by Jay Ruud
It was well past prime when we awoke the next morning. No light penetrated into the attic, so we weren’t awakened by the morning sun. It was the whining of the dog, begging to go outside, that finally roused us from our exhausted sleep. I shook off the last dregs of slumber and rolled off my pallet, figuring it would be to my advantage to let the dog out before she got desperate. Merlin sat up suddenly, crying “God’s kneebones, what time is it? We can’t sleep the day away. We need to see Dinadan and we need to find Kaherdin, and we need to do it quickly.”
“Right,” I agreed. “But our dog here needs to do something else and needs to do it even more quickly. Let me get her out.”
“When did she become our dog?” Merlin wanted to know as I stood up, stoop shouldered under the attic eaves, and followed the dog down the narrow steps that led downstairs into the back room of the inn. I took her out behind the inn and glanced around the neighborhood as she went through her morning rituals. The sun was already well up in the eastern sky, and I gauged it must be nearly terce already, a beautiful early summer morning that promised a pleasant afternoon and evening. There were a few folk walking here and there, mostly toward the town square where the peddlers had by now set up their carts, and I wondered whether the hooligan gang of the previous evening had been active last night, and if they had been looking for us. When I went back into the inn, dog in tow, Merlin was up and sitting at a table, while Claude stood next to him, the perpetual meat cleaver in hand. He turned toward me when he heard me enter, and said, “Ah! Here is your young friend. I have set Nancy to fetch you some small beer and bread and cheese from the kitchen to break your fast,” the last part addressed directly to me.
“You are too kind, monsieur,” Merlin told him.
“Not at all,” Claude said, waving his cleaver around deferentially. “Any enemy of Captain Jacques’ murderers is a friend of ours. Only promise me you will bring the beast who killed him to justice, and my hospitality will be well-rewarded.”
“You have my thanks as well,” I told Claude. “But I wonder if you might have some table scraps or bones from yesterday’s dinners that the dog could have?”
“Ah, but of course!” Claude cried. “This is the captain’s borzoi. She has been in here many times, and we all love her. Any dog of the captain’s will never go hungry at the Cock and Bull. I’ll go and fill a bowl for her.”
As Nancy came in with a tray of breakfast for us, Claude went out to bring something for the dog. I sat next to Merlin at the table and looked into his face. His jaw was set and his eyes burned with a fierce glow, and I knew that he expected this day to make or break the case—perhaps even to make or break the two of us. It was getting serious now.
***
The street in front of the abbey gate was littered with debris this morning—broken furniture, for the most part, and large stones, strewn about with no rhyme nor reason. The gate itself that barred the way into the monastery was scarred and scratched, as if having withstood a siege. The dog looked around cautiously, sensing that things were not as they had been before and wondering if this new state was a good thing or a bad. It was Brother Aaron who opened the gate for us into the abbey when we knocked. His eyes were red and he seemed on the verge of collapsing. “Brother Aaron!” I cried on seeing him. What’s happened? Are you ill?”
“Worn out from watching and from fear,” he answered hoarsely. “You will want to see Sir Dinadan, I suppose. I’ll take you to him. But then I must take you to the Abbot. He has demanded to speak you, to better understand what has happened here.”
“What has happened here?” Merlin wanted to know.
“The abbey was assailed during the night by some six or seven brigands, who shouted for us to give up the foreigners, by which they must have meant you—and, I suppose, Sir Dinadan. We must deliver you up to them, they demanded, or suffer whatever consequences they would mete out.”
“Good Lord, what did you do?” I asked, as we stepped around more debris inside the abbey wall: burnt out torches and more large stones, and, on the stones of the walls and the cloister, blackened marks, presumably scorched into the stones by those same burnt-out torches. We walked tentatively, as the dog sniffed and whined, her eyes and her head darting about and gingerly sniffing the remains of the burning brands.
