The Complete Compleat Enchanter (17 page)

Hardimour came on again, swinging. Shea parried, lunged, missed again, but held his lunge and drilled the knight’s arm properly with a remise. The slim steel needle went through the muscles like butter. Britomart clapped her hands.

Shea withdrew his blade and recovered, keeping the épée flickering between them. “Had enough?” he asked.

“By God’s wounds, no!” gritted Hardimour. The sleeve of his shirt was turning dark red, and he was sweating, but he looked thoroughly grim. He swung the sword up in both hands, wincing slightly. The épée flickered out and ripped his now-dripping shirt-sleeve. He checked, and held his sword out in front of him, trying to imitate Shea’s fencing position. Shea tapped it ringingly a couple of times, gathered it up in a bind in octave, and lunged. Hardimour saved himself by stumbling backward. Shea followed him.
Flick, flick, flick
went the thin blade, Hardimour’s eyes following it in fearful fascination. He tried to parry the repeated thrust, but could no longer control his big blade. Shea forced him back zigzag, got him into the position he wanted, feinted, and lunged. He stopped his point just as it touched the smaller man’s chest. Hardimour put a foot back, but found no support. His arms went up, his sword whirling over and over, till it went
plunk
into the moat. Sir Hardimour followed it with a great splash.

When he came up with a green water plant plastered on his forehead, Shea was kneeling at the edge.

Hardimour cried:
“Glup . . . pffth . . . ugh! . .
. help! I can’t swim!”

Shea extended Chalmers’ staff. Hardimour caught it and pulled himself up. As he scrambled to his feet, he found that villainous épée blade flickering in his face.

“Give up?” demanded Shea.

Hardimour blinked, coughed up some more water, and sank to his knees. “I cry craven,” he said grudgingly. Then: “Curse it! In another bout I’ll beat you, Master Harold!”

“But I won this one,” said Shea. “After all, I didn’t want to sleep with the crickets, either.”

“Right glad am I that you shall not,” said Hardimour honestly, feeling of his arm. “What galls me is that twice I’ve been put to shame before all these noble lords and ladies of Castle Caultrock. And after all, I must stay without.”

Chalmers spoke up. “Hasn’t the castle some rule about admitting persons in distress?”

“I bethink me this is even the case. Sick or wounded knights may enter till they are well.”

“Well,” said Shea, “that arm won’t be well for a couple of months.”

“Perhaps you caught a cold from your ducking,” advised Chalmers.

“I thank you, reverend palmer. Perhaps I did.” Hardimour sneezed experimentally.

“Put more feeling into it,” said Shea.

Hardimour did so, adding a racking cough. “Ah me, I burn with ague!” he cried, winking. “Good people of the castle, throw me at least a cloak to wrap myself in, ere I perish! Oooo-ah!” He sank realistically to the ground. They got him up, and supported him, staggering, across the drawbridge. Britomart and Amoret followed, the former leading the three horses. This time the warder made no objection.

Three

A trumpet blew three notes as they passed through the gate in the portcullis. The last note was sour. As the travelers entered a paved courtyard littered by heaps of dirty straw, they were surrounded by a swarm of little page boys in bright-colored costumes. All were chattering, but they seemed to know what to do. They attached themselves two by two to each of the new arrivals and led them toward the door of a tall, gray stone building that rose from the opposite side of the court.

Shea was taken in tow by a pair of youths who gazed at him admiringly. Each wore medieval hose, with one leg red and the other white. As he mounted a winding stair under their guidance, one of them piped: “Are you only a squire, sir?”

“Shh!”
said the other. “Have you no manners, Bevis? The lord hasn’t spoken.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Shea. “Yes, I’m only a squire. Why?”

“Because you’re such a good swordsman, worshipful sir. Sir Hardimour is a right good knight.” He looked wistful.

“Will you show me that a trick of catching an enemy’s blade sometime, worshipful sir? I want to slay an enchanter.”

They had arrived at the entrance of a long, high room, with a huge four-poster bed in one corner. One of the pages ran ahead, and kneeling before a cross-legged chair, brushed it off for Shea to sit on. As he did so, the other reached around him and unbuckled his sword belt, while the first ran out of the room. A moment later he was back, carrying a big copper basin of steaming water, a towel over his arm.

