Chapter 13
It was a couple of miles to the “lists” that Sir Nigel had mentioned.
They were in fact a town of tents covering a very large area around which was a brightly coloured cordon.
“I would hazard a guess that this marks the limit of the lists,” said Roland, as they as passed through it.
Most of the tents within were dull greys and browns but they surrounded a central area where large, highly coloured and decorated pavilions towered above the rest. At the centre of it all was a brightly coloured castle with pennants flying from it. It was obviously merely decorative but still impressive.
The tents on the outskirts were arranged into streets and lanes and were occupied by all manner of traders and craftsmen. Many were open at the front with their occupants plying their wares. There were blacksmiths, armourers, saddle makers – and cooks. There was a lot of food, whole pigs and oxen being roasted on spits. There was minced lamb, also on a spit, being cut off in slices and served in flat bread with a salad. There were pies on one stall, apples and pears on another. There were exotic fruits and vegetables which the adventurers did not recognise.
Roland and his friends were very hungry by now and their mouths watered at the sight, but they were marched past the stalls with empty stomachs and watering mouths.
As they got closer to the centre the tents got grander, and many sported the colours of knights and had smaller tents for horses and servants. It was at one of these that they stopped. Their captors dismounted and invited their prisoners in.
“I trust you would like to eat and drink,” sir Nigel said.
“Yes please!” they all said together.
Sir Nigel ordered food to be brought.
When Sir Nigel ordered food he meant plenty of it. There was so much food they couldn’t eat nearly half of it, despite being very hungry.
“You are our prisoners, but also our guests,” Sir Nigel said, “You will be treated as if you are royalty until your ransom is paid!”
“There might be a bit of a problem there,” Roland confessed, “I am not sure who will pay…”
“Don’t tell him that,” Oliver whispered, “he might dispose of us.”
“It does not matter,” Sir Nigel said, “In the case no ransom is paid you will be well treated as our guests, forever.”
“We have things to do - a quest,” said Roland.
“Impossible, I am afraid,” said Sir Nigel, “The rules are clear. Once you have strayed into the tourney area and been taken prisoner, you must remain a prisoner until ransom is paid. Sorry about that – but, well - look, I do hope you have a lovely time here. I wouldn’t want you to be unhappy. or to feel like a burden or anything…”
“I am sure we can manage not to feel like a burden,” Oliver said, pointedly.
“Great!” said Sir Nigel.
At that moment another knight entered the tent, looked at Roland and friends and cried out, “Cuthbert Goggins! I do declare! I thought it was you! Shouldn’t you be dead after all this time! Well of course, so should I! It’s all the fresh air and fighting keeps us going up here!”
“Who is Cuthbert Goggins?” asked Oliver.
“I am,” said Brother Goodwill, “That is to say, I was, once, a long time ago…” He stood up to be embraced by the man, their armours clanking together as they did.
Goodwill explained, “Cuthbert Goggins was my name before I took the Orders, and this is Filbert Hilbert…”
“Sir Filbert, quarterly, azure argent, a bend vair, if you don’t mind!” Sir Filbert said.
“A knight! I always knew you would be!” Goodwill said.
Sir Filbert laughed, putting his arm around Goodwill and explaining to the others, “We were two boys from lowly stock who had our first adventures together! We rose through the ranks by our skill with the blade and the lance!” and he asked Goodwill, “Tell me, have you killed many lately?”
“I am a Fortresser now,” said Goodwill.
“No wonder you are still alive! Took the pledge eh? I heard of it. Honourable, but dull. There are other ways to immortality, as you can see!” and Sir Filbert laughed again, showing his teeth. He embraced Goodwill once more, “So what are you doing here?”
“We are the guests, in fact the prisoners, of Sir Nigel…”
“Oh dear. Not a lot I can do about that. Rules are rules. Anyone who strays into the tourney field is fair game, I’m afraid. Have you thought of challenging them to mortal combat for your release?”
”Not really my scene any more. Maybe my young friends…”
“We are not here to kill anyone,” said Roland, “we are on a quest.”
“A quest. Very interesting! Who are these people — your friends?”
“Oh forgive me, forgetful as ever! I quite forgot that you haven’t met them yet either!
This is Roland, the great great great grandson of Sir Roland argent, a pomegranate gules, the founder of our order.”
“Founder!” Roland gasped.
“I remember him!” Sir Filbert cried, “Fierce fellow, intense eyes, a fine fighter with a sense of humour. Deadly and funny – a lethal combination! If he didn’t kill you, you could die laughing with him!”
“Yes, indeed,” Goodwill laughed.
