The Dragon, the Earl, and

by Gordon R. Dickson

  Dafydd ap Hywel was their archer friend, who had since married Danielle, daughter of Giles o'the Wold; and who already had either a son and a daughter or two sons. Jim could never remember exactly which.

  "Not since we both saw him last," said Brian. "Last summer, if you recall."

  "We'll miss him and Danielle—Angie and I," said Jim sadly. "But even more we'll miss you and Geronde, Aargh, and all our friends."

  "Miss?" said Brian suddenly. "How? Miss? Were you and Angela going some place?"

  "Not willingly," said Jim grimly. "And probably, possibly, not at all. We just might have to go back where we came from; or I might be stripped of my magician's ability. In which case the Dark Powers might be successful in destroying Angie and me. But it's a long, involved story. I shouldn't bother you with it."

  "Certainly you must!" said Brian. "What? I am your comrade-in-arms! Your Companion in more than one essay—and I should not know when to come to your aid, if you need me? By all means you must tell me. It is your duty, James!"

  Jim had forgotten how seriously Brian and many of the people of this period took such things as friendships and enmities. To Brian, not letting him know when he was in trouble and Brian could help was the next thing to deliberately slighting him. He, himself, was as duty-bound to tell Brian when he needed Brian's aid; as he also would be to go to Brian's, if Brian needed him.

  "Forgive me," he said. "I didn't think. It's just that so much of this is secret. The matter about the magic and leaving is something I can't really in honor tell you, even now. Also, I shouldn't be so hard on Carolinus. I've got an idea he's been working as hard for me as possible. But as I say, we might be forced to leave; or I might lose my ability to work magic."

  "Could that happen?" Brian stared at him.

  Jim nodded.

  "Evidently," he said, "neither one is something you could help me with, or that I can do much about myself, according to Carolinus. Also, as it happens, since we found young Robert Falon, Angie very much doesn't want to leave. She wants to stay here and bring up the boy to the point where he can fend for himself, to some extent anyway. Of course, that's assuming the King gives me Robert's wardship. You see, Agatha Falon also wants it; and she's considerably closer to the King personally than I am. I understand she'd inherit, if anything happened to Robert."

  "The Lady Agatha Falon?" said Brian. "The one who has been paying all attention to the Earl?"

  "Yes," said Jim. "As I think I told you before, it's really the King, back in London, she's supposed to have her eye on. Prince Edward is worried she might succeed, with the King ennobling her to the point where he could take her as a wife—in which case Edward would be doubly threatened, both with the possibility of a second heir, and by having Agatha as a powerful enemy, in her own right. Apparently they don't like each other; and both of them know it. Anyway, Agatha tried to kill Robert, and came very close to killing Angie…"

  He went on to tell Brian all about it.

  "But surely," said Brian, when he had finished, "Sir John Chandos told the Earl about this for you—or Carolinus did? If so, what did the Earl say?"

  "I'm afraid Angie and I didn't tell anyone," said Jim. "We really haven't had the chance so far, anyway, because of the situation with the Earl and the troll. The time hasn't been right to bring up anything like that when either of us talked to the Earl—a matter of bothering the Earl with one thing at a time."

  "That troll is still troubling the Earl?" said Brian. "I had guessed you or Carolinus had put a stop to that. Then, the matter is what? Or perhaps you should not tell me that, either?"

  "I think I can," said Jim. "After all, you were the one who went with me in the first place to talk to Mnrogar below the castle."

  He told Brian everything concerning the Earl and the troll and the castle, with the exception of exactly what damage the troll was doing to the castle.

  When he was done, Brian shook his head.

  "Indeed, James," he said. "It passes understanding. Three such coils—this magic problem you cannot tell me of, and the enmity of someone such as this Lady Falon seems to be, as well as the problem with the troll and the Earl."

  "Oh," said Jim, "did I tell you about the army of trolls just outside the territory of this troll, waiting for something?"

  "You did," said Sir Brian. "I had forgotten that. But surely they pose no problem to us, since they are only concerned with one of their number replacing the castle troll?"

