Song of the Gargoyle

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  It was a short time later, while he was strapping Troff into his pack and armor, that Tymmon noticed that Sir Wilfar was watching him with some interest. And it was when they were again under way, stumbling slowly down toward the road that could now be seen in the valley far below, that the knight began to ask questions about the gargoyle.

  “What breed is he?” he asked. “I have seen dogs of similar shape and conformation in the low countries, but none quite so large and of such a striking appearance. You should outfit him with a spiked collar and enter him in the dogfights in the villages. One could win a small fortune with such a dog if he is as fierce as he looks.”

  And when Tymmon said he did not know the name of the breed but that he understood it was one developed for the hunting of bear and boar, the knight’s interest seemed even keener.

  “And is your dog trained for hunting, then?” he asked.

  “He is a great hunter,” Tymmon said proudly, and then, watching the eager gleam in the young knight’s eyes, he suddenly wished that he had said no, that Troff was entirely useless as a hunter and as a fighter as well.

  On the rest of the journey there was no more talk of Troff. Instead Sir Wilfar began to describe his recent knighting. As they stumbled forward with the large and well-fleshed youth leaning heavily on Tymmon’s shoulder, he spoke at great length of the glories of knighthood and of the inspiring ceremony that had so recently raised him to that exalted level.

  He told of the fasting and bathing that had preceded the long night’s vigil kneeling in the deserted church, and then of the glorious oath-taking before the assembled nobles. He went on then to tell of his high hopes for fame and glory since he was obviously so well suited to knighthood. Well suited to join the ranks of the loyal and courageous men who loved honor above all else and welcomed bloody battle as the most noble and glorious of all conditions of life.

  They had almost reached the highroad and Tymmon, exhausted as much by Sir Wilfar’s tongue as by the weight of his body, was no longer making much response, when a sudden question sprang to his lips unbidden.

  “Sir Wilfar,” he hastily inserted into a momentary pause, “do you know of a deserted manor house about a day’s journey to the south in the direction of Bidborn?”

  “A deserted manor?” Wilfar repeated. And then, “Oh, yes. In a valley below the highroad? A tall structure with towers at the four corners and built of pale gray stone?”

  “Yes,” Tymmon said. “That is the one.”

  Sir Wilfar chuckled. “It is Unterrike property now,” he said. “It was once held by the family of a minor noble known as Dannold, but it is now part of Unterrike, fairly won in honorable combat.”

  “Fairly won in honorable combat?” Tymmon whispered. “Were you there, sir, when Dannold Hall was taken?”

  “Was I there?” Wilfar said disgustedly. “No, I was not. I very much wanted to be, but that was some two years ago, before my knighting, and my father refused to let me ride with him and Quantor. But I have since been with him on other dangerous undertakings. I have...

  “But, sir,” Tymmon interrupted, “I thought the High King had outlawed such private battles. I thought...

  Wilfar laughed. “The High King is far away and he seldom hears of such small misunderstandings between neighbors. And even if he should, my father has heard that a gift of suitable generosity can turn aside his anger.”

  Tymmon staggered, shaken by a flood of violent emotions, and Sir Wilfar cursed his awkwardness. At that moment the injured knight came very close to being unceremoniously dumped on the ground and left to fend for himself. In fact he surely would have been had there not been a sudden shout from Petrus.

  “Look. Look, Boy. An army. Down there on the road.”

  It was true. Far down on the valley floor an army, or at least a large procession of horsemen, had come into view on the low road that led to Austerneve. At least a dozen knights in full armor led the party, followed by thirty or forty squires, pages, and other attendants. Up and down the column banners fluttered and the sunlight glinted off shining armor, gem-encrusted satins and velvets, and the sleek hides of well-groomed horses. And behind the procession a great column of dust rose up from under the horses’ hooves and drifted backwards like a following white cloud.

  It was, no doubt, a glorious and stirring sight, but at the moment Tymmon was too troubled and harassed to appreciate it. On the one hand Sir Wilfar was dragging him down the steep hillside yelling and shouting, while behind them Dalia was shrieking in wild hysteria.