Shea gathered he was expected to wash his hands. They needed it.

“In the name of Castle Caultrock,” said the little Bevis, “I crave your lordship’s pardon for not offering him a bath. But the hour of dinner is now so near—”

He was interrupted by a terrific blowing of trumpets, mostly out of tune and all playing different things, that might have heralded the arrival of the new year.

“The trumpets for dinner!” said the page who was wiping Shea’s hands for him, somewhat to his embarrassment. “Come.”

It had fallen dusk outside. The winding stair up which they had come was black as a boot. Shea was glad of the page’s guiding hand. The boy sure-footedly led the way to the bottom, across a little entry hall where a single torch hung in a wall bracket. He threw open a door, announcing in his thin voice, “Master Harold de Shea!”

The room beyond was large—at least fifty feet long and nearly as wide, wretchedly lighted—according to American standards—by alternate torches and tapers along the wall. Shea, who had recently been in the even dimmer illumination of Bonder Sverre’s house, found the light good enough to see that the place was filled with men and ladies, gabbing as they moved through an arch at the far end into the dining hall.

Chalmers was not to be seen. Britomart was visible a few feet away. She was the tallest person in the room with the exception of himself, and fully equal to his own five feet eleven.

He made his way toward her. “Well, Master Squire,” she greeted him unsmilingly, “it seems that since I have become your lady you are to take me to dinner. You may give the kiss of grace, but no liberties, you understand?” She pushed her cheek toward him, and since he was apparently expected to do so, he kissed it. That was easy enough. With a little make-up she might have been drawn by George Petty.

Preceded by the little Bevis they entered into the tall dining hall. They were led to the raised central part of the U-shaped table. Shea was glad to see that Chalmers had already been seated, two places away from him. The intervening space was already occupied by the cameolike Amoret. To the evident discomfort of Chalmers, she was pouring the tale of her woes into his ear with machine-gun speed.

“—and, oh, the tortures that foul fiend Busyrane put me to!” she was saying. “With foul shows and fantastic images on the walls of the cell where I was held. Now he’d declare how my own Scudamour was unfaithful to me; now offer me great price for my virtue—”

“How many times a day did he demand it?” inquired a knight beyond, leaning down the table.

“Never less than six,” said Amoret, “and oft as many as twenty. When I refused—as ever I must—the thing’s past understanding—”

Shea heard Chalmers murmur: “What, never? No never. What,
never
—”

The knight said: “Sir Scudamour may well take pride in such a wife, gentle lady, who has borne so much for his sake.”

“What else could she do?” asked Britomart coldly.

Shea spoke up: “I could think of one or two things.”

The Petty girl turned on him, blue eyes flashing. “Master Squire, your insinuations are vile, and unworthy the honor of knighthood! Had you made them beyond that gate, I would prove them so on your body, with spear and sword.”

She was, he observed with some astonishment, genuinely angry. “Sorry; I was joking,” he offered.

“Chastity, sir, is no subject for jest!” she snapped.

Before the conversation could be carried further, Shea jumped at another tremendous blast of trumpets. A file of pages pranced in with silver plates. Shea noted there was only one plate for him and Britomart together. Looking down the table, he saw that each pair, knight and lady, had been similarly served. This was apparently one of the implications of being a knight’s “lady.” Shea would have liked to inquire whether there were any others; but in view of Britomart’s rebuff at his mild joke at Amoret, he didn’t quite dare.

The trumpets blew again, this time to usher in a file of serving men bearing trays of food. That set before Shea and Britomart was a huge pastry, elaborately made in the form of a potbellied medieval ship, upon which the page Bevis fell with a carving knife. As he worked at it, Chalmers leaned around Amoret’s back, and touching Shea’s sleeve, remarked: “Everything’s going according to plan.”

“How do you mean?”

“The logical equations. I looked at them in my room. They puzzled me a bit at first, but I checked them against that key I made up, and everything fit into place.”

“Then you can really work magic?”

“I’m pretty sure. I tried a little enchantment on a cat that was strolling around. Worked a spell on some feathers and gave it wings.” He chuckled. “I daresay there will be some astonishment among the birds in the forest tonight. It flew out the window.”

Shea felt a nudge at his other side, and turned to face Britomart. “Will my lord, as is his right, help himself first?” she said. She indicated the plate. Her expression plainly said she hoped any man who helped himself before her would choke on what he got. Shea surveyed her for a second.