  "That's the obvious reason for their being there," said Jim. "But the thing that concerns Carolinus and me is the fact that trolls ordinarily never gather like that without fighting to the death among themselves. This is something that's against troll nature— and that in itself is frightening. If they'll act differently than they ever did before in that way, might they not act different in other ways too?"

  "By the Holy Innocents, whose day this is!" said Brian. "But I had not thought of that!"

  "Well, maybe the reason's something we'll find out about later on. It might mean they could give trouble in other ways," said Jim.

  "But such a storm of evil haps!" said Brian. "I have never heard the like. It angers me that in none of this can I be of any use to you!"

  He brought his fist down on the table, and then absent-mindedly caught his wine cup in mid-air before it completed its bounce to the floor. Jim felt a warmth at Brian's obvious emotion.

  "I don't expect you to do anything, Brian," he said. "That's one reason I didn't tell you about these things before. Probably, I shouldn't have disturbed you, even now."

  "No, no," said Brian. "I wish to hear of such things from you, James, always. I had a feeling that something was toward. Ah, and I had looked forward to your being at this party as such a happy time! I would have the chance to show you many things about the holding of the lance in tourney, and the use of other knightly weapons—you and Giles both, but particularly you, James; and we haven't had a moment for it. Nor does it seem we shall have."

  The warmth in Jim was replaced by a guilty feeling.

  "I know, Brian," he said—the guilt he suddenly felt was not so much from not having time for what Brian had just mentioned, but for being able to dodge those particular activities. He had no eagerness to couch a lance in the lists; or to practice, even with blunted weapons, with other knights. For that matter, Brian himself had showed no gentleness at all to him in the training sessions he had given Jim up till now. Brian's way was to hit just as hard in practice as he would have in actual combat; it being up to Jim to get his own blunted weapon or shield up in time to block the blow.

  The sense of guilt faded; but, still, Brian's unhappiness had triggered off in Jim a melancholy where the comfortableness and warmth had been earlier.

  "Don't worry about any of it, Brian," he said. "I'll come up with something—or Carolinus will come up with something; or things will work out one way or another. The one thing that really bothers me is the result if I should lose my magic or if Angie and I have to leave."

  He sighed.

  "But you know, Brian," he said, "maybe our leaving'd be for the best after all. You know, even after these several years, and with the help of you and Geronde, Giles, Dafydd, Aargh—and even Secoh and others—I really haven't reached a point where I fit in here. I'm really nothing much of a magician, as Carolinus often points out; and you, yourself, know I'm nowhere near being competent with any kind of knightly arms—and probably never will be. Also…"

  He caught himself just in time. He had been about to confess to Brian that he had lied to the other knight when they had first met about the fact that he, Jim, had been Baron of a place called Riveroak; and let Brian believe that he was already a knight. Brian, he knew, would try to field any informational blow that he aimed at him; but there were certain automatic social reflexes in him. If Jim was not a knight, if he was not a Baron—was he a gentleman at all? And if he was not a gentleman, then he, Brian Neville-Smythe, had been in the position of introducing an impostor as his closest friend to
other genuine knights.

  The revelation would be hard enough on his friend, even if he kept Jim's secret—which his honor probably would not let him do. It was unthinkable that he should ruin Brian's own opinion of himself as one of those entitled to bear sword and wear the golden spurs of knighthood.

  Not that they were always golden, of course. Quite the reverse. Many knights could not afford golden spurs, and in any case they were hardly practical for everyday use, gold being the soft metal it was.

  But Brian was already remonstrating with him.

  "… James, you take these small lacks in yourself too seriously," he said. "You will learn the use of arms—I will teach you and you will learn, I promise you—and any other unimportant matters will eventually be taken care of."

  "But," said Jim, so deep in melancholy by now that he was almost enjoying it, and using the one phrase that he knew Brian could not talk away, "after all, you know, yourself, Brian, I am no Englishman."

  "True!" said Brian bravely. "But you are a valiant knight. You have fought and been victorious always in good causes. All gentlemen and ladies are proud to know you. I am proud to know you!"