“The boy has his looks – hopefully his fire!”
“He does! Both!”
“But what of him?” Roland asked, wanting to know more about his ancestor.
“I will tell you later, if you will forgive us,” Goodwill said to him.
Roland tried to forgive, but felt frustrated that he always seemed to be shut out of the most crucial information about his own kin.
“Anyway, this quest,” Sir Filbert asked, “Is it fun?”
“Not so far,” Botherworth said.
“I second that,” Oliver said.
“I third it,” Savitri said.
“What are you questing for?” Sir Filbert asked.
“The Whales Of The Sky,”
“Not heard of them. Where would they be?”
“We don’t know either,” Roland said,
“How can you be questing for them if you don’t even know where you are supposed to be looking?”
“Good question,” Roland said, “but we have been told there is a man here who knows.”
“Here? Who?”
“A man called Davey Brandon Senior. He is a guest — a prisoner — of Count Og-dra-gob's in a dungeon at the castle.”
“That’s serious,” said Sir Filbert, “The dungeon is under the real castle, not the fancy thing with the frills so he isn’t a captive of the tournament. The Count really does have something against him.”
“We need to talk to him,” said Roland. And for that we need Count Og-dra-gob’s permission. We need to talk to the count.”
“He is here in the lists. I can arrange an audience — if Sir Nigel will allow your parole in exchange for your promise not to try and escape.”
Roland promised, reluctantly, and Sir Nigel nodded his assent.
Sir Filbert led them through the maze of brightly coloured pavilions toward the centre of the lists and the fancy castle. Here there was an area that was roped off with a dais within it. Off to the sides there were various tents which were fitted out for maintaining weapons and armour as well as horses and their livery.
“This is The Count’s arena, where the results of the tourney are announced,” explained Sir Filbert. He asked a page where the count could be found. The page indicated one of the tents at the far side and they headed for it.
As they approached the tent they could hear coming from it the sounds of metal being bashed, together with the most dreadful curses and the occasional grunt and groan. As they entered they beheld a most strange sight. A very tall knight in armour was kneeling down in front of an anvil. His head was in a helmet that was laid on the anvil. Blacksmiths were bashing and pulling at the helmet with hammers and tongs. Several knights were standing around enjoying the spectacle. The head in
the helmet was doing the cursing. “For blazes sake get this cussed thing off of me!”
“What has happened?” Sir Filbert asked.
One of the knights explained. “The Count has suffered the most terrible misfortune. His head is jammed in his helmet and we cannot get it out…. It was caused by a most ferocious blow delivered by an opponent. He was lucky not to lose his head entirely…”
“I heard that!” The head in the helmet on the anvil yelled “It wasn’t by luck! It was pure skill! It was he who struck me who had the luck, and when I get out of this I will show him who is better with a sword!”
“Right now you had better just keep your head down my lord,” said another of the knights, as another blow clanged against the helmet.
“Owww!” yelled The Count. Another blow landed with a clang, “I’m a Count, not a bell!”
One of the other smiths stuck the tongs into the front of the helmet, trying to get a better grip on it.
“Dowww! Dat boz by doze!” Yelled The Count, “I’ll have all of you for this!
“We’ll have to heat it up,” said the smith, “it might expand enough to slip off. Bring him over to the fire…”
“What! Are you mad!” yelled The Count in a panic. “You’re not roasting my head! Help! HELP!”
“Excuse me, but plenty of lard’s what you really need,” said Botherworth.
The men turned to look at the newcomers.
“You have experience in such matters?” one of the knights asked.
“Let’s put it this way,” Botherworth said, “there was once a boy, and there was once a bucket. The boy was curious about what was at the bottom of the bucket. He found out – trouble! I had to use lard and a ton of elbow grease.”
“I’m not sure we have any elbow grease…Where do we get it?” The knight asked.
“You’ll have a long weight before you get hold of any of that,” Botherworth chortled, “Come on, get some lard and let me have a go.”
A bucket of lard was brought and Botherworth stuck his fingers right in it as if he enjoyed the feel of it. Roland suspected he actually did.
“Oooh! This is nice and gooey and greasy," Botherworth said, "Good stuff!" I think we’re onto a winner here!”
If Botherworth enjoyed sticking his fingers into the lard he enjoyed the next bit even more. He started to press the lard into the helmet through all the gaps he could find, especially at the neck and through the grill in the faceplate.
“What’s going o-urrrgggh blurp-blurp-blurple!” The Count protested.
“It’s the ears you’ve got to watch for – get plenty of grease behind the ears,” Botherworth informed the onlookers whilst he carried on, oblivious of The Count’s protests. He was clearly pleased to be in charge of operations.
