The Ballad of Sir Dinadan

  "Peace, Culloch," interrupted Bedivere. "Let the minstrel sing his own song."

  Wadsworth continued. "The song is called, 'My Lief Is Faren in Londe,' which is to say, 'My love is far away.'"

  "Then why the deuce don't you say it?" muttered Sir Kai, but at a look from Bedivere, he lapsed into silence. Without further introduction, Wadsworth began:

  "My lief is faren in londe,

  Alas, why did I go?

  The cuckoo sings my song,

  'Jug jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.'

  "I travel far and wide,

  Great deeds for love to do,

  But I, like the cuckoo, cry,

  'Jug jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.'

  "Some day shall I be home

  To gaze her eyes into?

  I'll whisper as I come,

  'Jug jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.'"

  When the minstrel finished, there was a long silence. Dinadan carefully avoided looking at Bedivere or Sir Kai, but he could not doubt what they were thinking—"This took all afternoon?"

  "See why I like it?" Culloch said heartily. "I like the last part best, when I whisper that thing."

  "Jug jug witta poo poo," Sir Kai supplied.

  "Jug jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo," Wadsworth corrected, giving Sir Kai a condescending smile.

  "Ah. My mistake," Sir Kai said with a solemn nod.

  Wadsworth turned to Dinadan, triumph in his eyes. "Now, shall we hear what his lordship has prepared?"

  With a shrug, Dinadan swung his leg around and settled himself comfortably in the saddle with his rebec. He played a few bars, then began playing the same annoying little four-beat melody that Wadsworth had been humming earlier. He raised his voice and sang with a quavering vibratto:

  "Great Culloch can be brave and gay

  Throughout the sunlit hours of day.

  But when upon his bed he lies,

  Why then, for Olwen fair he cries.

  "He sees her face, her pigtail stout,

  The freckles sprinkled on her snout.

  Then from his chest he heaves a sob,

  And in his throat there grows a gob.

  "He weeps; his pillow sogs with tears;

  It oozes up around his ears.

  The flowing trickle from his nose

  Doth stain his face and cake his clothes.

  "Because he mourns the absent Ollie,

  Doth Culloch nobly grieve, by golly."

  Bedivere and Sir Kai did not speak, both shaking with suppressed mirth, but Culloch frowned. "Not meaning anything harsh, of course, Stearnes, but I didn't care for that one all that much."

  Wadsworth's chin lifted. "If I might make a suggestion, lad, it was not seemly to use the familiar name 'Ollie' in your poem."

  "Couldn't hatch a rhyme for Olwen," Dinadan explained. "But I'm sure you're right."

  "I could give you some other pointers sometime," the minstrel suggested.

  Dinadan forced a smile. "You'd be wasting your time, I'm afraid. I could never have written a song like yours." Wadsworth graciously accepted his victory, and Culloch began to talk about stopping for dinner.

  Dinadan rolled over from his afternoon nap, stretched, then took up his rebec to play idly while he shook off the heavy feeling that came from sleeping during the day. He felt a twinge of guilt that he had not spent the day seeking the Cup of Lloyr, but it was only a twinge, and it passed quickly.

  It was now three days since Culloch's search party had split up. After a while of asking everyone they met for the cup and receiving only puzzled stares, they had concluded that the quest would be more easily accomplished if they searched separately. They had set a place at which to meet again in three weeks' time, and then, to the relief of most of the party, had divided up. Dinadan, for his part, had asked two or three people he met if they had heard of the Cup of Lloyr, but recently he had been forgetting to ask. To be frank, the quest had begun to bore him.

  When he was fully awake, he loaded up his horses and started off through the woods. He was looking for an inn where he might sing for his supper, but instead he found a knight, and a more majestic knight Dinadan had never seen, sitting still—almost as if posed—on a small hill, resplendent in gold-colored armor.

  "Good morrow, friend," Dinadan called out pleasantly. The knight's visored helm moved slightly, so that the knight could see, but otherwise there was no response. "Well met," Dinadan said. At last the knight's helm nodded slightly, then returned to its former position. Dinadan shrugged and rode on, but a few minutes later he pulled up at the sound of hoofbeats behind. The golden knight was following. Dinadan waited for him to catch up.

  "Pleasant day, isn't it?" Dinadan said.

  The knight sighed loudly. "If you wish."

  "I didn't have anything to do with it," Dinadan pointed out. "My name's Dinadan. And you are—?"

  "I am a wandering knight, driven far from my home, where the love of my life is denied me by a cruel tyrant."

  Dinadan nodded. "Bad luck," he said sympathetically.

  "My love is the most beautiful lady in the world. I shall never be happy when I am away from her, and so I have sworn a vow of silence. I shall never again speak of her or of my love for her or of my grief."

  "Won't you?" Dinadan asked. "Very ... very noble, I m sure.

  "Perhaps, but I think nothing of that. It is only that there is no gain for me in uttering words that can only give me pain."

  "Just so."

  "To speak of the gold of her flaxen hair, to tell of the blue of her eyes, to express my love for her, than which there has never been such a love in all the history of man, cannot help me but rather can only harm me."

  "You are quite right," Dinadan said. "Shall we ride in silence, then?"