“The abbot shouted down to them from the high window in the dorter, telling them that this abbey and church were sacred ground and anyone behind our walls was accorded sanctuary. He also told them they had no legal right to make such demands, and that even if they had, the Peace of God superseded any earthly authority. According to the law of the Church, if they set foot in, or even laid violent hands upon, the walls of the abbey, they were excommunicate and imperiled their mortal souls.”
“I don’t imagine that stopped them,” Merlin commented wryly.
“It did not, sir.” We had reached the stairs now that led up to the infirmary, and Brother Aaron now recited the litany of horrors from the previous night. The bandits had hacked at the doors of the abbey, trying to get in with swords and even with an axe. The monks tossed chairs, furnishings, anything they could find that seemed heavy enough, down from the dorter windows and onto the bandits, and drove them off for a moment. “When they came back, they were carrying torches. They tossed them over the wall, tried to set fire to the doors, anything to try to burn us out. They could not harm the stone of the abbey walls, but they continued to shout and harass us for the better part of the night, hurling large stones into the cloisters and cursing without regard for God or man.”
“Why was there no city guard patrolling the streets? Why were they not alerted to this?” I demanded.
“Why indeed,” was all Brother Aaron could say. “Finally a group of folk from the neighboring houses, realizing what the commotion was, came out to see what was happening. The brigands, born cowards that they were, ran off. But the abbey has been in turmoil, and the abbot as angry as I have ever seen him. With the first light he sent Brother Michael and Brother Gabriel to the palace to protest to the lord Kaherdin and to demand he find and punish those responsible. Much of the morning Sir Andred has been leading a troop of about ten knights around the neighborhood, searching for the culprits, but it was too little too late, and he has returned to the palace, I assume to report to Kaherdin.”
“Setting the fox to guard the henhouse,” I mumbled under my breath. But by now we were mounting the steps that led to the infirmary, and were quite taken off guard when we came face-to-face with Sir William of Caen, coming down the steps on his way to exit the premises. He seemed less surprised to see us, and nodded cautiously as he squeezed by us down the stairs, murmuring, “Gentlemen, a good day to you,” and leaving us to stare open-mouthed at his retreating back as it descended the stairs and headed for the abbey gate. “So, what do you suppose he was doing here?” I whispered to Merlin. “Maybe checking out the damage to report it to Lord Kaherdin? That would be a legitimate reason to be here…”
“Perhaps,” Merlin said, sounding unconvinced. “Or perhaps to determine what damage his men caused when they ransacked this place—if he’s the one behind the attacks.”
“Well, yes,” I conceded. “But is there any reason to suspect him in particular?”
“Is there any reason not to?” Merlin countered. “Everyone in Saint-Malo is suspicious to me at this point. I don’t know that we’ve met an honest chap since we arrived. Nor an honest woman, neither.”
I could have argued that I’d found the folk at the Cock and Bull sympathetic and friendly enough, but I refrained, not eager to get Merlin’s dander up so early in the morning. At last we reached the infirmary and found Sir Dinadan sitting up in bed waiting to see us. There were, however, three monks lying on beds as well, each with some injury—lacerations, bruises bloody heads—sustained, no doubt, in the assault the previous evening. The dog looked around here, too, and then sat at my side, subdued and letting out an occasion
al soft whine.
On the bed closest to Sir Dinadan lay the ancient Brother Thaddeus, looking at us with a mixture of accusation and pleading. On his head was a bandage with a great stain of blood on the left side, and his left arm was splinted and in a sling. His body seemed listless but his eyes were alert, and when he saw my gaze move to his arm he spoke: “Broken bone, Brother Oswald tells me. Never heal at my age. This all started when you three came to the abbey.” With that he turned away and faced the wall.
“We thank you for your help and courtesy, Brother Aaron,” Merlin said, glossing over the old monk’s comments, “and will come to speak with the abbot as soon as we have conferred with our colleague. Please convey to him our deepest regret for what has happened to this holy place, and our determination to see that it shall never happen again.”
“I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear it,” Brother Aaron replied. “But he’s already making his own plans to prevent any such thing from happening again.” With that he gave us a quick nod and headed off to find the abbot.