“Now,” Botherworth directed, “Brother Goodwill, I am sure you can find a positive way to help me – grab his legs in an optimistic way whilst I pull and twist the helmet.”
Botherworth was enjoying himself. He grabbed The Count’s helmet whilst Brother Goodwill grabbed The Count’s legs. Botherworth started to twist and pull the helmet alarmingly. Understandably, The Count protested – or at least, he tried to protest, “Nnnngghhhhrrrr nnnggghmmmm!”
Botherworth put his full weight into pulling on the helmet. Unfortunately the outside of the helmet had also become covered in lard and his fingers slipped. He fell over backwards. He got up again and shook himself, “I need a cloth with some spirit.”
It was brought and he wiped the helmet and started again. This time Roland and Oliver helped Goodwill with the count’s legs whilst Savitri pushed the helmet from the neck. Slowly it started to give, until, finally, with a mighty rush, it came off and Botherworth once more staggered backwards and fell on his rump, this time clutching the helmet in his lap.
The Count stood up immediately. His head was covered in lard and his hair was all spiky and looked like the bristles of a brush. He looked very fierce, “Who has done this!” he roared.
The knights all quickly pointed at Botherworth, who looked as if he wanted to quickly pass the helmet on to someone else.
The Count rushed over to him and pulled him up off the floor. He grabbed the helmet and threw it aside, then shook Botherworth’s hand vigorously with both of his own, “I would like to thank you very much! Thank you very much indeed! These fools were going to roast me, but you – you saw sense! You saw the way to help me out of my predicament without cooking my head like dinner!” and he cast an accusing, withering stare at the knights.
“It was good lard,” Botherworth said, modestly.
The Count licked some of the lard off his lips. “It is good lard!” he cried, “I never knew it could be so sweet! But then it has done good service!”
“I had a bit of help,” Botherworth admitted, pointing to Roland and the others.
“These are your friends?” Og-dra-gob asked.
“Well… Yeah, alright, I suppose they are, really…”
“Fine! Good! You will all be my guests!”
Sir Herbert stepped forwards, “My Lord, these people are captives of Sir Nigel le Faire, paly bendy, or sable, a bend sinister erminois, and are on parole from his custody.”
“Tell Sir Nigel le Faire, paly bendy, or sable, a bend sinister ermin - we really must find a better way to refer to each other than this long-winded nonsense - that I will pay their ransom. I will win it back soon enough anyway!” And he laughed heartily and turned to Roland and friends, “Come, and I will show you what we are up to.”
and he led the way out of the blacksmith’s tent. Once in the open he flung his arms wide, “This is my grand arena, where we announce the winners of each tournament, then we rejoice, sing songs about love and armed combat, and then go out for another tournament where we bash each other silly as practice for a real battle – of which there are far too few these days! Anyway, it’s grand fun!” and the count laughed heartily.
“Sounds wonderful,” said Botherworth, sarcastically
“Just like the tourneys we held of old!” Brother Goodwill cried, “I remember once when Brother Skullcrack struck home with such a terrible blow to the head of Brother Bonebreak – of course they are now both sworn to peace. No more fighting for them,” he became sad for a moment – “but they are very good with bricks and mortar,” he said, perking up “– most excellent! And with blocks of stone!”
“Most other tournaments,” Og-dra-gob continued, “are carried out with two teams of knights, but we decided it would be so much more fun to divide into four teams, all matched against each other – no alliances allowed between teams. It works fine, it’s just that all this officious heraldic nonsense gets in the way…. But never mind that! Let us have the results!” and he commanded the trumpets to sound, signalling that the results were to be announced. They all looked toward the dais where a herald climbed up the steps. He puffed himself up, unfurled a scroll and read out: “Nigel le faire, paly bendy, or sable, a bend sinister erminois, Sir Justin, bendy wavy or sable, Sir Nicholas, pily dancetty or sable and Sir Jock De Salle, chevronny, or sable, Have scored the most points and taken the most prisoners – some of whom I think are in the audience right now! Give us a wave if you’re out there!”
Brother Goodwill waved. The others didn’t. There was a ripple of applause.
The Herald continued, “So, with no further ado, I present the grand prize! They win a voucher for a burnishing from Janikin's armourers!”
The named knights stepped up to collect their prize. The crowd went wild.
“Now, the runners up,” said the herald, “Sir Valiant de Vosper, bendy dancetty, argent vert, Sir Dunstan, paly bendy, argent vert, Sir Langorrock de Larrack, pily bendy vert argent, Sir Morgrain, lozengy argent vert a chief vert. They win a voucher for a fumigation and delousing of their undergarments from Messrs. Gusgrime, Grimnicks and Sniffit, valid for one month only!”
