Song of the Gargoyle

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  As he had done in the Sombrous, Tymmon built a campfire and stacked near it wood enough to last until dawn. Troff was restless, sniffing the air and listening to every sound, eager to go off on a hunting expedition, as he had done in the forest. But Tymmon did not want him to leave.

  “There is food enough in the pack for tonight,” he told the gargoyle. “And before tomorrow is over we should be on Austerneve land and among farms and villages. Stay here with us tonight.”

  So Troff agreed and satisfied himself with bread and sausage, and when they had all eaten, they spread their blankets beside the fire. But for a long time Tymmon was unable to sleep.

  He could not sleep because he could not close his eyes without seeing again things he did not want to see, the silent valley, the mist-shrouded manor, and the haunted eyes of the old-young nursemaid with her prayers and flowers. And other things not really seen but that now arose in clear and sharp detail before the eyes of his mind—a once young and lovely lady who would lie forever at the foot of a grand staircase, an old man sprawled in death before a fireplace, and bloody handprints on an open door through which could be seen the cradles and toys of a nursery. At last he stopped even trying to sleep and, wrapping his blanket around his shoulders, sat with his chin on his knees and stared into the fire.

  He had not been sitting there for long when Dalia came to sit beside him, and soon afterwards, Petrus.

  “You could not sleep either?” he asked, and they nodded and moved closer. Troff, too, changed his position, crowding in to sprawl across Tymmon’s feet. For a long while they remained silent, even Petrus, and when at last he did speak it was only to say, “Talk to us, Boy. Tell us about something far away and a long, long time ago.”

  So Tymmon began to tell them about when he was a child—“as old as you are now, Petrus.” He told them about Mistress Mim, the shoemaker’s wife, who had been his nurse when he was very young. How she had fed and clothed him and taught him his prayers, since Komus, who taught him everything else, was not one for much praying.

  “She sometimes scolded Komus—Lindor, I mean—for not teaching me to pray, and sometimes for letting me run wild all day playing at war with Lonfar. But Kom—my father, didn’t really let me run wild, at least not all the time. When he was free—when he was not needed by the king—he spent much of his time with me, teaching me to read and write, and sing and play the flute and rebec.”

  It had been a long time since Tymmon had allowed himself to remember fully those early simple years when he had been proud to be the son of the wonderfully talented minstrel and court jester of Austerneve. But now that he had begun, the memories kept flooding back. Memories of games played with his father. Complicated riddling and guessing games that continued sometimes for days at a time. And miming games, too, in which they took it in turns to silently imitate some citizen of Austerneve, while the other tried to guess who was being impersonated.

  Leaping to his feet, Tymmon began to imitate, in just the way Komus had done it, the castle’s chief cook, waddling around the kitchen sniffing and tasting, and slapping any unlucky scullery maid or water boy who happened to get within reach.

  When he had returned to his place by the fire, Petrus said, “And did your father teach you to hunt, too?”

  “To hunt?” Tymmon said, puzzled, before he remembered that, according to his own telling, his father, Lindor of Nordencor, was supposedly a huntsman.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Of course he taught me to hunt. Hunting, of course. But my father was a man of many talents and he taught me many other things as well.”

  Petrus nodded. “Do I get two coppers if I remember all the things he taught you?”

  Tymmon shook his head, smiling ruefully. “You could not possibly remember all the things he taught me. He taught me—so much. Things that I am only now beginning to understand myself.”

  “Hmmm,” Petrus said, thoughtfully. And then after a moment, “Why does he have two names? Sometimes you call him Komus.”

  “Do I?” Tymmon said. “I suppose it was only a slip of the tongue.”

  “Hmmm,” Petrus said again. “Do I get two coppers if I forget that sometimes his name be Komus?” They both laughed. “Go to sleep,” Tymmon said. “It is very late, and we must be on our way early in the morning.

