King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth) (13 page)

“What kind of other things?”

“Doodads!” cried Elmera. “I believe you’re right, Bison. They could have been doodads!”

“Doodads?”

“Horrible things.” Elmera shuddered. “Another of the Miggot’s mistakes. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. What do you have to say to
that,
Miggot?” She wheeled around on her husband.

“The doodads fill an ecological niche,” said the Miggot with dignity. “I
was perfectly correct to create them. The niche existed, and I filled it.”

“You didn’t have to fill it with such horrible things.”

“They bloody near killed the Sharan,” said Bison reminiscently. “The moment they were born, they turned on her.”

“The Sharan was never threatened. The doodad, handled properly, presents no danger to gnome or beast.”

By now Bart was beside himself with impatience. “But what
are
doodads?”

“You might compare them to the butterfly,” said the Miggot. “They feed on the seminal jelly of the cheesecup, and when the petal bowl of the plant is empty, they make their way to a female plant, and, er, fertilize it.”

“Disgusting!” cried Lady Duck.

“Sex among animals and plants is perfectly acceptable,” said the Miggot.

“Any mention of sex makes my blood run cold, Miggot, as well you know,” Elmera put in. “And I’m not the only gnome who feels that way, thank God! Change the subject before I throw up, will you?”

“Arthur has mounted his horse,” said Pong obligingly.

“By the Great Grasshopper, Pong,” screeched Elmera, “you’ve gone too far! I
demand
… Oh. I see what you mean.” Flushing, she turned her gaze to the tournament field.

At the eastern end of the clearing, Arthur sat easily on Sir Bors’s roan gelding, wearing everyday clothes as though hacking casually through the forest. A temporary squire handed him a lance. Even this was a rustic thing, little better than a pole. Arthur smiled and couched it. Nyneve passed him her scarlet sash and he wound it around his forearm. To the west, Sir Mador closed his visor and settled his lance firmly into position. At the far side of the field, a ballista demonstration was halted, much to the relief of the villagers, who had been watching missiles pass closely over the roofs of their cottages. The archers, normally scornful of the highborn
knights, paused too. All heads turned to the field of battle.

Ned Palomides grumbled, “I was just getting my eye in.” Like the other Mara Zion archers, he had been faring badly in competition with the well-trained men from Menheniot village. “Why do we have to watch those posturing fools on their nags?”

“Arthur is jousting,” Gawaine said.

“Arthur is jousting, Arthur is jousting!” mimicked Palomides, in falsetto. “And what’s so bloody important about that?”

Gawaine laughed. “You have to admit archery’s a piddling sport compared with jousting. There’s something furtive about archery—the silent arrow, instead of the thunder of hooves and the honest, man-to-man collision.”

“Well, anyway, Arthur will lose, just like we’re losing. I don’t see why we have to witness a further disgrace. Just look at the man! He’s the most unlikely-looking jouster I’ve ever seen. He’s practically stark naked! One thing you could say for the late Tristan—at least he dressed the part.”

“I wish you wouldn’t keep calling him the late Tristan, as though he were never on time,” said Torre irritably. “And you’re a fine one to talk about dressing for the part. You don’t exactly cut a fine figure on horseback, Ned.”

“It’s the type of man that goes in for jousting that I object to. Once they get up on that bloody horse with a spear in their hand, they seem to think they’re lords of creation. Tristan was just as bad as the rest.”

For once Ned had the support of the majority, and there were grunts of agreement from the gathering. The archers had always felt as though they operated in the shadow of the jousters at these events, and resentment had been festering for a long time. The award for overall champion of the tournament went to the top jouster, and this, too, angered the archers.

Thus the scene was set for a peculiar occurrence that became the main topic of fireside discussions in Mara Zion and Menheniot during the coming months. …

Nyneve resumed
her place on the platform. “I simply don’t know what Arthur is thinking of,” she said. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen. Why is he doing this?”

“Jousters are the gentry,” said the Baron simply.

“Arthur doesn’t need to prove anything. He’s our future king.”

“He’ll have to get past Sir Mador first.”

Nyneve brightened a little. “We all know Sir Mador’s a formidable opponent, Baron. But haven’t you noticed luck just doesn’t seem to be running his way these days?”

The Baron merely smiled and motioned to his bugler. The clear tones sang across the field.