  But although Wilfar and Tymmon staggered downward as fast as they could and the young knight’s shouted summons seemed loud enough to alert an entire kingdom, no one from the passing army looked up or answered. Deafened, no doubt, by their own clanking, jangling, clopping progress, they seemed to hear nothing, and soon passed from view, hidden by their trailing cloud of dust.

  Tymmon broke away then and ran back to comfort Dalia, who had collapsed in a moaning, trembling heap.

  Petrus crouched over her, vainly patting her back. “It be the army that frighted her,” he said. “It be like the one that came to our farm. Just like that one.”

  Sitting beside Dalia, Tymmon pulled her onto his lap and cradled her while he told her over and over again that the army had meant them no harm and that they were now gone away.

  By then Sir Wilfar, who had necessarily remained where Tymmon had left him, had begun to shout for him to return. Again Tymmon considered going off and leaving the knight to find other rescuers as best he might, but in the end he relented and returned with a suggestion.

  “I’m afraid, sir, that we can go no farther as we are. As you can see, the path below us becomes much steeper. But perhaps I could send Petrus down to the road to stop the next travelers and ask them for assistance.”

  Wilfar considered the proposal suspiciously for some moments before he agreed. But agree he finally did. And so it was that before another hour had passed Petrus had stopped an ox cart and enlisted the help of a farmer. A large and muscular farmer who lifted the young knight onto his back like a sack of flour and carried him down to his cart.

  And soon afterwards Tymmon, Troff, and the two children were packed into the ox cart along with Sir Wilfar and his arms and armor. And the cart was on its way back toward the south and the Castle of Unterrike.

  SEVENTEEN

  TYMMON HAD NOT MEANT to go to Unterrike. Once Sir Wilfar had been safely settled in the ox cart, along with his ankle-bruising sword and all his various bits and pieces of armor, Tymmon had bidden him and the farmer good-bye and Godspeed. But as he took Petrus and Dalia’s hands and turned toward the north, the knight called to him.

  “Halt, lad,” he said in a surprisingly pleasant tone of voice. “Do not go. I would like you to accompany me back to the castle. I want to”—there was a brief pause—“to reward you for your assistance. Yes, I wish to repay you for coming to my aid. Here. Climb up on the cart and we will be off. And your dog, too. And, yes, the children as well, I suppose. Bring them all up into the cart. There is room enough for all.”

  Tymmon was declining the kind offer with humble and grateful thanks when Sir Wilfar ordered the farmer to lift the children into the cart. And when the huge man had obeyed without hesitation, and when neither the farmer nor the young knight paid the slightest attention to Tymmon’s protests, there was nothing for Tymmon to do but join them, and Troff with him. The driver climbed onto his seat and cracked his whip, the oxen plodded forward, and before an hour had passed the walls and towers of Unterrike rose up on the horizon before them.

  The Dark Castle, as Unterrike had long been called, was built of stone the color of old ash heaps. Looming up against the sky from its base on a rocky hillside, its crowded throng of ashy-hued towers and turrets made it seem a city of darkness. And well it might, since for many years, long before the reign of the present baron, the castle had figured in the darkest dreams of all its neighbors.

  It was not Tymmon’s first visit to Unte
rrike Castle. Some years before he had been there with his father. It had been at the time that the treaty of peace had been renewed between Austerneve and Unterrike, and all of King Austern’s court had been invited to join in a celebration at the baron’s castle. And as a favorite of the old king’s, Komus had been granted the right to bring his young son to witness the grand and glorious occasion.

  And now as the ox cart slowly climbed the approach road, Tymmon’s mind was full of recollections of that other visit. Memories of how, even then in the midst of what was intended to be a joyous celebration, there had been for Tymmon at least a constant feeling of vague and distant threat.

  He remembered how, although great fires roared night and day in dozens of huge hearths, he had often shivered in the chilling drafts that came and went throughout the castle like long shuddering sighs. And how at times he had seemed to hear a deep and silent lamentation, as if even the dark stones of the castle walls were given to weeping.

