The Dragon Knight

  Things had turned very nasty indeed. Even as he finished speaking, Sir Giles had turned around and stamped out the door into the courtyard. There he turned again and stood waiting for Jim to follow him. Seeing no other choice, Jim did so.

  As he stepped onto the cobbles of the courtyard, he was acutely conscious of how they had been worn smooth and round, and were rather greasy for reasons he felt he would rather not speculate upon. It was a bright, cheerful day with a sky as blue as the sea and with little white tufts of clouds scattered here and there about it.

  "Well, damme, sir!" snapped Sir Giles, "have you no voice? Answer me! Do you wish to cry recreant and abandon the quarters, or will you meet me, man to man, with weapons of your choice?"

  Sir Giles, like Jim, had only the single broadsword hanging from his belt, and was wearing no armor. Jim was uncomfortably aware of what Sir Brian's response would have been—an enthusiastic agreement to fight. At the same time, his memory was uncomfortably reminding him of Sir Brian's voice tactfully referring to Jim's shield-work as ragged; and in no way really praising what skills Jim had learned during this last year in the use of the weapons of this world and time. Could he stand a chance against someone as explosive as this Sir Giles; who had probably been trained from the time he could toddle in the use of those same weapons? Jim rather thought not. But answer he must—or fight. His mind galloped.

  "I have been somewhat laggard in answering you, Sir Giles," said Jim at last, slowly, "because I was thinking of a way to explain the matter to you without giving offense to such a knight as yourself—"

  "Hah!" interrupted Sir Giles, his hand, which had dropped from his hip, going back to it and perching there as a fist.

  "The fact is," said Jim, "I'm under a vow. I’ve vowed never to draw my blade until it first crosses the blade of a French knight."

  The minute the words were out of his mouth, Jim felt how weak and silly they must sound; particularly to such a martial figure as this Sir Giles. It was the poorest sort of excuse, but the first he could think of at the moment. He braced himself for having to draw the sword and fight after all; but was abruptly astonished by the sudden change in the attitude of the man facing him.

  It was as if all the fire and fury in Sir Giles had suddenly run out of him, to be replaced by overwhelming understanding and sympathy. Tears literally shone in Sir Giles's eyes.

  "A noble vow, by all the Saints!" exclaimed Sir Giles staring at him. He took a step forward toward Jim. "Would I had but the faith in myself to merely attempt such a vow! Give me your hand, sir. A gentleman who can endure all provocations, any and all slights and shames, in order to keep his eyes fixed firmly on that goal toward which all good Englishmen are now set is a brave man, indeed!"

  He grasped Jim's automatically extended hand and wrung it gratefully. "You could never have given me offense, Sir James, by telling me of such a vow. I would give my right hand to have thought of such a vow for myself; and to have faith in myself to keep it—eternal damnation a penalty for failure, notwithstanding!"

  Jim was stunned. He had completely forgotten how men of the class of Brian and Sir Giles in this world literally idolized courage in any form. In fact, with most of them, it was almost a reflex. His sudden relief was almost enough to make him shaky. But not enough to rob him entirely of the opportunity he saw now flickering before him.

  "Perhaps then, Sir Giles," he said; "you'd be agreeable to resolving this difficulty by sharing the room with Sir Brian and myself. Indeed, you can share the room's bed with Sir Brian, if you wish; for I've taken another vow that restricts me to sleeping only on the floor."

  "Why damme! Damme!" replied Sir Giles, grinding Jim's fingers almost to powder in the excess of his emotion. "Noble and generous! So should a knight be, always. I'd be honored, m'Lord. I'd be happy and honored to share with both of you, as you suggest!"

  "Then perhaps you'd have someone bring your things up to it now," said Jim. "I'll tell our landlord—" He was turning around as he talked; and he broke off to discover, not merely the landlord, but what must be nearly everyone else in the inn, either right behind him or peering out through doorways or windows at Sir Giles and himself.

  "I trust you have no objection to Sir Giles joining us in the room, Master Landlord?" he said.

