The Dragon and the Fair Maid of Kent

by Gordon R. Dickson

  But she hesitated, her eyes searching his face.

  "Was what I said any use to you, m'lord?"

  "You were a great help."

  "Good!" said May, and went off.

  Later on he got a chance to ask Angie. By that time, though the late end-of-summer twilight still lingered outside the windows, they were together, back up in the Solar, getting ready for supper down in the Great Hall, and Angie was slept up and awake.

  "You said Edward's Joan was 'nice,' " he said to her without working up to the subject. "This afternoon May Heather used the same word to describe her. What did you and she mean by 'nice'?"

  "What May meant by it—" said Angie muffledly through the gown she was pulling over her head. Her face emerged, speaking clearly, "—I've no idea, of course. I just meant 'nice.' "

  "That doesn't help me much," said Jim. "I'd like to know if she's somebody who can control the Prince."

  "In some ways she probably can. I think so, anyway. But you have to make up your own mind, and you haven't even got to know her yet. Why not? And why do you want her to control the Prince?"

  "I don't want to know if she can do it. I want to know how much of what he's doing is her doing. He and the Bishop blow up at each other, she promises he'll be all over it in the next morning—and he is. I tell him I can't let him involve Malencontri and us in what Cumberland could claim was a treasonable plot. He almost blows up again. But the morning after that he shows up reconciled to it, but with a brand-new plan she suggested to him. She sounds more like an experienced con woman than someone 'nice.' "

  "What plan?" asked Angie.

  "For me to drop everything here and go meet the King at Tiverton." He told her about it in all the detail Edward had given him.

  "What a time to ask you to go!"

  "I know."

  "Particularly with all this plague preparation, to say nothing of the wedding. If her marriage to Brian gets delayed any more, Geronde is going to go up in smoke!"

  "She would, too," said Jim, thinking of Geronde.

  "You can count on it," Angie said. "I've already had to tell her it's got to be put off at least one more week, and you ought to have seen her! I think for two seconds she was ready to kill me—if she'd had a weapon to hand at the time."

  "Another week? I don't blame her. Why that?"

  "The plague preparations, for one. Neighbors from all over Somerset will be coming. If we've got everything in place and finished by that time, it'll give them a chance to get used to all of it ahead of time. They'll just tell themselves we're alarmists, or that maybe they ought to start fixing up their own places against the sickness coming this far west—never thinking of the possibility they might be among the people asking to be let into Malencontri, and finding themselves being sent to the quarantine pavilion instead."

  "Well, yes, but—"

  "All that to be done—plus the fact no one knew the Bishop was going to come by here and bless the chapel, in the first place. But now he's done that, the place has to be cleaned out and set up properly—and we've got to get Geronde's own priest from Malvern to hold Mass after the wedding."

  "She doesn't have to have Mass after her marriage on the chapel steps, does she? Most people don't."

  "But not when there's one suddenly available, like this—as if the place was blessed specially for the wedding!"

  "Never did understand all that fuss over the chapel being unclean," grumbled Jim. "Nobody ever was able to tell me why it should be. It was just saddles, grain and other ordinary stuff that'd been stored in it."

  The fuss he spoke of had arisen during and after the period of Sir Hugh de Bois' occupation of Malencontri. As Jim had just said, the chapel, unused, had gradually become a storeroom. It was only later that stories began to transform it into a place of devilish worship and practice—virgins abducted and raped, black arts indulged in, and so forth.

  But if the arcane filth of the stories had no basis in anything but the imaginations of the countryside, more than a few years of dirt, grime and ordinary filth had undeniably done its work. Jim could believe the wedding would have to be put off to clean that out—on top of the additional labors of preparations against the plague.

  "But about the King wanting you—!" said Angie. "If the Prince just left, and if his father wants to see you—come to think of it, he'll want you there almost immediately—Four hours from now Edward could be telling him to expect you… Jim—on second thought, you've got to go right away, as soon as you can."

  "Right away? After you just finished reminding me of all the things needing to be done here?"

