The Dragon and the Fair Maid of Kent

by Gordon R. Dickson

  She beamed up to him, plainly waiting for a word or two of approval.

  Jim cleared his throat. The thought of the stricken patients—or at least those among them who would have the buboes, or "swellings" (not all forms of the plague produced them)—and already suffering from those exquisitely painful lumps in groin or armpit—having hot tar poured on them while trying to endure it with the stoicism of the age, was beyond imagination. It robbed him of words temporarily, and left him without any of the quick excuses that usually came so easily to him.

  Gwyneth would have to be stopped from trying that barbarous, useless treatment on her patients, but right now he could not think of a way to do it that would not wound her. Well, he could think about it, and maybe Angie would have a suggestion.

  He turned back to the room and raised his voice.

  "You've all done well!" he told them. "But we need more done, and done faster! Let's get that window in, and the glass in the window—and remember, I want the window to open so we've got fresh air, too. Get back to work now, all of you. I'll have some beer sent over."

  The castle staff considered itself above cheering such an announcement, but a strong murmur of gratitude went through the room as he dropped down to floor level and made his exit.

  If Angie had only been awake, it would have been useful to find out from her what she had done while he was gone, and what she had intended to do. But if anyone ever needed sleep right now, it was she. Waking her up was unthinkable. It didn't matter. The servants would tell him what she had done to further her plans—or he would simply have to guess. Somewhere not too far off, she seemed to have located a large supply of the pennyroyal. This room reeked with its mint-like, musty-unpleasant smell.

  One thing was certain. Running around to see what had been accomplished, the way he had started to do with this visit to the new Nursing Room, was not the way to get things done. The center of command at Malencontri had always been the High Table in the Great Hall—the servants had taught him and Angie that from the beginning. In situations like this, the procedure for him was to seat himself at the High Table and call for conferences with his lieutenants.

  Accordingly, he dropped by the Still Room to leave his order for the promised beer, and headed for the Great Hall by the fast route through the servants' quarters. But when he was halfway through the now-empty Serving Room, he heard the sound of women's voices from the area of the High Table. One was Geronde's—sounding rather fierce at the moment—one was the voice of Danielle, and one a voice he did not recognize.

  He stopped, irresolute. It was his table, of course, and if he merely walked in, looked surprised, and then stood hesitating for a moment, the owners of the voices would take the hint and make an excuse to go elsewhere.

  But his early training in twentieth-century manners disagreed with the practical purpose for which he needed the table. So he hesitated where he was, and the words from those at the table came clearly to his ears.

  "… they're all alike!" Geronde was saying, with what seemed to be considerable venom. "Dependable as weather in springtime! He makes agreement, this husband-to-be of mine, that I shall pass by Malencontri on my way from Malvern, to ride up to Smythe Castle for a look at my future home with Brian! But, when I get there he has gone and taken a guest of some sort. I ride hard to get back here and find him and his guest—where?"

  She paused, evidently to take a breath, and almost snarled the last word.

  "Hunting!" She took another breath. "Of all things, with a wedding we've both waited years for—hunting! As soon as he's back and I can say a word or two to him, I'll tell him—"

  Jim sneezed.

  Damn pennyroyal! he thought. Maybe I'm allergic to it—

  Then he forgot all about allergies.

  There had been nothing he could do about the sneeze—no warning at all, and no time to stop it even if he could have. The voices in the Great Hall had fallen suddenly silent.

  There was no way out of this situation now. The faster he moved the better.

  He strode the last few steps to the Great Hall as noisily as he could, and stopped there suddenly, staring at those at the table as if startled to find them there.

  "Forgive me, my ladies," he said, panting discreetly. "I didn't know you were here."

  "Nay, forgive me, James," said Geronde. They were all rising. "I suggested we get something solid to eat down here and we got to talking. You haven't seen Brian, I suppose?"

  "Just a few minutes past," said Jim. "In the courtyard. He and Sir Harimore had just come from hunting. Just happened to run into them, while setting up things for the plague—and getting things ready for your wedding with Brian."

  "Wedding!" muttered Geronde between her teeth. "Oh, forgive me, James. May I name to you Lady Joan Montacute, Countess of Kent. My lady, this is Baron Sir James Eckert, our host."

  "Indeed, I guessed it might be so," said Joan. She made no attempt to give her voice any particularly warm intonation, but the lightness of it, combined with the young-looking Plantagenet features under the blond hair, gave it a quality of friendliness that Jim could not help feeling. "It is an honor and my great pleasure to know you, my lord, but it is clear you have much on your hands at present. We must make haste to withdraw."

  And so they did.

  Jim seated himself at the table, which still held several plates of foods and part-empty wine cups. A small mouse of a servant—another recent recruit, looking to be about ten or twelve years old—crept out of wherever she had been hiding to stand beside his chair.

  "May I fetch you something, Your Lordship?"

  "M'lord can do for everyday purposes," said Jim kindly. "Nothing to eat or drink. But get me my squire—you know Theoluf."

  "Oh yes, your m'lordship."

  Jim sighed internally. She would learn.