  "Pride!" said a harsh, contemptuous voice from a dark corner of the room. "One of the human toys, and nothing more. Among the things that count, pride is nothing."

  Jim looked. His eyes were fully adjusted now to the dimness of the room, aside from its single shaft of bright sunlight, and he saw what he should have seen before. In one of the deeper shadows of the farthest corner, lying lazily on his side, was Aargh. The wolf got to his feet and paced forward, until his large, fierce head almost intruded between the faces of the seated Jim and Brian.

  Chapter 26

  "Aargh!" said Jim.

  He was only too aware of Aargh's reluctance to go inside any building if he could avoid it. It evidently went against all reasonable wolf caution to enter anything that might resemble a trap. A den, or small space in which he could curl up and there was no room for anyone, any enemy, to come at him except from the front, was fine. A place like that was a cozy, personal fortress. But the habitations of humans, particularly castles, were merely large places where a wolf might be attacked from all sides at once; and where a flood of strong smells could make him miss a warning his nose would otherwise have given him, of someone or something dangerous nearby.

  "How long have you been here, Aargh?" Jim asked.

  "I came with Brian," said Aargh. "We met in Mnrogar's den and came up the stairs, through the stable and up the tower stairs. The servants were all busy working, or eating and drinking, themselves; while the guests were doing the same in the hall. We saw no one. No one saw me. If they had, we had been ready to make pretense I was only a large dog. No one asked."

  "Well, I'm glad to see you, Aargh," said Jim. "The sun from that arrow slit was in my eyes or I'd have noticed you sooner. You, probably even more than Brian, will understand how poorly I've fitted with all of you."

  Aargh snorted.

  For a second he seemed about to turn his tail on Jim and walk away, a wolf's strongest expression of contempt; but he did not.

  "If you want my friendship for you to end," the wolf said, "you're saying the right words, James. What is this whining, like a three-day cub? Before you were here you were some place else, you've said. Am I wrong?"

  "No," said Jim, "you're not wrong. I just—"

  "And when you were there you were a man, were you not?"

  "Of course," said Jim.

  "Not a dragon?"

  "No," said Jim. "What are you driving at—"

  "I am a wolf," Aargh interrupted him. "I have been a wolf all my life. I will be a wolf until the day I'm killed. After that the ravens may pick my bones. It will not matter. You were a man wherever you were before, you say. You are a man here. Continue a man, and what else matters? The time will be when what comes against you is something you can't kill. Then you will die. All things die. But nothing can take from you the fact that from birth to death you were a man. Nothing else matters."

  Brian made a sound in his throat as if he would begin to speak. Aargh looked at him, and he sank back in his chair, his chin in his hand.

  "If you were about to tell me that James's situation is one of these human things a wolf cannot understand," Aargh said to the knight, "I'll answer you. That also means nothing, compared to the fact that I am I and James is James, and you are you. We are what we are. We do what we can. When we can no longer, we are done and we go down, having had our years and filled them; and what can we ask more than that?"

  He looked back at Jim, who at the moment was feeling very conscious of how he had let himself fish for sympathy from these two friends.

  "You're right, Aargh," was all he could manage to make himself say.

  "Of course, I'm right," said Aargh.

  He looked at Brian.

  "Will you still dispute me, Brian?"

  "Hah—well," said Brian, "a gentleman is something more than just a man. Honor, duty… but there is much in what you say, Aargh."

  Indeed, Jim was thinking, there was. Surprisingly, there was a good deal of comfort in it. His spirits had begun to rebound toward their more cheerful, normally enthusiastic level; and something had just occurred to him.

  "By the way, Aargh," he said, "do you know much about hobgoblins?"

  "Very little," said Aargh. "I have seen them from time to time, riding their smoke some place through the woods; but they are house-bound beings and I ordinarily would have nothing to do with them. I know they are timid, however, like field mice."

  "Too bad," said Jim, half to himself. "I was just wondering what makes them tick. The one from the Malencontri serving room chimney showed up here the other day to tell me about the Cliffside dragons."