  "None in the least, m'Lord. None at all. I, myself, will send someone for Sir Giles's things if he will only tell me where they may be found."

  "A man of mine has them with our horses outside the courtyard," said Sir Giles with a negligent wave of his hand. He coughed, a little embarrassedly. "Others, of course, will be along in due time."

  "Then let me take you upstairs, Sir Giles," said Jim, "and perhaps the landlord can send us up some wine."

  He led the way upstairs, and the wine was quick to follow them. Deftly avoiding the bed, he sat down on one of the piles of clothes and saddlecloths that were on the floor. Sir Giles, quick to take cue that Jim was restricted in all things to floor level, chose another pile close to him.

  "Your pardon, m'Lord," said Sir Giles, as they embarked on their first brimming cups of the rough red wine with which the landlord had supplied them. Jim winced inside as he saw most of the contents of the other's cup disappear within his companion at the first gulp. Sir Giles, clearly, like most of the knights of this time, appeared to drink like someone lost in the desert who has at last stumbled across a water hole. "But I fear I do not know where your family home may be. Also, it shames me to say, I do not recognize either—what was that—Malencontri? Nor does my memory recall the name of Riveroak."

  "Malencontri lies in the Malvern hills," answered Jim, "not far in fact from Worcester. Actually, it lies within the lands of the Malvern chase, most of which is in the holding of the Earl of Gloucester. But I myself hold Malencontri direct from the King."

  "I am indebted to you for your gentle courtesy in telling me," answered Sir Giles. "Myself, I am a knight of Northumberland. Our family for many generations has lived on the coast of the German Sea, what some call the North Sea, but a little ways south of Berwick. And your companion is the good knight Sir Brian Neville-Smythe? I do not know of his holding, either."

  "Actually, Castle Smythe, his home," said Jim, watching Sir Giles refill his cup absently for the third time, "is quite close to mine of Malencontri and also in the Malvern area. We first became companions in a small matter having to do with a place of the Dark Powers, called the Loathly Tower."

  "By Saint Dunstan!" Sir Giles leaned toward him eagerly, spilling a little wine in his excitement, "are you then that Dragon Knight of whom the story before the Loathy Tower is told? It is said you killed an Ogre in single combat."

  "As a matter of fact, that did happen," said Jim. "Of course, I was in dragon body at the time, if you happened to have heard the story."

  "Heard it, m'Lord?" said Sir Giles. "All England and Scotland have heard of it! A most honorable endeavor."

  "It's good of you to say so," said Jim. "Actually it was a matter of necessity. My wife, the Lady Angela—"

  He broke off at the sound of a familiar voice filtering up through the thin floor beneath them, "but unless I mistake myself," he said, "Sir Brian is just about to join us now."

  He got hastily to his feet. "Will you excuse me for a few moments while I speak to him privately—"

  "Privately?" echoed Sir Giles, with a puzzled look.

  "Privily, I should have said," answered Jim. "It'll just take a minute or two. Then we'll both be back. I'm sure he'll be glad to find you here."

  "Hah!" said Sir Giles, kindling for a moment. However, he evidently thought better of gearing up to any objection by Brian to his presence, and merely settled back with his wine cup. "By all means, m'Lord. I will await you here."

  Jim was already halfway out of the room. He met Brian coming up the stairs and stopped him. In as few words as possible, he explained what had happened, and why somebody else was now sharing their chamber at the inn.

  "Ah," said Brian, nodding understandingly, whe
n Jim explained how the other had challenged him. Then he looked at Jim a little dubiously. "Did you indeed make such a vow about your sword, James? You said nothing of it to me."

  "Forgive me Brian," said Jim. "There're some things… you understand…" he dropped his voice conspiratorially, "… the vow mentioned my broadsword, only…"

  Brian's face broke into a happy smile.

  "Say no more, James," he said. "A matter of Magic, or somewhat between your Lady and yourself, I have no doubt. Forgive me if I seemed to pry."

  "Not at all, Brian," Jim said, with a twinge of conscience, "but come on upstairs and meet this Sir Giles de Mer. He's a little quick-tempered, but he cools down just as fast. I think you'll like him."