  "I can handle them! It'll be that much more impossible for you to go later on. How can you leave if the wedding's just a few days away—or the day it's happening—or for that matter the next five or eight days while most of the guests make a week-long celebration out of it. Kings don't like it when people dawdle about coming when they're summoned! And that's what you've just been, remember? Not invited—summoned!"

  "Yes," said Jim, suddenly remembering. "Also, I wouldn't put it past Brian and Harimore to organize a sort of tournament where the two of them could ride against each other to show how it was done properly. Then all the young squires and gentlemen could try some spear-breakings between them."

  It was true. The fourteenth century did not lack for ideas when it came to entertaining themselves.

  "—And don't forget," whispered Angie as they finally entered the Great Hall, fully and properly dressed. "Get to know Joan for yourself—there she is," she went on, like a mother coaching her small and bashful son, "you're the host—you're supposed to say 'hello' to her!"

  "Hello," said Jim, going up to Joan—and checked himself, "which is to say, in the language of the far-away land from which my lady-wife and I come—forgive me for not welcoming you more properly to our small castle, but I only got back late last night, and of course with this news of the plague there were matters I should have seen to myself, had I been here—which required attention desperately. None of which, of course, excuses my not waiting on you until now to offer you all that Malencontri offers and contains—"

  She smiled widely, unselfconsciously, at him. The smile went well with the fresh, young face under the blond hair. He noticed it made two dimples in her cheeks, one at each corner of her mouth.

  He was not someone who usually noticed dimples, and he had almost forgotten that in this historical period the word "fair" meant blond first, and beautiful only second. Joan of Kent seemed to merit both meanings—or was it her voice, the easy charm of her attitude, that was making him think of her as beautiful? Dafydd's wife, Danielle, was an undeniable beauty—and knew it—but somehow, Jim now found himself sure that if she and Joan were side by side, Joan would win hands down—

  He came out of his welter of thoughts with a jerk. She was talking to him.

  "There is no need for such an elaborate apology, my good Lord Baron. I know as well as you that it is Edward with his special needs that has multiplied your burdens at this time. It is rather for me to apologize for adding to those burdens by being here myself."

  "No. Not at all—"

  "Come, come, my lord—and may I speak you simply as Sir James, as all else around you seem to do—let us speak plainly to each other."

  "Certainly, my lady—"

  "And you will address me simply as Lady Joan."

  "I will be honored," said Jim, reflecting for the first time that it would indeed be uncomfortable for someone socially sensible to speak formally to all around her when they chatted comfortably among themselves on a casual level, "—and I agree about speaking plainly, too. That always makes things easier for everyone."

  Again she smiled, and the dimples were even deeper this time.

  "As for His Grace's special needs—"

  "Let us agree not to speak of them." It was remarkable the way she could interrupt like that, thought Jim, without seeming to break in rudely. "I came with him, because my Lord Salisbury is in France for four mon
ths yet, and Edward needed someone who had faith he could defy Cumberland. What he has spoken to me about his plans, and what he has said to you may be different parts of a whole. If he had wished the two of us to know the whole itself he would have told us so, I am sure. Since he has not—"

  For once, it was she who was interrupted. The last two guests due to meet with the rest of them for dinner had finally arrived. The latecomers were Brian and Sir Harimore.

  "You are somewhat late, Sir Brian!" said Geronde with a curiously grating undertone to her voice. Discomfort woke in Jim. Evidently the two had not had time to iron out Geronde's upset even yet. Hastily, he spoke to Harimore.

  "Sir!" he said. "The Countess Joan of Salisbury has not yet had the chance of having you named to her. Perhaps I might do that now. My lady, may I name to you Sir Harimore Kilinsworth."

  Harimore turned for the first time to look squarely at Joan, and a remarkable change took him over as he did so. He straightened up, took three steps toward Joan and bowed—a bow that might have graced an introduction at court, but so distorted by a sudden stiffness of all his body and a certain jerkiness with which it was performed that it became almost a parody of the polite gesture.

