grew stronger.

  The night before the trial was scheduled, behind the barred door of Charis's room, Sarah drew her own sword from its hiding place and looked at it speculatively.

  "No," Charis said. Sarah didn't reply. "Sarah, listen to me," Charis continued, urgently. "My brother is an absolute rotter, but he's good with a sword. When he used to go to tournaments, he almost always came back the victor. You wouldn't have a chance against him."

  "But this is no ordinary sword," Sarah said.

  "No sword will work if the person holding it is dead," Charis pointed out.

  "I have a better chance against him than Gawain does right now, or Sir Kai."

  "We still have tonight to find Sir Lancelot," Charis said.

  "Where?" Sarah demanded. "He's been hidden by an enchantress! How can we find someone who's been hidden by magic? What if he's in the one place we can't see? Remember Gawain's bridge monster, whose heads were everywhere but where they appeared to be? No, it's up to me."

  Charis shook her head firmly. "Meliagant wouldn't fight you anyway. He'd never lower himself by fighting a female."

  "Then I'll need some boy's clothes. And a helm with a visor."

  Charis argued for several more minutes, but at last she grudgingly agreed to help. She cut Sarah's hair, found some boys' breeches in a trunk, and even crept down to the arsenal beside the guards' barracks and took the smallest helm and coat of mail that she could find, along with armor plates for Sarah's legs. She never stopped arguing against Sarah's plan, but as the night went on, her main point—that there must be another way—grew increasingly weak, and at last she lay down on her bed, covered her head, and recommended that Sarah get some sleep before morning. "You'll want to be well rested before you die, you know," she said bitterly.

  "Just a little while longer," Sarah replied, taking some practice strokes with her sword. "I have to get used to wearing mail and trying to see through this visor."

  Sarah tried to keep her tone cheerful, but she knew that Charis was right. Against a real swordsman, she had no hope of victory. In the morning, she would doubtless be killed, but she didn't see anything she could do about it. It was odd, actually, when she considered her position. For the past four months she had not cared especially whether she lived or died—with her mother and Mordecai both dead, what did she want to live for?—but had thought only about vengeance. Now, though, she realized that she wanted very much to live. She wanted to see Charis again, and Ariel. She wanted to help Jean and Sir Kai and the queen. She wanted to see Terence and Gawain well. Life held out more promise than she had thought it ever would again.

  But that was the confusing part: the very thing that made life worthwhile again—discovering that she cared about these other people—was what made her go to her death. If she truly cared about Sir Kai and the queen, how could she let Sir Meliagant execute them without trying to stop it? If she cared about Jean and Gawain, then she had to care about their quest, too. They had both been willing to die to free the queen, and so Sarah supposed she would, too. The thing that made life worth continuing was what made it worth ending. This, of course, was stupid, but she couldn't help that, so she practiced with her sword until her arms started to feel heavy, and then she removed her helm and fell into bed in full armor.

  When she awoke, the sun was already high in the sky and Charis was gone. Sarah blinked at the daylight outside her window, then leaped from bed and pulled on her helm. Slinging her sword over her shoulder, she clattered downstairs to the main floor, wondering why Charis hadn't wakened her. The battle was to take place in the Crimson Room, and though Sarah hadn't been sure where that was, she had no trouble finding it. From the end of a corridor came the sound of loud voices, music (an irritating, whistling instrument), barking dogs, and bleating lambs.