  The children returned then to their own blankets, and after he had built up the fire, Tymmon did also. But now when he closed his eyes he no longer saw the manor house and its horrors. Instead there was Komus impersonating the cook, and then Lord Bumpplon, the fat and pompous chief councilor to King Austern. And then, dimly seen through approaching dreams, he watched Komus’s imitation of Father Nominus, the doddering old priest, who often went to sleep in the midst of masses and other rituals. And then Tymmon, too, went fast asleep.

  SIXTEEN

  BY MIDMORNING OF THE following day they were nearing the outskirts of the Unterrike Woods. The trees were smaller here and grew less densely. Now and then, when the high ground sloped more steeply, it was possible to catch a glimpse of the open land of the valley below.

  It was Troff who was first aware that something was approaching. Pausing suddenly, he turned his huge, blunt-snouted head to the left and then to the right, sniffed the air, and made a warning noise deep in his throat. Then Tymmon heard it, too, a deep rhythmic pounding, the sound of an approaching horse, running at top speed.

  Grabbing the children’s hands, and calling urgently for Troff to follow, he retreated up the hill to where a clump of saplings offered cover. Among the bushy young trees he crouched, pulled the others down beside him, and waited, his heart pounding.

  The thundering beat grew louder and with it another familiar sound, or pattern of sounds. The squeak and clink and rattle of an armed and armored knight riding at full gallop. It was a sound well known to any who, like Tymmon, had been an eager observer at a great many jousts and tournaments.

  “What be it,” Petrus whispered, tugging at Tymmon’s elbow.

  Tymmon had no more than answered “A knight. It is a knight—on horseback,” when the horse burst into view and bore down on them at top speed. A huge thick-chested bay, wild-eyed and heavily lathered with sweat, and on his back a rider in richly ornamented armor—who had clearly lost all control of his enormous steed.

  The horse, his mouth twisted open and his massive neck bowed against the pull of the reins, charged down the hill while the shining knight, off balance and with one foot out of its stirrup, bounced and clattered and shouted curses. But the runaway held his course, straight toward a great oak tree with wide spreading branches.

  Tymmon was wincing and ducking his own head in anticipation of what was to come when the rider’s helmet met a low-hanging limb with a resounding clang. A sound quickly followed by another metallic thud and clatter as the heavily armored body hit the earth. The horse continued on and soon disappeared into the valley, his thundering hoofbeats fading away to nothing. Silence returned. The fallen knight lay perfectly still and made no sound at all.

  For several moments Tymmon’s group sat frozen, staring at the fallen warrior in horrified surprise. Then Tymmon rose to his feet and with the others close behind him—Troff sniffing noisily and Dalia whimpering with anxiety—made his way down to the scene of the accident.

  The knight lay flat on his back with one leg twisted awkwardly beneath the other and with his arms thrown out on each side. His suit of armor was, indeed, richly decorated and fashioned in the latest style. It was also clearly very new with no sign of rust or wear, and with none of the dents and nicks such as were often acquired in repeated wars or tournaments. No dents except, of course, for a deep crease that now ran across the helmet just above the visor, where the oak tree’s branch had struck.

  On the breastplate a coat of arms was richly inlaid with gold and silver, depicting in its center the figure of a rampant griffin, half eagle and half lion.

  Tymmon gasped. It was the coat of arms of the baron of Unterrike. And this poor victim, possibly dea
d or dying, might well be the baron himself or his son, the baronet Quantor, the young lord who had been living in King Austern’s court and to whom Lonfar was pledged as squire. Except that Tymmon remembered the baron as being much too heavily built to fit into this particular suit of armor. And the baronet, who would still be in service at Austerneve, would not likely be riding alone here in the Unterrike Woods. But whoever it was, it was clear that he was in desperate need of help.

  Bracing himself for the sight of a terrible bloody wound, Tymmon reached out, touched the gleaming helmet, and then carefully lifted its visor.

  There was no blood. And the youthful face, comely at first glance but somehow lacking in form and structure, was not that of the baron, nor of the baronet. The palely lashed eyes were tightly closed, and except for the large discolored lump on his forehead, the young knight might have seemed only to be peacefully asleep.

  “Be he dead, Boy? Be the knight dead?” Petrus was on his hands and knees, with his nose only inches from the opened visor.