Again, the named knights stepped up to collect their prize. The crowd went wild, yet again.
&nbs
p; “Now the third place, Sir Jools, gules, a bend argent….”
“You see what I mean?” said Og-dra-gob, turning to Roland, “All we want to do is collect our prizes, sing a few songs and then go back to our wargames, but all this heraldic nonsense just gets in the way! Every time we wish to refer to each other and the teams….”
Then Roland pointed out something that had been on his mind for while, “All the teams have one colour in common, and exclusively – only they use it, for instance gold, or green….”
“Yes, that’s the way we planned it, so that we would know easily who was on which team.”
“Well then, why not just call them by that colour: yellow team, green team, blue team and red team!”
Og-dra-gob’s mouth fell open, then he slapped his palm to his forehead, “Of course! Of course! That’s so simple! So obvious! Why didn’t I think of that! Brilliant! We will do it!” and he turned to the knight next to him, “When he is finished, fetch The Herald to me!” He turned again to Roland, “The Herald won’t like it - he won’t like it at all! He gets a great deal of pleasure out of showing off his knowledge of all this heraldic stuff!”
“He’ll just have to stick it down his tights,” Oliver said.
“He will! He will indeed!” and Og-dra-gob laughed loudly, showing off his white teeth.
After the prize giving was over the count took them to the grand chamber in the fake castle. The Count sat on a throne whilst Roland and friends stood around him. The Herald was announced and entered proudly, puffing up his chest and walking in stately fashion up to The Count. He bowed deeply with a flourish.
“You sent for me my liege,” he said.
“Indeed I did!” The Count said. “There has been a bit of a suggestion by my new friends here….”
“A suggestion?” said The Herald suspiciously, his eyes moving nervously to look at Roland and company.
“Yes, a suggestion,” said the Count. “Now, all this pily paly wavy bendy blazoning stuff….”
The blazoning of the escutcheons!” said The Herald, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. “You wish me to teach these youngsters how to blazon an escutcheon!”
“Oh no! No! Perish the thought!” The Count said, “No! We don’t want any more of it! No! In fact we want less of it! A lot less!”
“L-less, my lord?” The Herald stuttered, not sure he was hearing correctly.
“Yes! Less! As in cut it out completely!”
“C-cut it out…. But, but,” The Herald stammered, “how shall we know the teams then?”
“Well now, that’s the suggestion. From now on we are going to call them yellow team, red team, blue team and green team!”
“But, but,” The Herald stammered again.
“Butt––butt?” Mimicked The Count, “What is this? Do you think you’re instructing a billy goat?”
“No my lord! Of course not my lord - But my lord, this suggestion, it is unheard of.”
“It is only unheard of because no one has said it yet! Now I am saying it and it shall be done. Clear? Savvy?”
The Herald was crestfallen. He seemed like a broken man and he became hunched over, as if gravely wounded. When Roland saw this he had pity on the poor man and stepped forwards, “I tell you what, why don’t we keep the old heraldic names for the team colours, that would work too! Or, gules, azure, and vert!”
“Could we?” Said The Herald, brightening a little, “Could we?” he asked, tears forming in his eyes as he looked at The Count.
Yes, yes, alright, alright. I don’t see why not. Just don’t let it go any further though!
“No my lord – of course not my lord!”
The Herald seemed to have recovered somewhat and although still clearly shaken to the core left with some crumb of comfort.
After he was gone The Count turned to Roland and company, “My friends! You have brought me so much joy by solving my problems! The time has come for me to ask what I can do for you! Anything! Anything! Big - small - medium sized – family sized - a six pack! Think on it, don’t make up your minds too quickly!”
“Ah, well that’s quite simple actually,” Roland said, “There is a man who is a prisoner of yours called Mr Brandon – we’d like to have a few words with him.”
The Count appeared shaken and stuttered as he spoke, stroking his jaw and grimacing, “That man has caused me a lot of trouble!” he growled.
“We know. By proposing to build a railroad through your lands,” Roland said.
“Not merely through my lands, but through our sacred tourney zone! What worst could one man do to another?”
“It might not be that bad,” Oliver suggested.
“Not that bad! Stopping us riding freely about, bashing each other with merry abandon! How could it ‘not be that bad’?”
“If I may,” Brother Goodwill stepped in, “As a builder and a former warrior I understand something of these matters. Perhaps you do not fully understand what is planned here…”
“Spoiling my fun by the sounds of things!” The Count thundered.