The horsemen urged their mounts forward.

Immediately the effect of Sir Mador’s equipment was apparent. His horse, so heavily armored that little more than hooves and ears were visible, lumbered heavily into a trot. Arthur’s roan, however, leapt smoothly to the gallop, rapidly closing the gap. The opponents clashed like rams in the rutting season, then they were past each other, both still firmly seated, reining in their mounts and turning.

“Arthur’s lance is broken!” cried Nyneve.

“I’m sure they can find him another,” the Baron reassured her.

But it seemed that Arthur did not want a replacement. He waved away the lance offered by his squire and drew his sword. From the distant archers came the faint cry of “Excalibur!”

“Much better than a lance,” said the Baron sarcastically. “According to legend, he is now unbeatable. Does he believe his own myth, Nyneve?”

Nyneve preserved an anxious silence as the contestants charged again. This time, however, Arthur’s mount was noticeably slower. Thus it was that by the time they came within range of each other, Sir Mador had attained a full and irresistible gallop. The long lance probed swiftly toward Arthur. The tip, stained with the blood of a hundred opponents, pointed a sharp and deadly finger. Arthur raised Excalibur.

Nyneve
closed her eyes.

Arthur twisted sideways in the saddle. The lance missed, brushing his jerkin. Excalibur swept down, striking the hardwood lance with the flat of the blade and deflecting it downward. Sir Mador lurched forward, off-balance. The opponents passed each other. Arthur reined in his gelding.

The tip of Sir Mador’s weapon dug into the soft turf. His momentum carried him on, and he left the saddle, rising in a graceful arc at the end of his lance while the horse galloped from beneath him.

It would have brought the contest to a more seemly end if Sir Mador had then crashed to the sward in an untidy heap of flesh and iron. At least he could then have been carried off, honorably defeated. Some semblance of dignity would have been left to him. The name of Mador and his unidentified Porte would not have become the laughingstock of the west of Old England.

But Sir Mador’s run of bad luck was destined to continue. As he rose into the air, the lance still gripped firmly between arm and hip, his velocity diminished. At the summit of his climb, all movement ceased. He hung there at the top of his lance, the tip buried firmly in the ground like a sapling recently planted.

“The bloody fool,” snapped the Baron, rather unfairly.

Nyneve stifled a giggle.

“He puts me in mind of a toffee apple, somehow,” observed Morgan le Fay.

“More like a monkey up a stick,” grumbled the Baron.

“Why doesn’t the poor man let go?” asked Margawse.

“In all that armor? He’d come down like a ton of rocks. No, he’ll have to wait for the soldiers to ease him down gently. Look, they’re on their way now.” A group of foot soldiers moved out onto the field with a noticeable lack of urgency. “Mador needs to pay a little more attention to our image,” said the Baron furiously, hearing laughter from the rescuers.

It was then that
the inexplicable occurred.

The archers had been watching events quietly, not joining in the catcalls that had begun to emanate from the less responsible sections of the crowd. But now, as one man, they drew their bows and took careful aim.

A hail of arrows sped toward the perpendicular figure.

Yells of fear emanated from the encapsulated Sir Mador. Arrows clanged against his armor and he tried to curl himself into a ball like a threatened armadillo.

“What the hell are they playing at?” shouted the Baron. “Have they gone mad?” His gaze roamed furiously among his companions on the platform, seeking an answer to this mystery. “Why are they shooting at him?”

“I suspect it’s just because he’s there,” suggested Morgan le Fay with a wicked smile.

“What do you mean, because he’s there? What kind of a reason is that? This is war, for God’s sake! I’ve half a mind to order my soldiers to return their fire!”

“The poor man,” said Margawse. “Why doesn’t somebody help him?”

Nyneve said, “I think it all has something to do with him being stuck on top of the pole. He’s an irresistible target.”

“Somebody gave a command.” The Baron snarled. “That’s what happened. Somebody gave a command and they all obeyed like mindless bloody sheep. By Christ, they’re reloading. My own villagers are there too. They’re drunk, that’s what it is.” His fevered mind snatched at another explanation. “They’re all blind-stinking drunk!”

Another fusillade of arrows peppered Sir Mador.

“This has gone far enough!” The Baron’s seat crashed backward as he sprang to his feet and strode onto the tourney field.