  When he straightened up, his face had gone bony and grim.

  "A great honor to be named to you, m'lady," he said harshly. "I shall treasure the moment in my memory."

  Joan did not seem at all put out. She smiled as warmly at him as she had at Jim. The smile, however, did nothing to soften Harimore's stiffness and grimness.

  "It will be only fair, then," Joan said, "that I treasure it, too," she said. "I know of you by reputation as a famous jouster."

  "My lady," grated Harimore, "I have had some small success."

  "You must tell me about it at dinner. I love to hear of such martial exercises."

  A light went on in Jim's mind. Of course, the two must sit together. That would solve two problems at once: where to place each man to best fit in socially, and how to separate Harimore from Brian, so that the table could avoid hearing the two of them talking weapons all evening long—which might well lead to an increase in Geronde's still lively anger.

  "I shall look forward to it, my lady," said Harimore, with the demeanor of a knight just told he was about to be tortured.

  "And so shall I." Joan glanced at Jim. "So, perhaps, with all of us being here now, our host—"

  "By all means!" said Jim. "Oh, my lady, I did not name to you as well Sir Brian Neville Smythe—of the Nevilles of Raby."

  "I encountered Sir Brian earlier in the day, and we are now acquainted."

  "And," said Jim, looking at those at the table with hard eyes and no lowering of his voice, "Master Archer Dafydd ap Hywel and his wife—"

  "I have not yet met Master Dafydd, but I have already had the chance of meeting for a moment only with his lady wife—" there was a delicate but precise emphasis on the "lady" in Joan's clear voice. "I will be deeply pleasured to sit at table with the paladin known as the Master of all Master Archers."

  "Then," said Jim, relaxing with a feeling of relief, but with his eyes still holding those of the other guests, "there is no need for further talk. If you will take this chair here at the top of the High Table, Lady Joan…"

  And they settled themselves to supper.

  However, it was not a very successful dinner, though the quality and variety of dishes served, the promptness of service and the best of high formal manners to avoid contention at table tried hard to make it so. Geronde and Brian were plainly still not back on good terms, and the best efforts of Joan of Kent failed to thaw by a degree Sir Harimore, who seemed to grow even more stiff, grim and uncomfortable.

  Jim watched him for a long moment as the last of the meat courses was carried off to make room for the desserts, then swiveled his gaze to catch Angie's attention and raised his eyebrows. She answered with a slight shrug of her shoulders, and with a momentary sideways glance directed his wordless question to Brian.

  But Brian was not by nature or training accustomed to deciphering facial signals alone in a delicate social situation. He paid no attention to Jim's attempts to catch his eye.

  Finally, the unhappy supper came to an end and the women went off together, at Angie's suggestion that the men should be left to talk about theoretically more important matters. This way of considering it hinted at some special, secret reason for the gathering beyond eating—possibly an explanation as to why Gentlemen and Ladies had found themselves sitting down to table side by side with a common archer and his wife… on the other hand, under the circumstances—maybe not.

  One thing Jim was sure of was that the odd behavior of Sir Harimore would not be discussed—not with Harimore still sitting at the table straight as an arrow, upright and potentially as deadly as that same arrow shot by the Master of all Master Archers from a table's length away. But as the women disappeared toward the stairs leading to the Solar, Harimore gave a barely audible sigh, and very visibly relaxed. He filled his mazer with wine, ignored the water pitcher right beside him, and drank deeply.

  "Nothing much larger than a rabbit turned up on our hunt this morn," he announced to the table. "In spite of the fact now is still the season for stags. But I have found them strangely scarce elsewhere as well this year. I venture to say none of you—" His eye checked on Dafydd, who had sat quietly through the meal, having no one to talk to but Danielle, or Jim, who was at the far end of the table from him. But then, Dafydd had never been the talkative sort, anyway.

  "—venture none of you all had much luck this season," Harimore wound up. "Was that not so for you, Sir Brian?"