When he had left, Dinadan broke into a smile. “Well, you should have seen these monks under pressure. They were more than anxious to strike a few blows for the right, let me tell you. I think if the abbot had turned them loose, those craven villains would have been scattered quicker than a portly abbot downs a fat swan, if you know what I mean.”
“God’s shinbones, man, you’re in a jolly mood for somebody who was nearly killed two nights ago,” Merlin remarked.
“Almost killed, that’s the key. I was saved two nights ago and, truth be told, the monks saved me last night. I could have been dead twice, but I’m not, so why shouldn’t I be celebrating? Looks like you two made it through the night unscathed as well.”
“So we have,” Merlin nodded. “And what have you been up to this morning? Watching the monks clean up the mess those outlaws made of their abbey?”
“No, no,” Dinadan murmured, his eyes looking toward us with a mischievous twinkle. “I’ve actually been spending the morning chatting with Sir William of Caen.”
“Sir William was here to see you?” I asked, somewhat taken aback. “But I thought he was strictly Kaherdin’s man, as resentful of our being here as his master.”
“True to a point,” Sir Dinadan answered, adjusting his body on the bed, trying to get comfortable. “He’s loyal, as I told you, but that’s because he values chivalry, so he puts loyalty to his liege lord above most other considerations.”
“Most?” I pressed.
“But not all,” Dinadan threw me a close-mouthed smile. “Honor and truth are higher on his list.”
“All of these things are abstractions,” Merlin grumbled, shaking his head. “Suppose you tell us what Sir William’s visit to you was about, here on this physical plane.” And with that he sat on one of the empty beds in the infirmary, facing Dinadan’s.
“Sir William is a member of the city watch,” Dinadan explained. “He heard this morning about the brigands that threatened us and put me in this infernal infirmary, and he heard, too, about the rough treatment the abbey received last night at the hands of those same villains. Word reached our friend, the city’s Lord Protector, this morning, and he sent his lieutenant Sir Andred with a gaggle of guardsmen to make a show of looking around the neighborhood. But William didn’t go with them, he came straight here.”
“Why?” I wondered.
“First to apologize. I think he was kind of appalled that such events could happen in a city he was guarding. Or at least that he was supposed to be. He said that the watch had specific orders the last two nights to patrol an area of the city across the river near the garrison. Said there were warnings of suspected criminal activity in those parts, but he got to thinking pretty quickly that the whole assignment was bogus. William says they wasted their time there, that everything was completely quiet. Except, of course, for the nightingales.” Dinadan flashed another of his grim smiles, and I answered it with one of my own, remembering Captain Jacques’ tale of jealousy and violence.
“And did he happen to mention where those orders came from?” Merlin wanted to know.
Dinadan shrugged. “He didn’t say. I suppose the captain of the guard, who, as far as I know, is Sir Andred. But that means little—he takes his orders from above.”
“From Kaherdin,” Merlin agreed, thoughtfully. Then he continued, “So that was all he wanted? To, as you say, express his regrets?” Merlin raised the great tangled hedge of his eyebrows as he voiced the question.
“No, no. He wanted to know, too, if I saw any of those hooligans clearly enough to identify them.”
“And did you?” I wondered. “Because I couldn’t see a thing in the dark. Something I’m pretty sure that gang was counting on.”
“Like rats lurking in the shadows, waiting their chance to strike a cowardly blow at the unsuspecting or the vulnerable,” Merlin mused, and I shuddered, thinking of the night we’d just spent.
“Well I hadn’t really recognized anyone, or seen any distinguishing features—they all kept their faces pretty well hidden. But I remembered when he asked that something struck me when Merlin played his little game with the fiery flash. You know, it lit up their faces for a moment, and even though they were keeping them covered, I did notice a kind of glint, just for one brief instant, as if one of the thugs had something on his face that reflected the light.”
I had forgotten that until now, but cried out “Yes! I noticed that too but didn’t think anything of it at the time. Did it mean anything to Sir William?”