  Now and then during the long, slow ride Tymmon wondered with some uneasiness just why they were being taken to the castle. He did not really believe it was just to reward them for their help. Had Sir Wilfar’s intention been only that, he could easily have given Tymmon a few coppers or even, if he felt extraordinarily grateful, a piece of silver.

  There was the possibility that the young knight knew about Black Helmet’s reward and had guessed Tymmon’s true identity. But on further thought, that seemed rather unlikely, since Sir Wilfar obviously had so little interest in who Tymmon might be that he had not even bothered to ask his name.

  Catching Petrus’s eye, Tymmon smiled, remembering that Sir Wilfar had asked no questions about Petrus or Dalia either, so it had not been necessary for Petrus to remember that he was Tymmon’s brother. He had, in fact, asked no questions at all—except about Troff.

  Tymmon’s mind was busy with the possibility that Troff had something to do with their visit to Unterrike Castle when the cart crossed the long drawbridge and passed through the imposing gateway. Once inside the walls it rumbled across the intricately tiled courtyard, past grand facades with pointed-arch entryways and beautiful traceried windows.

  While Petrus rose to his feet and gasped and jabbered with excitement, Dalia climbed into Tymmon’s lap and clung to him tightly, staring with wondering eyes. Only Troff seemed unimpressed by either the grandeur of their surroundings or by the novelty of a ride in an ox cart. Lying with his great head resting on his paws, he seemed entirely unconcerned, his eyes barely open below the wrinkled folds of skin on his bulging forehead.

  With the courtyard behind them, they continued on up a sloping passageway, through the gate to the inner keep, and stopped before the magnificent entrance to the baron’s palace. As the ox cart labored to a stop, huge copper-plated doors swung open, a crowd of excited servants appeared, and Sir Wilfar was immediately lifted up by many hands and carried away; And soon afterwards Tymmon and the others were surrounded and ushered into a long narrow room, the great hall of Unterrike Castle.

  Carrying Dalia, and clinging to Troff’s collar with the other hand, and with Petrus clinging to the back of his tunic, Tymmon was swept into the hall in the midst of a flock of servants who then disappeared and left them standing alone. Not far away a large woman in a long, loose kirtle with flowing fur-trimmed sleeves, and wearing on her head an elaborate cone-shaped headdress, was bending over Sir Wilfar, who lay sprawled among an avalanche of pillows on a high-backed bench.

  Sir Wilfar was talking, as usual. The lady listened, now and then looking back over her shoulder at Tymmon and his little group. At last she turned and beckoned to them, smiling graciously, but at that moment several more people entered the room and she hurried to meet them.

  The newcomers, an important-looking gentleman in a long dark robe and four servants in brightly colored livery, clustered around Sir Wilfar. The dark-robed man examined the injured forehead and then the swollen leg thoroughly before he directed the servants to lift the young knight and carry him from the room. The lady followed them to the door of the great hall and then, as if suddenly remembering, hurried back to where Tymmon waited.

  “Welcome, children,” she said in the high, quavering voice that was often used by noble ladies. “My son, Sir Wilfar, has told me that you came to his rescue when he was injured and alone. He wanted to speak further with you immediately and to reward you for your helpfulness, but the doctor has ordered that he be immediately put to bed and treated for his injuries. He will send for you tomorrow. In the meantime...

  The lady turned toward the distant doorway, where a servant in beautiful braid-trimmed livery stood at attention. A tall, dignified man, stiff with dignity and self-importance, he was obviously the head chamberlain or someone of similar rank. Motioning for him to approach, the baroness told him that “these children and their dog are to be taken to the kitchen and fed, and then housed in one of the unused servants’ rooms in the kitchen wing. See that they are well fed, and that the dog is given his fill of fresh, raw meat. My son particularly asked that he be fed fresh, raw meat.”

  She turned back to Tymmon. “I will not see you on the morrow as I will be leaving at dawn in the caravan that will take those of the court who do not ride a-horseback to the celebration at Austerneve. But my son will send for you when he awakens, which, I must warn you, will not be early, as he is generally a late riser. But he asked me to tell you that after he has seen you, you will be free to go.”