“That isn’t necessarily so,” said Goodwill, “Let me draw you a map and show you. Do you have a map of the area?”
“Lots!” Said The Count, “Essential to planning our tourneys!”
A map was brought And Goodwill sketched out how a railway might look if built through the tourney zone. “You see, it could go through a tunnel here –with bridges here it wouldn’t block your way hardly at all. In fact it would add some interesting obstacles that would make the game more interesting! Coping with the terrain as you find it is an important part of soldiering – you would simply have a new terrain to play with!”
“Yes, yes I see,” The Count said, “Well, it really isn’t as bad as I thought…”
“And of course,” Goodwill continued, “if they built a station here…” - and he indicated the lists – it would enable people to get to the tourney and get back home again! More people could take part, more merchants, more knights, bigger, better, more fun that ever!”
“Yes, yes!” said The Count, his enthusiasm growing, “I see! It’s for transportation! Well, we must have transport, essential for military purposes you know. Perhaps we could understand this new technology, even practice using it ourselves…”
“I am sure that could be arranged,” Goodwill said.
“Wonderful!” said The Count, “It appears I was wrong! Now, I will send for the poor man I have incarcerated – seemingly unjustly – so you can ask him what you want.”
When Brandon Senior was brought before them he was a pitiful sight. The bad hair day that looked as if it had been created by a flock of squabbling starlings was the least of his makeover issues. He was so filthy his dirt had filth, and his grime needed a bath too. It was a wonder that there was enough of him for the dirt to cling too, as he was so thin he looked like he had been on the Holy Healthy Hermit Diet since the very first day of Creation. At least he was actually getting some nourishment, though; a well chewed rat was clenched in his hand from which maggots dripped when he nibbled on it. A nervous tick and a generally addled state added to the impression that he had been a prisoner for a very long while.
“Is it my turn on the treadmill again?” he inquired, “It keeps my weight down something beautiful you know..” and he winked and poked at the ribs that were sticking so far out of his skin they showed through his mouldy old shirt.
“I am afraid not,” Roland said. “We have good news. The Count has approved your idea of a railway across his land.”
“Does this mean I get to see the sky again?” the man asked.
“Yes, and lots of it” Roland said.
“I’m free? The man asked.
“Yes, that as well,” Roland confirmed.
“I’m frightened,” said the man, “I don’t understand what ‘free’ means, any more…”
“Understandable, after a long period of incarceration, but may we ask you a question? We want to know where the Whales of the Sky are. Do you
know?” Roland asked.
The man just grunted. It seemed he did not understand. Roland repeated the question. The man looked around suspiciously, then spoke with a whisper as if telling an important secret, “You will find them in the trees,” he said, improbably.
“Really? Are you quite sure about that?” Oliver asked, “Whales in trees?”
“Where else would they be?” The man asked, as if surprised at the question.
Oliver opened his mouth to object strongly but Roland shook his head at him.
“You will find them in the trees,” Brandon Senior repeated, this time emphatically, “Over yonder, by the river, five hundred miles in that direction.”
Oliver gave Roland a look that suggested Brandon Senior was round the twist. Roland shot a look back that said he half believed it.
“Well, if they are the Whales of the Sky, I suppose its logical to think they might be found in trees,” Roland said.
“Fish are,” Brandon Senior said, with a daft look, but as if pointing out something obvious in order to be helpful.
What about ducks?” Oliver asked, testing the man.
“The exception that proves the rule,” the man said.
“What about dolphins? I suppose we’d find them in bushes?”
“Don’t be so silly,” the man scoffed, “They’d live in burrows if they came out of the water!”
“Oh silly me, of course they would,” Oliver said, giving Roland another dubious look.
“He is certain about the direction and the distance, Roland said. All we have to do is go and see.?”
“And if it’s all nonsense?” Oliver asked.
“then we have followed the only lead we have, and it has come up short,” Roland said, glumly.
It was plainly the best Mister Brandon Senior could manage in his sad condition.
Roland and his friends had a long way to go and time was pressing so they left the old engineer in the charge of Sir Filbert, who promised to get him back to the train and tell his son the good news.
“I’ve never seen anyone get around old Og-dra-gob so quickly!” Sir Filbert told Roland, once out of earshot of The Count. “He doesn’t give the time of day to most folks he meets!”
“Perhaps they just never get the chance to help him,” Roland said.
“Still, you’re quite a team!”
“At least we have done good for someone,” Roland said. “Now we have to get to the sun and back before they execute Firebrace…. If you will excuse us.”
“Gladly — and good luck!”