“Well he wasn’t giving anything away, but he did seem to perk up a bit when I said that,” Dinadan conceded.
“God’s molars!” Merlin exclaimed. “Are we all thinking the same thing?”
“Gold teeth!” Dinadan and I shouted in unison, and the dog barked with excitement, too. She didn’t know what we were so animated about, but she knew it was something sensational.
Merlin slapped himself on the forehead and went on, “This answers our quandary of last night, Gildas! Captain Jacques was not killed because it was feared he had overheard the exchange on board Kaherdin’s ship. He was killed because of the fear that he had recognized the mysterious Sir Neville among the villains who attacked us before the Cock and Bull!”
“So what’s Sir William going to do about it? Did he say? Can he arrest that freak Sir Neville? Or turn him in at least?”
“But to whom, Gildas?” Merlin stopped me for a moment. “How does he know he won’t be turning Sir Neville in to the very person who ordered him to do what he did? Whether it was Kaherdin, Melias, Andred, Isolde, or someone as yet undetermined. I do wish this Sir William were working with us, rather than on his own. There is something uncomfortable about his asking questions of us, when it is we who are supposed to be conducting the investigation.”
“I suppose he thinks about the two situations as separate matters. His concern is with the misdirection of the guard and with the misbehavior of the brigands the past two nights. He sees ours as finding the facts behind the death of Tristram and Isolde…”
“Behind the murders of Tristram and Isolde, you mean,” Merlin corrected him. “That becomes more and more clear the deeper we search. But both stories are clearly the same story, even a blockhead of a Norman like Sir William of Caen should be able to see that. No, no, Dinadan, I’m finding it hard to trust this Sir William of yours. How can we be certain he did not visit you in the hopes of finding your wounds much worse than they were? How do we know he was not simply spying for his superiors—Kaherdin or Andred, say? Was he testing you to see whether you recognized Sir Neville in the dark, and if so did he fear you may then be able to trace the murderers straight back to him or to his masters in the court? One thing we know about him for certain is his absolute, one may say his blind, loyalty to Kaherdin. God’s earlobes, Dinadan, how can we know there is any truth in him? We can’t, and until we are certai
n, I will hold Sir William, like everyone else in this devious and dangerous town, highly suspect.”
“Old mage, you don’t have to tell me. I’ve been a cynic about human nature for most of my adult life, and poked fun at the posers and the hypocrites in at least three courts—here in Saint-Malo, in King Mark’s court in Cornwall, and in Camelot itself. So don’t think you need to lecture me about being cautious with my trust. After all, I followed Sir Tristram, didn’t I? I know full well how far the weak flesh falls short of the willing spirit, how the ideal beloved becomes Isolde after all.” I shifted uncomfortably, remembering Gareth’s story of the king—which, as far as I was aware, even Dinadan did not know.
“But I’ll tell you a story, Merlin,” Sir Dinadan continued, as a sardonic smile began once more to play around his lips. “A story of love and honor. This is a story of what I know about Sir William of Caen, and why I believe we can trust him in this case.”
Merlin leaned further back on the bed and breathed a loud sigh out through his not inconsequential nose. “Proceed then,” he directed Sir Dinadan, but without a great deal of encouragement in his tone. “Just don’t be all day about it. Gildas and I must see the abbot and will have other stops to make as well. You, I realize, have nowhere else to go and can spin tales from your comfortable bed all the livelong day if you set your mind to it.”
“These saucy magicians nowadays!” Dinadan groused, rolling his eyes. “But to my story. Gildas, at least, is probably interested. At least it keeps him from hearing your endless lectures for a little while.” Merlin snorted in response.
“It was a few years ago now, just after I’d followed Sir Tristram to this bloody port, and after he’d married the delicate and blushing lady Isolde of the White Hands. In those days I used to spend my evenings supping—and drinking—at an inn nearer the harbor called the Mermaid’s Anchor. There was a serving wench there had a roving eye and I used to go there hoping it would rove in my direction.”