  "What? Oh, stags. More or less," jerked out Brian, whose head was apparently full of things he had not thought of in time to say to Geronde.

  "Doubtless, it is all this rain that is responsible," said Harimore, taking another great swallow of wine and stretching out his legs under the table while leaning back in his chair. "It meseems a matter of—"

  He became visibly aware, suddenly, that the other three men at the table were watching him intently, none of them drinking, and showing no indication of picking up the conversation. His face stiffened again.

  "Gentlemen—" he cleared his throat "—my lord, if you and these others would be kind enough to forgive me, I find myself taken by an old malady for which the only remedy is to lie down. It comes on suddenly and unexpectedly, as you see. So, if you will graciously excuse my leaving you at this time, I would appreciate it."

  Polite murmurs of agreement from the rest at the table. Harimore rose to his feet, looking indeed somewhat wobbly and pale, descended from the dias and walked off unsteadily in the direction of the tower stairs.

  "Strange," said Brian, looking at the corner around which Harimore had vanished. "In a lesser man I would have said he was overcome with taking his wine too quickly."

  "I believe," said Dafydd, speaking for the first time, but in a courtly voice and with no tinge of deference, "the noble knight may be one of those uncomfortable with women."

  "Uncomfortable with women?" Brian stared at Dafydd, then frowned darkly. "Dafydd, I'll have you know Sir Harimore cares—"

  "You mistake me, Sir Brian," said Dafydd, "indeed I would believe that he cares for women very much. But the more he cares the more he is afflicted by the curse of not being sure how he should act and speak in front of them—except in certain instances wherein he has learned what to say and do. In all else, he knows not what to do beyond making great show of not caring."

  Ah? said the faces of the others.

  "But in truth," Dafydd went on, "the greater his care for a woman, the greater his show of uncaring—to the point where he might seem offensive. I am afraid he has been greatly taken by the Countess."

  "Indeed?" said Brian. "I have never seen or heard of such a thing. What makes you so sure your thoughts are right?"

  "I have seen at least two other gentlemen so afflicted—and one lady."

  "A lady?" Brian stared.

  "With her, of
course, it was different. She wished much for a gentleman who would care for her, but feared all men so greatly, she would never adventure even a close friendship with anyone not a woman. A sad matter."

  "James?" said Brian. "Were you aware of such things—and what will cure them?"

  "I've run into one or two," said Jim, stoutly backing Dafydd, "but I've never seen a man or woman as unhappy with that curse as Sir Harimore."

  "What can be done for Sir Harimore, then, James? He is a highly respected knight and debater with all weapons—but I would see him freed of this strange curse if I could."

  "If you mean a magical cure, Brian, there's none I know of," Jim said. "He may only pray to be freed."

  "I would not say otherwise," put in Dafydd. "Yet, there are forms of manners in speaking with a lady in which he might avoid uncertainty, and in that way, with practice come to be more at his ease. He could practice easy conversation with a number of ladies until such talk comes naturally to him—it is no different than practicing with bow at a mark, or practice with any weapon. In royal courts, such as the one I have some familiarity with, many such conversations take place as a natural course of things. It only requires the courage to begin."

  "I will go surely for his courage," Brian said. Dafydd said nothing.

  "I think Dafydd was speaking of another kind of courage," said Jim.

  "Nonetheless, if it would please you, Sir Brian," said Dafydd, getting to his feet, "I do not know if he would listen—I am not a man of great estate or of persuasion, look you—but if you think it might aid him, I would venture to ask his permission to speak him on the subject, now."

  "Do you think now is the proper time?" said Brian. For while Harimore was a fellow knight and a respected competitor, Dafydd had fought side by side with Brian on several occasions since the assault on the Loathly Tower, some years back now. There was no question where Brian's loyalty lay if it came to a choice between the two men. Furthermore, Harimore had no idea—because Dafydd had asked his friends to keep his secret—that Dafydd was a Prince in his ancestral Kingdom of the Drowned Land, and so Harimore might well dismiss any approach by the bowman offhand.