  The last few words were as much an inner prayer as a comment on Jim's part. In the back of his mind was an uncomfortable image of Brian and Sir Giles striking immediate sparks off each other. To his surprise, however, Brian seemed already to be acquainted with the name of the other knight.

  "Sir Giles de Mer," he echoed thoughtfully. "But this is convenient. I have somewhat to tell you Jim; and curiously, it affects this Sir Giles as well. By all means, bring me to the gentleman."

  Chapter Twelve

  Jim's fear that Giles and Brian might immediately strike sparks off each other had some reason behind it, both knights being very definite-minded individuals, if in slightly different ways. But it turned out he had no need to concern himself.

  "Sir Giles," he said, introducing them up in the room, "this is my old friend Sir Brian Neville-Smythe. Brian, this is the worthy knight Sir Giles, whom I've just invited to share our quarters, since he'd expected lodging here; and the inn is unfortunately filled up."

  "Hah!" said Sir Giles, genially twisting the right end of his mustache. "An honor and pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir Brian."

  "An equal honor to meet and make yours, Sir Giles," responded Brian. "I was just about to tell Sir James that I am charged with an important message for him. Curiously enough, I am charged also with one for you, Sir Giles."

  "Say you so? One for me?" Giles's face showed a mixture of puzzlement and mild belligerence. "That's passing strange. No one in Hastings at this moment would know I was here, I should think, let alone send a message to me."

  "It may seem less strange when you hear who the message is from," said Sir Brian. "The messages to both of you are from the noble knight, Sir John Chandos."

  The name produced a reaction not only in Sir Giles, but in Jim as well. Sir John Chandos, he remembered from his historical studies of the fourteenth century in his own world, had been a brilliant military captain and a close friend of the Black Prince, as the Crown Prince of England had been known. He had been among the founding members of the Order of the Garter; which knightly Order the Black Prince had established in Jim's world somewhat in imitation of King Arthur's Round Table. Chandos was also spoken of as the "Flower of Chivalry." What such a man could have to do with someone like himself, Jim thought, was beyond guessing.

  Meanwhile, after uttering a feeble "hah!" Sir Giles was almost twisting the hairs on the right side of his mustache out by the roots. Either, thought Jim, he must have some reason for knowing why Sir John Chandos would send a message to him; or else he was as completely overwhelmed by the source as well as the unexplainable nature of the summons as I am.

  "The message in either case is the same," Sir Brian went on. "Sir John wishes each of you to come to him as quickly as possible."

  "That means right now?" asked Jim uncertainly.

  "It could hardly mean anything else, James," said Sir Brian, frowning at him; and with a mild note of reproof in his voice.

  "Naturally! At once. Of course," echoed Sir Giles, his voice still slightly muted by the tone of shock in it. "Where is the gracious Sir John, that Sir James and I may find him?"

  "I'll take you to him," responded Brian.

  He led them out into the street. Their destination turned out to be another, larger inn, some little distance back from the waterfront, which seemed to have been completely taken over by someone of importance.

  Half a dozen flags, with coats-of-arms none of which Jim could identify, hung over its front entrance. Jim made a mental note to start studying up on his heraldry. He had been paying some attention to it, but mainly to the arms of those in his own neighborhood. Here, where a good share of the knighthood of England was gathered, and where nearly all of them recognized at least the arms of the important personages among them on sight, he could find himself in trouble if he showed too blatant an ignorance.

  Brian slipped them through the front door and Jim discovered that the large common room of this establishment was almost filled shoulder-to-shoulder—standing room only—with men, most of them in quite resplendent clothing. Jim, not someone who ordinarily paid much attention to how he was dressed, was suddenly very aware that neither he, Brian, nor Sir Giles were anywhere near respectably adorned, in terms of their present company.

  Brian was leading them around the walls toward the staircase to the upper floors at the far end of the room, when his sleeve was suddenly caught by one of the brilliantly dressed men there.