  Sarah followed the din, then stopped at the door of the Crimson Room and stared, open-mouthed, nearly forgetting the battle she faced. King Bagdemagus had evidently indulged to the fullest his twin passions for decorating rooms and for dressing up in shepherd's clothes. Harried serving girls dressed in impractical shepherdess outfits were trying (and failing) to contain a cluster of loudly terrified sheep. As Sarah came near, several sheep bolted, some out the door, and others through the crowd of rustic-clad servants, prompting several crashes and more than one oath. A band of musicians stood on a platform in a far corner, diligently blowing at crude flutes—shepherds' pipes, Sarah supposed. Kitchen lackeys yelled at one another and tried to balance trays of food in one hand while holding shepherds' crooks in the other. They all stepped carefully around a wide semicircular space to the right of the door, where a large ram was tethered to the wall. The ram, obviously not joining in the spirit of the day, was lunging out to the extent of his rope, trying to butt anyone who ventured too close. Two overturned serving trays and some broken crockery within the clear space around the ram testified as to what would happen to the careless servant who came within range. A real and very large haystack dominated the other side of the room, and beside it was a long table covered with an embroidered tablecloth and laden with all sorts of meats and delicacies. Three sheepdogs stood on the table gorging themselves on these refreshments, stopping only to growl menacingly at anyone who tried to move them. The servants were all dressed in leather and coarse sackcloth (probably without the benefit of silk lining), and even the armed guards arrayed along the walls were gaily decked out with wildflowers. From their expressions, Sarah had no trouble guessing the guards' opinion of their pastoral finery.

  At the center of the room was King Bagdemagus in a new shepherd's tunic. He sat on a throne on a high dais, above the melee, clearly delighted by what he perceived to be the success of his decorating efforts. Standing beside him was Sir Meliagant, whose face bespoke murderous rage. Charis's small throne, to King Bagdemagus's left, was empty.

  "This is insane!" Sir Meliagant was roaring. "This is a trial to the death, not a public fair! Get this cattle out of here!"

  "There, there, son," the king said, wincing visibly, "we do have the field of battle roped off. And don't you think this is festive?"

  "No, I do not!"

  "Not even a little bit? Lancelot says that shepherds are all the rage just now, and you wouldn't—"

  "You old fool! Can't you think of anything for yourself? Your precious Lancelot only said that to explain why his own clothes were so ragged! He was lying to you!"

  Bagdemagus's eyes widened, but then he shook his head firmly. "No, I don't believe that. Lancelot is a knight! Knights don't lie to each other. Why, Lancelot would no more deceive me than you would!"

  Sir Meliagant opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again, fuming. After a moment, though, he replied, "I think, Father, that it is obvious which of us is to be trusted. Both Lancelot and I promised to be here to face each other in mortal combat. I have kept my promise, but I do not see your precious Lancelot anywhere, do you?"

  The king looked around the bustling room. "No, no, I don't. Is it quite time?"

  "Past time, Father. No one is here to defend the queen's honor, after all. By the laws of the trial by combat, that means that my charge has been vindicated."

  "No, no, Meliagant," King Bagdemagus said anxiously. "Let us wait another few minutes. Someone must show up for the battle. Why, if no one comes, I shall have done all this preparaton for nothing! It would be like having a wedding with no bride!"

  "Or a funeral with no corpse," Sir Meliagant replied.

  "Yes! Exactly!"

  "I'm sorry, Father, but the rules of the trial are very clear. If no one appears—"

  Sarah judged it time to make her presence known. Her heart pounding, sh
e pushed past the two courtiers who had blocked her from Sir Meliagant's vision. Once through the crowd, she saw an open area, enclosed by ropes and surrounded by castle servants and courtiers, where the battle was evidently to take place. She saw something else, too: over his armor, Sir Meliagant wore a white tunic emblazoned with a red cross. It was the mark that Jean had described, the mark of the Templar.

  Saying not a word, Sarah stepped over the rope into the enclosure, and a hush fell over the human occupants in the room. It might have been dramatic, but in this case human silence only made the animal noise seem louder. From the sound of it, two of the sheepdogs were arguing over some delicacy on the refreshment table.

  "Who are you?" Sir Meliagant demanded.

  Sarah didn't reply. She had decided that was her best approach, having experimented the night before with lowering her voice. It only made her sound like a girl doing silly voices, she had concluded, so she was going to be mysterious and silent. If she had to say anything, she would speak in a hoarse whisper, as Jean had when they had met him on the dung cart.

  "Oh, are you here to fight in Lancelot's place?" King Bagdemagus asked suddenly.

  Sir Meliagant gave his father an annoyed glance, then said, "We await Lancelot, not some half-sized proxy."

  "Oh, no," the king said blithely. "You've forgotten the rules of the trial, son. Another knight may step in, if he wishes to. Is that why you're here?"