“Not at all,” he answered. “You go first. After all, you’re a better knight than I am. You pitched Hardimour down with a spear. If you hadn’t softened him up, I couldn’t have done a thing.”

Her smile told him he had gauged her psychology correctly. “Grace,” said she. She plunged her hand into the pile of meat that had come out of the pastry ship, put a good-sized lump into her mouth. Shea followed her example. He nearly jumped out of his chair, and snatched for the wine cup in front of him.

The meat tasted like nothing on earth. It was heavily salted, and sweet, and almost all other flavors were drowned in a terrific taste of cloves. Two big tears of agony came into Shea’s eyes as he took a long pull at the wine cup.

The wine reeked of cinnamon. The tears ran down his cheek.

“Ah, good Squire Harold,” came Amoret’s voice, “I don’t wonder that you weep at the tale of the agonies through which I have passed. Was ever faithful lady so foully put upon?”

“For my part,” said the knight farther down the table, “I think this Busyrane is a vile, caitiff rogue, and willingly would I take the adventure of putting an end to him.”

Britomart gave a hard little laugh. “You won’t find that so easy, Sir Erivan. Firstly, you shall know that Busyrane dwells in the woods where the Losels breed, those most hideous creatures that are half-human in form, yet eat of human flesh. They are ill to overcome. Secondly, this Busyrane conceals his castle by arts magical, so it is hard to find. And thirdly, having found it and Busyrane himself, he is a very stout and powerful fighter, whom few can match. In all Faerie, I know of only two that might overthrow him.”

“And who are they?” asked Erivan.

“This one is Sir Cambell, who is a knight of great prowess. Moreover, he has to wife Cambina, who is much skilled in the white magic that might pass both through the Losels and Busyrane’s enchantments. The other is my own dear lord and affianced husband, Sir Artegall, justiciar to our queen.”

“There you see!” cried Amoret. “That’s the kind of person who was after me. Oh, what sufferings! Oh, how I ever—”

“Ssst,
Amoret!” interrupted Chalmers. “Your food’s getting cold, child.”

“How true, good palmer.” A tear trickled down Amoret’s lovely pale cheek as she rolled a huge ball of food between her fingers and thrust it into her mouth. As she chewed she managed to exclaim: “Oh, what would I do without the good friends who aid me!” There was certainly nothing weak about the frail-looking lady’s appetite.

###

Trumpets sounded the end of the course, and as one set of serving men took away the plates, another emerged with more dishes. Pages came running to each couple with metal bowls of water and towels. Sir Erivan, beyond Chalmers, lifted his wine cup and then set it down again.

“Ho, varlet!” he cried. “My wine cup is empty. Is it the custom of Caultrock to let the guests perish of thirst?”

The servitor signaled another, and a small, wizened man in a fur-lined jacket hurried up and bowed to Sir Erivan.

“My very gracious lord,” he said, “I crave your pardon. But a most strange malady has befallen the wine, and it’s turned sour. All the wine in Castle Caultrock. The good Fray Montelius has pronounced an exorcism over it, but to no purpose. There must be a powerful enchantment on it.”

“What?” shouted Sir Erivan. “By the seven thousand demons of Gehenna, do you expect us to drink
water?”
And then, shrugging his shoulders, he turned toward Chalmers. “You see how it is, reverend sir. Daily we knights of Faerie are compassed closer about by these evil spells till we know not what to do. I doubt not they will make trouble at the tournament.”

“What tournament?” asked Shea.

“The tournament of Satyrane, the woodland knight, at his forest castle, three days hence. It will be a most proud and joyous occasion. There’s to be jousting, ending with a mêilée, for the prize among knights, and also a tourney of beauty for the ladies after. I’ve heard that the prize of beauty is to be that famous girdle of the Lady Florimel, which none but the most chaste may bind on.”

“Oh, how you frighten me!” said Amoret. “I was kidnapped from a tournament, you know. Now I shall hardly dare attend this one, if there will be enchanters present. Just think, one might win the prize of valor and I be awarded to him of right!”

“I
shall be in the lists for you,” said Britomart, a trifle haughtily.

Shea asked: “Does the winner of the men’s prize get the winner of the prize of beauty?”