  Somewhat relieved, Tymmon had started toward the door when behind him he heard the baroness speaking to the chamberlain. “See that they are taken good care of, Roscall. Particularly the dog. His lordship seems to have taken quite a fancy to the ugly beast. I believe he intends to add him to his kennel of fighting dogs.”

  He knew it. It had been Troff all along that had caused Sir Wilfar to insist on their accompanying him to the castle. As the head chamberlain led the way through many magnificent rooms and then down one long corridor after another, Tymmon clutched the gargoyle’s collar and wondered what a knight so ready with the whip and sword would do if he were refused something he badly wanted. It was a frightening thought. But there was some comfort in the fact that Troff did not seem frightened.

  Padding along with his nose only inches from the velvet breeches of the chamberlain, who glanced back at him uneasily from time to time, Troff seemed to be thinking only of amusing himself by making the haughty head servant nervous.

  He is not worried because he knows I would never sell him, Tymmon thought. No matter what, I would never part with him.

  After being generously fed in the servants’ kitchen, while a flock of spit turners, scullery maids, and other young kitchen laborers watched in awe as Troff devoured most of a raw leg of lamb, Tymmon’s company was taken to their room. Led by a young understeward carrying a tall candle, they left the kitchen by way of the scullery and wound their way down two flights of stairs. The air had gone cold and dank, and Tymmon was thinking that they must be well down into the bowels of the earth, when the servant stopped and opened a door.

  The room was cold and windowless, but it was furnished with a table, a bench, two large pallets, and plenty of heavy blankets. The steward took another candle from his satchel, lit it, and placing it on the table, announced that they had better not leave the room in a mess, and then disappeared. The door had scarcely shut behind him when Troff and the two children were sound asleep, and it could not have been much longer before Tymmon, too, was deeply unconscious.

  He had not expected to sleep. Worried as he was by Sir Wilfar’s plans for Troff, he had intended to only warm himself beneath the blankets while he planned a strategy for the day ahead. A way, perhaps, to convince Sir Wilfar that Troff would be useless to him as either a hunter or as a killer in the village dogfight arenas.

  But the day had been long and extremely strenuous and Tymmon had not yet arrived at any plan when his thoughts swirled and blurred, and he was sound asleep.

  It was several hours later that he
was jolted awake by a familiar but entirely unexpected sound. Troff was singing. The candle on the table, much lower now, was still burning, and by its light Tymmon could see that Petrus and Dalia had also been awakened. Sitting up on their pallet, they were staring at Troff with surprise and amusement. Meanwhile the gargoyle sat on his haunches near the door and, with his head thrown back, was crooning his most mournful lament.

  “Dog be singing,” Petrus said unnecessarily. “Why be Dog singing, Boy? He waked us up.”

  “He woke me up, too,” Tymmon said. He got out of bed, crossed the room, and squatted down before the gargoyle. “What is it, Troff?” he asked. “Why are you singing now?”

  But the singing went on and on... and then suddenly Troff dropped his head, licked his chops, grinned at Tymmon, and began to scratch a flea. Tymmon went back to bed.

  But he had no more than pulled up the blankets when the singing began again, livelier now, and with a faster beat.

  “Troff,” he said, irritated now. “Stop it. You will awaken all the servants. Stop, I say.”

  But the singing continued. At last Tymmon jumped up and, grabbing the gargoyle by his muzzle, forced his jaws together. And it was in the following silence that he heard it—the sound of faraway music. Too faint and indistinct for the tune or even the instrument to be recognized, but definitely music. Pushing past Troff, Tymmon seized the latch and opened the heavy door. Now the sound was much clearer. Still distant, but clearly...

  “Boy,” Petrus said. “That be yours. That be one of your songs.”

  Tymmon stood perfectly still, as if some great force had passed over him, jolting his mind and body into immobility. He tried once, twice, and a third time before his voice responded and he was able to say, “No. It is one of my father’s songs.”