  Sarah nodded.

  "Oh, delightful!" Bagdemagus exclaimed. "We can have our trial, after all!"

  Sir Meliagant stepped carelessly over the rope into the enclosure. "I think not, Father," he said. "It has not been my practice to fight children—or dwarfs."

  Sarah stared at the Templar's insignia. "No," she whispered loudly. "You murder women and old men."

  Sir Meliagant stiffened, then drew himself up to his full height, which put the top of Sarah's helmet barely above his shoulder. "I beg your pardon?" he said coldly.

  "An old Jewish merchant and a woman," Sarah said. "Four months ago at the village of Milrick. I have been looking for you since then."

  Sir Meliagant's eyes widened, and Sarah saw in them the confirmation that she needed. He knew exactly what she was talking about. "This boy is mad," Sir Meliagant said, but his eyes searched the front of her helm, trying to see the face behind the visor. "I repeat, I do not fight children." He snapped his fingers, and a servant leaned over the rope and presented a tray, on which were several silver goblets. "Come, child. Drink and forget your imagined grievances."

  Sarah drew her sword and cut through the stems of the goblets. It wasn't a conscious decision on her part. She hadn't planned to do anything of the sort, but her hands moved of their own volition. It was her swiftest unsheathing ever, and her sword cut through the silver stems of the goblets as if they weren't even there. The surprised servant didn't even move, but suddenly he was staring at a tray littered with ruined cups and flooded with wine. Sir Meliagant, who had also frozen for a moment, stepped lightly backward and drew his own sword.

  "Oh, very well done!" declared King Bagdemagus, clapping. "Did you see that, everyone? The challenger cut right through the cups."

  "It should have been your neck," Sarah said hoarsely to Sir Meliagant, and in truth she was wishing that it had been. Her only hope in this fight had been the swiftness with which she drew her sword and the chance that Sir Meliagant would take her lightly. Both possibilities had been ruined now by her thoughtless action.

  "Who are you?" Sir Meliagant said softly.

  But Sarah didn't reply. She held her sword in both hands and assumed the ready position that Sir Kai had taught her.

  "Very well," Sir Meliagant said. "Just a moment, my silent friend. Allow me to put on the rest of my armor." He backed off, keeping his eyes on Sarah's sword, making his way to a small table set up at the other end of the closed-off area, where his helm rested. He cautiously laid down his sword and reached for his helm, but before he took it up he reached beneath it and withdrew a small crystal flask, which he raised to his lips and drained. It was Sarah's bottle. She must have made Sir Meliagant more wary than she had known, Sarah thought, if he was taking the potion that he believed would double his swordsmanship. Sir Meliagant threw the crystal bottle to the floor, smashing it, then smiled smugly, put on his helm, and attacked.

  Sarah survived Sir Meliagant's surprise charge purely by luck, and by the power of her sword. Sir Meliagant leaped forward, swinging his sword so quickly that had she not already had her sword up in defensive position he would have killed her then and there. As it was, his blow struck Sarah's sword with enough force that it flew from her hand. Reeling backward from the blow, she bent over to grab her fallen sword and heard the sound of Sir Meliagant's second swing passing over her. Snatching up her blade, Sarah leaped to one side, hoping to evade a third blow, and unwittingly bounced her sword against Sir Meliagant's leg in the process. Had it been an ordinary weapon, Sir Meliagant might hardly have noticed the tap, but Sarah's sword struck with enough force to knock the knight staggering away. Sarah took her defensive position again, and as she set herself she heard Sir Meliagant talking.

  "How the devil did he do that? Is he a wizard? No, no, that's impossible. Lady Morgause promised that no one from the faery realm could enter this land."

  Sarah realized that the magic cordial was already taking effect, and Sir Meliagant was speaking his thoughts aloud. "And do you trust your fine Lady?" Sarah whispered. "After all, she promised no one would cross the Sword Bridge, either, and Lancelot did."

  "What?" gasped Sir Meliagant. Then he added, "How did he know what I was thinking?"