  “I do not know,” Tymmon said. Pushing Petrus back, he leaned forward and placed his ear close to the mouth and nose of the unconscious man. Then he shook his head. “No. He is not dead. At least not yet. I can hear him breathing.”

  Beside him, Dalia let out a quavering sigh of relief. Then she poked Tymmon and pointed down at the twisted leg.

  “Yes,” Tymmon told her. “You are right. Here, Petrus. Lift the other leg while I try to straighten this one.”

  With the twisted leg in a more natural position, Tymmon sat back and tried to decide what else it might be well to do. At first he could think of nothing, and for several minutes the four of them, Tymmon and Troff on one side and Petrus and Dalia on the other, sat quietly around the body like mourners at a wake.

  But then Tymmon noticed that the flare at the rear of the helmet caused the knight’s head to be tipped forward in what would surely be an uncomfortable position. After lifting the visor and unbuckling the neck strap, he removed the entire helmet and again revealed the pale, pudgy face. And the whole head as well, where stiff blond hair escaped around the edges of a heavily padded hood. The lump on the forehead was darkening, but now the lips were moving slightly, and the eyelids twitching.

  Freeing the head seemed to have been successful, so the injured leg came next. As Tymmon removed the sabaton, a foot covering of overlapping plates, he gave it to Dalia for safe keeping, and handed the greave, the guard for the lower leg, to Petrus. Then he examined the leg. Even through the padded leggings, and silken hose the swelling was apparent. He was touching it gently, feeling for a break, when the knight moaned sharply and opened his eyes.

  He stared first at Tymmon and then at the two children. Then he raised his head, bellowed something unintelligible but clearly threatening, moaned loudly, and clutched his brow.

  Tymmon waited until he released his hold and again opened his eyes. “Sir,” he began, “I fear you are gravely...

  “My sabaton. What are you doing with my sabaton?” the knight shouted at Dalia. “Put it down, you little thief.”

  And when Tymmon again tried to explain that he and the others were only trying to help, he was again interrupted by angry shouts. It took some time before Tymmon was able to complete his message. Indeed, it might have taken far longer if it had not been that the fallen warrior’s shouts clearly were causing tormenting pain in his wounded head, so that each bellow was followed by a moment of anguished silence. It was only into these momentary hushes that Tymmon was able to offer his message that no one intended to steal anything and that they only wished to be of help.

  At last the young knight ceased to bellow and regarded Tymmon with silent suspicion while he began to explain how he and his family had happened by “just as your lordship’s horse came charging down...

  At the mention of his horse the young man again began to curse and shout. “Where is he? Where is that son of Satan? Bring him here! I’ll beat him to a bloody pulp! I’ll cut out his treacherous heart and...

  At that point he again clutched his head, and in the silence that followed, Tymmon was able to say that he could not fetch the horse as he had long since disappeared, and to ask if there was anything else that his lordship would like him to do.

  At first the young man could not decide. The knight—who soon announced himself to be Lord Wilfar, youngest son of the baron of Unterrike—gave an order, and then changed his mind. His first demand was for Tymmon’s party to go at top speed to Unterrike to fetch help. But then, as they were preparing to obey, he suddenly revised the order.

  “Once out of my sight you’ll likely only fetch back some older members of your thieving tribe to slit my throat and steal the rest of my belongings. No. You will stay with me. All of you. You will help me to make my own way back to the castle.”

  But after his first attempt to gain his feet, he reverted to the first plan, and then once again changed back. It was not until an hour at least had passed, and much preparation had been completed by Tymmon, that the decision was final, and the procession was under way.

  First came the young knight, stripped now of all his gleaming armor. Leaning on a long staff on one side and Tymmon on the other, and with his injured leg bound and splinted, he managed to hobble forward with much groaning and swearing. He had, however, refused to part with his sword: strapped around his waist, the gem-encrusted scabbard flopped to and fro, constantly whacking Tymmon’s shins as they lurched forward.