“Oh, dear,” exclaimed Margawse. “The Baron’s upset.”

The Baron joined his soldiers around the lance. “Get him down!” he commanded. “Now! And you people”—he indicated the outer ring of grinning soldiery—”go and arrest the archers.”

The second group
departed, but the nearest men eyed the Baron uncertainly. “We can’t reach him,” one said. Sir Mador hung at least a yard beyond their upstretched hands.

“Come down, Mador, you bloody fool!” roared the Baron.

“It’s … it’s a long way!” came the muffled reply.

“Just let go. The men will break your fall!”

The men backed hastily away from the lance, and Sir Mador stayed where he was.

“Right,” said the Baron grimly. “Fetch a halberd and we’ll chop the bastard down.”

“Perhaps he could undress up there, piece by piece,” someone suggested. “Then when he finally lets go, he won’t come down so hard. Maybe break an ankle, at worst.”

“What’s your name, fellow?”

“Herring, Sire.”

The Baron, dark with rage, thrust his face close to Herring’s. “I’ll remember you, Herring. Meanwhile I’d like you to think of something. Just draw a little picture in what passes for your mind, Herring. Nothing too difficult. Just imagine Sir Mador in his underclothes at the top of that bloody pole. Go on, you stupid bastard. Use your imagination!”

Herring’s closed expression changed slowly to one of doltish amusement. “Har, har,” he said.

“You’re beginning to understand, aren’t you, Herring? The implications are dawning on you. Very funny, isn’t it? There’s something intrinsically amusing about Sir Mador, my right-hand man, perched half naked on top of a pole!”

Herring grinned happily. “There is that, Sire.”

The others nodded agreement, chuckling.

“By the Lord Jesus Christ!” shouted the Baron, “I’m not taking any more of this. Push that bloody pole down, men, and to hell with Mador!”

“No!” shouted the treed knight as the lance began to sway beneath him.

“The ballista,” said a quiet voice. “Roll the ballista over here and he can climb onto it.”

Whirling around,
the Baron found himself face-to-face with Arthur. “You! You’re the cause of all this!”.

“By accident, I assure you, Baron. Even so, I’m trying to make amends. If you maneuver the ballista next to Mador with the arm up, he can climb into the cup and you can lower him gently.”

“He’s right,” yelled Herring excitedly. “Arthur’s right!”

“Arthur! Arthur!” shouted the others, and the cry was taken up around the field. “Arthur!”

The Baron gave Arthur a venomous look. “Well said. Bring the ballista, men!”

The ballista arrived at the same time as the archers, a sheepish crowd of peasants in motley clothes. The soldiers, eager to make amends for their poor showing during the Mador crisis, jabbed them mercilessly into line before the Baron. They stood with heads bowed, avoiding his eyes.

“Right,” said the Baron. “Who gave the order to fire at Sir Mador?”

They glanced at one another uncertainly. Nobody spoke.

“You!” snapped the Baron, picking on a slender young man who looked more intelligent than most. “Who gave the order?”.

Governayle raised innocent eyes. “I can only assume it was the good Lord himself, sir. For myself, I heard no human voice. And yet I found my arm rising as though of its own accord, and my eye sighting along my arrow. I was aware of a huge body of men doing the same thing. It was an uplifting experience, giving me a sense of unity with nature, with the world around me. I aimed for the junction of helmet and neck, a vulnerable spot when the target is at a higher elevation than the archer. But I missed.”

“Are you seriously trying to tell me that
God
made you do this thing?” The Baron stared at Governayle incredulously.

“There’s no other explanation. Sir Mador has in some way offended the Almighty. This could also explain the run of bad luck that’s plagued him since he left France.”

The Baron continued to stare at Governayle, while his lips began
to twitch slightly. Then his gaze wandered upward, to see Mador climbing clumsily into the cup of the ballista. He shook his head. He placed his large, hairy-backed hands over his face and rubbed his eyes. When he regarded the villagers again, he looked suddenly tired. “It’s been a long day,” he said. “I don’t want to waste time over this. There’s the presentation to go through, and then we must go to the Stone. You, Smith.” He addressed a Menheniot villager. “What in hell happened?”

“I don’t rightly know, sir.” There was an exalted look in Smith’s eyes as he relived the event. “It was a strange and wonderful experience.”