  "I want him. I also want my Master of Hounds, my Stable Master, and I want Mistress Plyseth of the Serving Room—no, not Mistress Plyseth, she's needed where she is—get me her apprentice, May Heather. May Heather will help you to get used to things here—tell her I said she was to help you."

  "Yes, your m'lordship."

  "Run along then." She ran.

  Who could tell? In twenty years she could turn out to be one of the most valuable members of the staff.

  "At your service, m'lord," said Theoluf, appearing.

  "Theoluf," Jim said, "what's our strength of men-at-arms right now in the castle—I mean of healthy men?"

  "Frank Short's still not full healed, m'lord—of those cuts he got from his fight with the Bishop's armsman—but they're nothing to stop him if he's needed. Counting him, we've got twelve, counting Yves Mortain as chief man-at-arms."

  "If the plague gets this far west and word gets out we're plague-free here, there could be a lot of people outside the castle trying to get in. Maybe even neighbors—perhaps men of rank. We're setting up a pavilion outside for a quarantine station, but those of rank and others may demand to come in directly."

  "Very true, m'lord."

  "They must be refused, Theoluf!"

  "Aye, my lord!"

  "Now, should we try to get more armsmen while we can still get healthy ones?"

  "I like to watch each one a month at least, before I keep him. Have we that time—pardon my plain speaking, my lord?"

  "No. I don't think we have."

  "Then no, I'd rather not. In the field, maybe. But we've got stout walls to stand behind and servants who've borne steel cap and spear before. I could drill them some on the way they run up the steps to the wall and take their place there, so their caps and spears make them look like better-trained fighters."

  "Do that," said Jim. "Now, I may be gone when you have trouble—or sick myself—"

  "God forfend, my lord!" Theoluf crossed himself.

  "But I may be. How well will you and my lady work together defending the castle? Speak your mind on this."

  "I will, my lord. My lady and I have faced attack here—though they were mostly mere
brushes—when you were gone. We are of like mind in such a defense. I would rather have her over me than many a belted knight I've known. She is not rash—and that is a thing of value."

  "Good."

  "Good it is, my lord, and, if I might be so bold, it may well not come to this. Sir Brian or the Master Bowman may be here when you are gone. Also neither Lady Geronde nor Mistress Danielle lacks some experience to command as I would, or better, should any mischance befall me."

  "It's good of you to remind me of that—"

  Jim broke off in mid-sentence and rose to his feet, seeing Prince Edward was approaching at a swift pace through the Serving Room.

  "Your Grace!" said Jim. "I thought you had left us this morning early."

  "I had so planned," said Edward brusquely. "But—James, come down from there, will you, and let us walk a ways. I must talk to you."

  "Certainly, Your Grace," said Jim, inwardly grinding his teeth at the interruption. "Theoluf, we will continue our talk later. Wait me here."

  He stepped down from the dais and walked off with the Prince through the Serving Room, where he now saw his Master of Hounds, his Stable Master and May Heather, with the mouse at her side, also waiting for his attention.

  "Damned nonsense, dealing with the routine running of a castle," said the Prince, noticing the direction of his glance, then dismissing the three waiting in the Serving Room as if they did not exist. "But never mind that, James—let us find someplace privy, in which to talk—"

  They had passed through the room, and the Prince turned right toward the foot of the stairs that wound up the inside of the tower. There was no one in sight. Edward stopped and turned to Jim, who stopped also.

  "You dealt me a shrewd blow yesterday, James," the Prince said. "I do not blame you for being bound by the laws of your order—but it was a shrewd blow, a shrewd blow nonetheless. Where I had asked for help and never doubted it would be forthcoming, there was none—but enough of that. We Plantagenets know how to take misfortune, James—"

  Not without a lot of talk about it, thought Jim.

  "—So I was determined and ready to take horse this morning to Tiverton and look elsewhere for what was needed. But last night Joan—the Countess—made a suggestion at which the very saints would marvel. She has great wits for such coils as this. Much better than mine ever were—though I doubt not she would be sadly lost about what to do with an army on the field of battle. Whereas I—but that is not the point here. It was quite simple—so simple. You will go back to Tiverton with me to meet with my father for the first time! You have never met, I understand—having merely written him for permission to rid the land of the evil in the Loathly Tower—and received his gracious agreement back by letter."

  He stopped abruptly.

  "You do not see the cleverness of that? Neither did I, James, neither did I—at first. But then she explained—" The Prince failed to notice that Jim had clamped his teeth at that mention of his letter to the King. There had never been such a letter, and the story of it had been a complete fabrication on the part of one or more of the ballad singers who went about the land making their living by embellishing the latest news for entertainment. They had thought it a far more heroic reason for such a deed than the mere rescue of the woman Jim intended to marry.

  "Well, then," said Edward, "you are long overdue for a royal audience, and with my father nearby, why not now?"

  "Why should my meeting him help you?" said Jim, driving to the heart of the matter.

  "Why, once you are known by His Majesty, all but near neighbors, guesting back and forth is natural. Further, it will turn out that I discover one of your guests is my old playmate Joan of Kent, for whom I have a fondness. I can then go back and forth between Tiverton and Malencontri frequently. Sir Verweather may come to you when I am not here to tell you of your audience with my father, and on that trip find one of your castle wenches attracts him. He, too, then, will go back and forth as opportunity presents, but never at the time I do so. As there is little to do for the gentlemen of His Majesty's wardrobe at Tiverton, it may often pass that he and I must cross paths as I come and he goes—or otherwise."