  Behind this stumbling pair followed Troff and the two children, whose progress too was slow, burdened as they were by various bits and pieces of armor. The breastplate and backplate hung across Troff’s back over his already heavy pack. Petrus wore the dented helmet, at first with some pride and pleasure, and carried various pieces of leg harness. Even little Dalia struggled along under the weight of brassards and gauntlets. Crippled and heavily laden, the little caravan moved forward in fits and starts.

  They rested first in the shade of an old elm. Leaning back against the tree trunk, Sir Wilfar drank from Tymmon’s water gourd, drank again, and then leaned back limply and closed his eyes. Petrus and Dalia squatted nearby and stared at their new traveling companion with open curiosity. Troff had collapsed some distance away. He seemed anxious, aloof, and watchful. But when Tymmon came to him and removed his burden of pack and armor, he grinned and quickly rolled on his back, offering his stomach for a scratch.

  “Hey, old friend,” Tymmon whispered, “what do you think? Will it be wise for us to go to Unterrike? It is very near to Austerneve, you know.”

  The gargoyle’s only answer was to ask for more scratching, but later, when Sir Wilfar opened his eyes, frowned at the children, and told them to move away, Troff clearly said that he did not like the young knight. And Tymmon grinned and said he felt much the same. “But I suppose we must help him on a little farther. Perhaps we will soon meet some of his people, and then we will be allowed to continue on to Austerneve.”

  Tymmon went back then to sit near the injured knight. A number of questions had occurred to him, and when Sir Wilfar opened his eyes, he ventured one of them.

  “How is it, sir, that you were riding alone and in full armor so far from your castle?”

  The question aroused more oaths and mutterings, but then an answer was forthcoming. “I had decided to leave early for the tournament, before the rest of my father’s party had finished their everlasting preparations. I wanted to arrive early to accustom my new horse to the lists—curse his evil heart—and to be the first to register my name, that I might get my choice of the contenders’ pavilions. My squire and I left before the others and took the faster route through the foothills, but we had not gone far when the faithless wretch deserted me. He was riding behind me and I did not realize that he had gone until it was too late. I went back to look for him but he had disappeared.”

  Tymmon was aghast. Such behavior in a pledged squire violated the oath of loyalty, one of the most sacred charges of chivalry. “Why would he do su
ch a thing? Are you sure he was not silently ambushed by brigands or...

  “No. He deserted,” Sir Wilfar said and then went on to give his reasons for thinking so. His faithless squire, foisted upon him for political reasons it seemed, was the heir to a nearby estate. The spoiled and pampered only son of some minor noble, he had from early on been surly and resentful. “And today when I disciplined him by bringing my riding crop down across his shoulders he muttered something rebellious, and it was shortly thereafter that he disappeared. I will see to it that he is charged with treason, and also with endangering my life.”

  “Endangering your life?” Tymmon asked.

  “Yes, indeed. It was only because of my anger when I realized that I had been deserted, that I reacted as I did when Avenger shied at a shadow and almost unseated me. In my just and understandable wrath I forgot for a moment that the beast’s trainer had warned that he would bolt if he were beaten over the head, and I... He shrugged.

  “I see,” Tymmon said solemnly, hiding the smile that might have given away his sudden conviction that the steed, Avenger, had cleverly made use of an oak tree branch to live up to his name.

  “And now I will miss the tournament at Austerneve and my first opportunity to gain fame and glory in the lists. And it is all the fault of...

  He rambled on but Tymmon had ceased to listen. “Austerneve?” he asked. “There is to be a tournament at Austerneve?”

  “Yes. To celebrate the betrothal of my brother, Quantor, to the princess Arnica, King Austern’s granddaughter and heir.”

  “Princess Arnica?” Tymmon gasped in disbelief. The small pale child he had often seen in the great hall at Austerneve, who even now could not be more than eight or nine years of age.

  “Of course she is still quite young,” Sir Wilfar said as if in answer to his thoughts, “but the wedding will not take place for some years, and in the meantime... He grinned, and silently Tymmon supplied what he was obviously thinking. In the meantime the baronet would be recognized as the legal heir to all the lands and holdings of Austerneve.