  "Hold, fellow!" said the individual. "Keep your place. Speak to the steward when he comes by, and if so be it you have some business here, speak it to him!"

  "Did you call me 'fellow'?" flared Brian, "Take your damned hand off me. And just who the bloody hell do I have the dishonor of addressing?"

  The other's hand let go.

  "I am Viscount Sir Mortimer Verweather, f…"—the other trembled on a reiteration of the word "fellow," but avoided it—"and not to be spoken so by any hedge-knight! I can trace my lineage back to King Arthur."

  Sir Brian told him in fulsome scatological terms what he could do with his lineage.

  "As for me, m'Lord," he concluded, "I am of the Nevilles of Raby; and need look down in the presence of no man. You will answer to me for this!"

  Both men were now grasping the hilts of their swords.

  "Willingly—" Sir Mortimer was beginning, when a stout, very well dressed man with a heavy silver chain around his neck and some sort of medallion hanging from it pushed his way between them.

  "Stop this at once, gentlemen!" he ordered fiercely. "What? Brawling in this of all chambers—" He checked himself suddenly. "Sir Brian!"

  His eyes had rested on Brian's face.

  The change in his tone of voice was surprising, although the sternness remained. "You left us but half an hour since. I did not look to see you back so soon—"

  "As it happens, Sir William," answered Brian, letting go of his sword and speaking in a calmer voice, "I've already found and have with me both the gentlemen that were spoken of."

  "Excellent!" said Sir William, smiling. "Sir John will want to see you immediately. Come with me."

  About to leave, he turned back to look at Sir Mortimer.

  "As for you, m'Lord," he said sternly, "it would not bear you amiss to remember to mind your manners in this place. Sir John will see you when he sees you."

  He turned back to Brian. "Come, you and the two you bring." He led the three of them to and up the staircase, with the gaze of all eyes in the room following.

  Jim found himself feeling ill at ease as he mounted the staircase behind the substantial and dignified figure of their guide. In fact, "uneasy" would not be too strong a word to put on the present state of his emotions.

  He had been aware of, and also found useful, the instinctive dragon fury of his dragon body. He had also found himself thoroughly caught up in the battle with the raiders outside Sir Brian's castle, to the point where he had not noticed until some time afterward, some cuts and bruises, and the places where his ill-fitting plate armor had scraped his skin raw.

  But a twentieth-century upbringing on his own world had badly prepared him for this kind of society; where it seemed you had to be ready to explode into fury at a second's notice.

  His training as he was growing up had been the other way arou
nd.

  In fact, when James and Sir Mortimer had been standing toe-to-toe downstairs, Jim's first thought had been how he could smooth over the confrontation, though he found himself beginning to get his back up in response to Sir Mortimer Verweather, as the exchange continued.

  He decided now that, somewhere along the line, he was going to have to develop quicker responses—whether it went against the grain of his upbringing or not. He had a role to play in this society; and evidently that was a part of it.

  On the upper floor of the building, they were ushered into a room not much larger than the bedroom back at their own inn, and furnished very much the same. A typical undersized bed fitted in one corner of the room, the bedding on it tumbled about. A thin, middle-aged man, with a few lank strands of black hair remaining on his nearly bald skull, stood at a sort of tall lectern, writing with a quill pen on what to Jim looked like parchment. Another man, in a dark blue doublet, managed to lounge, somehow, in a perfectly straight-backed, un-padded chair at a small square table on which were some papers, plus the omnipresent pitcher and wine cups. The man in the blue doublet was drinking from one of these cups and set it down as they came in.

  A stool of a height to make convenient sitting at the table was pulled up to an adjacent side of that table, and four more stools like it stood around the room against the walls.

  "Sir John," said Sir William, as the three with him halted just in front of the desk, "here, at your pleasure, is Sir Brian Neville-Smythe, back again with the two you mentioned."

  The man behind the table—who could only be Sir John Chandos, himself, thought Jim—straightened up a trifle and leaned forward, with his forearms on the table.

  "Good, William," he said, "leave me with them."

  He looked across at the man busily writing.

  "Cedric," he said.