  Edward stopped and looked at Jim triumphantly.

  "And on those crossings," he said, "we will find opportunity to stop and discuss—what we must discuss! What could be wrong with all that?"

  Just the whole practical universe! thought Jim savagely. Clearly, Edward did not take the danger of plague seriously. But changing his mind in that would not be done with an impromptu word or two now. At the moment, the best tactic would probably be to pretend to accept this idea—at least until he could talk it over with Angie.

  "It's certainly worth considering, Your Grace," he said, "but there may be some necessary difficulties if the plague moves in on us—"

  "Come, James!" said Edward. "It will get no further west than London, and if it does, and this plan matures, I give you my word to get you, your wife and ward and the families of your companions, Sir Brian and that archer fellow, his name slips my mind at the moment—something not English—all to safe haven at Tiverton, where Verweather assures me the servants keep things in such a perfect state of cleanliness that no disease could slip past the gates."

  He turned to mount the stairs.

  "But now I must dress and to horse, if I wish to be back at Tiverton before deep dark."

  Chapter Eleven

  Jim returned to the High Table, along the way collecting the three patiently waiting for him in the Warming Room. He sat down at the High Table, beckoning the huntsman to him first.

  "That idea of a couple of terriers to take care of any rats that get into the Nursing Room was a good one, Master Huntsman," he said, sitting down. "Whose idea was it?"

  "Mine, m'lord. My father was a miller, and we always had terriers around for the rats."

  "How many more have we got?"

  "None, m'lord. Craving your pardon for saying it, but it was last March I mentioned there was a litter of at least four more new pups at Sir Hubert's for the having."

  "Last March there was no plague in England, Master Huntsman." Jim had learned almost never to admit a failing on his part to any of his underlings. Not only didn't they expect it, but it actually made them uncomfortable. They preferred to think of him as always trustworthy, never wrong. But the Master Huntsman was annoyed at Jim for almost never going hunting, and in addition he had strict ideas as to what was proper in the kennel of a castle this size.

  "Where can we get some more terriers now, then? Or could we use the hounds instead?"

  "No, m'lord. There are no more terriers to be had now, and hounds will chase, of course, but they rats are so nippy on the turns only a terrier can catch them."

  "Very well. You can go. Send the Stable Master to me."

  "Yes, m'lord," and the Master Huntsman went back to growl among his charges, who all crowded around, licked his face and tried to calm him down.

  "Stable Master," said Jim. "We could end up in something like a six-month siege. How are we supplied for fodder for the horses?"

  "Six months—aye, twelve if necessary—" said the Stable Master, who was a small, wiry man. "Harvest hay just in and granary's full."

  "Good," said Jim. "Who'd take over at the stables, if anything—well, if anything took you away from them for a while?"

  "You mean if I was to catch plague, m'lord? I've two good lads been coming along for some time now. They could even do shoe-work if the blacksmith was like-taken. The great thing for stable-work is to be able to get to know horses—each horse and its own ways, I mean—and both these have that now. Would m'lord care to look at them?"

  "Maybe later," said Jim. "Thank you, Stable Master. That's all for now."

  "Well, May," Jim said, as the last of those who had been waiting came before the High Table, "and what do you think of the Nursing Room?"

  "I think it both wise and good, m'lord."

  "Have you got any opinion—anything you'd say, one way or another—about how
it's being built?"

  May looked a little strange for a moment, staring at him—a split-second only—then answered firmly.

  "No, m'lord. None!"

  "Good," said Jim. "You know, May, my lady paid you a great compliment once, speaking to me. She told me that I'd always get a straight answer from you. You'd always tell me the exact truth, no matter what it might cost you to do that."

  "I speaks my mind, my lord. Always have."

  "I believe that, and so I'm going to ask you a question. If you can't answer it, or don't want to answer it, that's all right. But if you have an answer to give me, it might help with a problem I've got."

  "Yes, my lord?"

  "What do you think of the Countess of Salisbury—the Fair Maid of Kent, as most of the world still knows her?"

  "She is a great lady, my lord."

  "But what is she otherwise being a great lady? What sort of person—what sort of woman is she?"

  May hesitated, her face screwed up in thought.

  "She's no weakling, m'lord. She's a fighter, and not afraid of getting hurt if she chooses wrong. But she's nice, too."

  "Nice?"

  "Yes, my lord. You know—nice."

  Jim pondered. Angie had used that same word to describe Joan of Kent, and it was not a word she used often. Now that he stopped to think of it, he had never heard it used by one woman about another, here in this fourteenth-century world—and also come to think of it, he could not remember hearing it used often, if at all, by women of his and Angie's own original world.

  What did the word mean to a woman's mind here? Men did not call each other "nice," and if they had, it might well not have been a compliment—as it sounded as if it was, here. Strange…

  "Well, thank you, May," he said. "You lived up to what my lady said about you. You can go now."