  "The dragons?" said Brian. "What have the Cliffside dragons to do with this moment?"

  "Oh, Secoh brought me word," said Jim. "I didn't tell you about this?"

  "I do not remember you telling me, James," said Brian. "Surely this is not another difficulty that you have been faced with?"

  "As a matter of fact, it is," said Jim. He had already told Brian so much that he might as well tell him anything else he was free to talk about. "The dragons want to come here, to the Earl's party."

  "Dragons? Here?" Brian stared at him. "Surely they must know better. There is not a gentleman in the castle that would not wish to attempt the slaying of them, if they came. But why should they want to come?"

  Jim found it harder than he had thought to explain.

  "Well," he said, "because of what Smrgol talked about before the Loathly Tower fight—people and dragons getting to know each other better. It's because of that; and Secoh having so much to do with us, and telling stories about what we'd done together. Some of the younger dragons, particularly, have taken to talking to single humans when they meet them safely away from other humans—charcoal burners off in the woods and people alone like that. And they've picked up a story about the dragons meeting Christ, Saint Joseph and Saint Mary, when they were fleeing from King Herod's plan to kill off all the young children, so as to make sure that Christ didn't arise to challenge his kingship."

  "Indeed!" said Brian. "An evil plan!"

  "Yes," Jim went on. "So, for some reason, the dragons have Prince Edward all mixed up with Christ, and they know the Prince is here at the Earl's party. In the story they heard, Christ blesses the dragons; and they think this is going to happen, or should happen this Christmas at the Earl's. So they feel they ought to be here so they can be blessed. Something like that."

  "A strange tale," said Brian. He crossed himself.

  "Oh, I think they're just mixed up," said Jim. "The thing is, though, they're looking to me to arrange it for them to come here safely to be blessed."

  "You must certainly tell them not to come!" said Brian.

  Aargh's jaws gaped, showing the double, arched row of teeth. Brian, however, had known the wolf long enough to recognize the wolf's private, silent expression of humor.
He turned on Aargh.

  "And what do you find so laughable about that?" he snapped.

  "Only the idea of telling dragons not to do something; and expecting them not to do it!" said Aargh.

  "I'm afraid he's right, Brian," said Jim. "For a number of reasons, it wouldn't do any good to tell them that; and anyway, there're sensible reasons not to. What I've got to do is come up with some good reason why it's better that they don't come. But so far I haven't been able to. If I could only get them here under some conditions where everybody thinks they're just part of the scenery for some reason—or, even better, if I could have them come at a time when everybody else is so busy that they won't be seen, or any attention paid to them—"

  He stopped abruptly.

  "You know," he said, "maybe there's an idea there. Brian, I've forgotten. This is, let me see, the day of the Holy Innocents? So the next day is the day of Saint Thomas…"

  He ran down, his memory for the names of various saint's days failing him. The calendar of the Middle Ages was more often kept by such days than by numbers.

  But that was not usually a social problem for Jim. Magicians had a reputation for being absent-minded.

  "Then after the day of the blessed Saint Thomas," Brian helped him out now, "is the Octave of Christmas, and then, the next day, Saint Sylvester's—and after that the Circumcision of Our Lord on January first; and, heigh-ho, then another year ahead of us—"

  He corrected himself abruptly.

  "Though, to be sure, in law and numbering the new year actually starts on Ladyday, which is the twenty-fifth day of March. Forgive me, James. I did not mean to preach to you on the days of the year."

  "You weren't preaching. I needed to know. Thanks, Brian." said Jim. "But which of these days is the one that the tournament's to be held on?"

  "Well, as a matter of fact," said Brian, with what looked like a touch of embarrassment, "it has happened in the past that there are usually some small hurts resulting from a tournament. So that all those invited here should be able to enjoy themselves to the utmost for most of the twelve days of Christmas, some years since it was judged best to hold it on the last, or twelfth day of Christmas, the Epiphany of Our Lord, which is January sixth."