  "I know all your thoughts, little man!" Sarah rasped. "Can't you see? I'm a wizard! You've been betrayed! You've served your purpose now, and the Lady has sent me to finish you off."

  "You lie!" Sir Meliagant screamed, but immediately he added, "Is it true? Is that what she meant when she said she was angry with me? But I've done so much for her!" With a scream, Sir Meliagant attacked again.

  This time Sarah was ready, and she was able to grip her sword tightly and parry Sir Meliagant's blow. The force of the two swords striking sent both combatants staggering away. Sarah was thinking rapidly but, oddly enough, felt very calm. He was too fast for her. She would never be able to land a blow. Her best hope was to stay on the defensive and, now that she could hear Sir Meliagant's thoughts, use that knowledge to persuade him to give up the fight.

  Sir Meliagant's voice began again. "He must be from the Lady. How else would he know about that Jew and that witch?"

  "She wasn't a witch," Sarah snapped.

  "Who are you!" Sir Meliagant screamed furiously.

  "Remember the knight that you sent to supervise the burning that night? The knight with the black beard and the loud voice?"

  "Who told him about Sir Corbon?"

  "I've already killed him. Sir Corbon's head lies in the fields beyond the Sword Bridge."

  "But why?" Sir Meliagant was speaking in his normal voice now. "The Lady herself sent me to do it! I was only obeying her orders!"

  Sarah blinked with surprise and exclaimed, "The enchantress sent you to kill them?"

  "No, no, of course not. She sent me to incite unrest, to show that Arthur's peace was weakening, but she never said not to kill those two."

  Sarah heard fear in Sir Meliagant's voice, and she swiftly followed up her advantage. "But she didn't mean you to, all the same! Now she's very angry with you! You shouldn't have chosen them for your crime!"

  "But I didn't choose them!" Sir Meliagant said, his voice cracking. "It was the priest!"

  "Priest?" Sarah repeated, and nearly lost her head. The introduction of yet another participant in the incident had taken her by surprise, and Sir Meliagant's third attack almost broke through her defenses. She deflected his blow upward slightly, but his sword struck her in the temple. She saw lights and heard a roaring in her head as she staggered to one side and fell. Her helm flew from her head, and without it there s
eemed to be light everywhere, except that her right eye didn't seem to work. Miraculously, she still held her sword, and though she couldn't see clearly, she flailed frantically around her, desperate to keep Sir Meliagant from finishing her.

  She heard Sir Meliagant scream with pain, and she scrambled to her feet and scurried to the rear. Slowly her vision cleared, though her right eye was still blocked, and she could see Sir Meliagant again. He stood in the center of the battle enclosure, blood welling from a long scratch across his chest.

  "You cut right through my armor," he said. Then he looked up at Sarah again and said, "You!"

  "That's right," Sarah said. "Me. A girl."

  "Well done! Well done!" announced a cheerful voice. King Bagdemagus was climbing over the rope into the enclosure. "I don't know when I've had so much fun! Shall we all have a spot of wine to refresh ourselves? I say! What happened to the refreshment table? Have the servants been at the sweetmeats! Goodness, what a mess they've made!"

  "Get out of my way, Father," Sir Meliagant said. He added immediately, "Old fool! I don't think I can bear him any longer. Tonight I shall have his throat cut while he sleeps."

  "What, son?" King Bagdemagus said, his face blank.

  "I said to get out of my way!" With his left arm, Sir Meliagant gave his father a shove that sent him reeling toward the wall where the ram was tied. Sarah heard a bellow from the ram and a shout from King Bagdemagus and was vaguely aware of a commotion, but her eyes were on Sir Meliagant.

  "Lady Sarah," Sir Meliagant said, his lips curling in a sneer. He seemed to have lost his superstitious dread now that he could see her face.

  "What priest?" Sarah asked.

  "A traveling priest. It was he who told the village that a Jew had poisoned their well," Sir Meliagant said. "All I did was provide the Jew—the peddler I had seen camped nearby. A lucky coincidence, no? I didn't even take part in the execution. I let my vassal, Sir Corbon, lead the villagers in that while I watched from the crowd."