  "It would be to tear open my wound yet again, for every word I speak of her is as a red coal pressed to my breast, searing me to the very heart. I cannot speak her name. Nay, I cannot even speak my own, for to tell my own name is to speak of her, for what is Tristram but the slave of Iseult?"

  Dinadan felt a chill in his heart, and he found himself unable to look at his companion. Was this fellow his brother? No, it couldn't be. After all, wouldn't his brother Tristram have recognized him—or at least recognized the name when Dinadan had introduced himself. "Are you really Sir Tristram?" he asked timidly.

  "Who told you so?" the gold knight demanded.

  "You did. Just now." The knight was silent, and Dinadan continued. "The same Sir Tristram who killed Sir Marhault?"

  "The same."

  "The son of Sir Meliodas of the Fens?"

  This time the knight did not reply at once. "How came you to know that?" he asked.

  "I am ... I am somewhat acquainted with your family. I know your father and your brother."

  "Brother?"

  "Your younger brother."

  Again Tristram hesitated, then straightened suddenly. "Why yes! I did have a brother! A paltry, skinny waif of no skill and no promise. I do remember! How do you know my father?"

  Dinadan took a slow breath and looked at the empty forest ahead of him. "It doesn't matter," he said. "You should be keeping your vow of silence, after all."

  Tristram agreed with this plan, at some length. He appeared to be much more impressed with the dramatic effect of taking a vow than he was with the inconvenience of keeping it. He may as well have kept it, though; Dinadan did not listen.

  He could not explain why it so distressed him to meet his brother again and find him less than he had expected. It wasn't as if he had ever been close to Tristram or, for that matter, had ever had anything to do with him at all, except to admire him from afar. Nevertheless, when he thought back on his earlier self and remembered his childhood fantasies of one day riding side by side with his glorious brother, going on quest together, he writhed inside. It had all come true, after a fashion, but this fatuous clodpole beside him, jabbering incessantly about his noble vow of silence, had not been a part of that daydream.

  "Hold!" Tristram said suddenly, pu
lling up abruptly. "Seest thou that knight? Is he not well-portioned?"

  Dinadan glanced ahead of them, where a knight sat at the foot of a tree, holding a daisy and looking very abstractedly at the ground between his knees. "I couldn't say, Sir Tristram. Which portion did you mean?"

  "It is a goodly knight. I shall salute him."

  "What if he won't talk? I mean maybe he's taken a vow of silence or something."

  Tristram noticed no irony. "Then I shall respect his vow, of course. After all, it is the same vow I have taken myself. Good morrow, friend knight! Beest thou friend or foe?"

  The knight looked up dreamily, and seeing Tristram and Dinadan approach, blinked once or twice. His face lost a touch of its dreaminess. "I am a friend to all lovers," he replied slowly, "and enemy to all who scorn love."

  Tristram took a sharp breath. "Why then, you and I are of one soul indeed! For I am the same as you, and as two men struck by love, we breathe with but one breath. Though I know not your name, I know that I am closer to you than I am to my own brother."

  Dinadan's lips twisted wryly. "It's true," he commented. "He really is."

  The strange knight stood. "Then come to my arms," he exclaimed. "I am Sir Lamorak de Gales, knight of King Arthur's table and slave to the most beautiful woman in the world."

  Tristram had swung off his mount and started forward, but at this last word froze in his tracks. "Indeed, it cannot be so. For I, Sir Tristram of Cornwall, love the most beautiful woman in the world, the Belle Iseult."

  Sir Lamorak looked squarely at Tristram. "I have heard of you, and indeed have long wished to meet with you and call you brother, but this is not the meeting I had dreamed of."

  "There's a lot of that going around," Dinadan said.

  No one paid any attention, and Sir Lamorak continued, "For though I love thee, I will allow no man to stain the reputation of my fairy love. No earthly woman can match her."

  "That we shall see," Tristram said through gritted teeth. He drew his sword, and Sir Lamorak immediately followed suit. Dinadan realized with incredulity that the two knights were going to fight over whose lady was prettier.

  "Wait half a minute," he interjected. "What about all that business about being a friend to all lovers and breathing the same soul and all that rot? You aren't really going to fight, are you?"

  "Sir Tristram may retract his words," Sir Lamorak said. "Else I am sworn to defend my lady to the death."

  "As am I," said Tristram. "I mean, as you may also retract also your ... your words, also, I mean not also but instead of me. Then, then also sworn am I to..."

  It did not appear to Dinadan that Tristram was going to extricate himself from his speech, and so he turned his mount's head and rode on down the path, leaving the two knights behind. A moment later he heard the clang of swords, but before long he had ridden out of hearing, and he was alone again.

  Two and a half weeks later, at the appointed meeting place, Dinadan rejoined Culloch, Bedivere, Sir Kai, and Wadsworth. To Dinadan's considerable surprise—and evidently also to that of Bedivere and Kai—Culloch bore with him the fabled Cup of Lloyr. It was a simple wooden flagon on which had been roughly carved the letters LLOYR. Looking closely, Dinadan thought that the carving looked altogether too recent for this cup to be of very great age. He glanced quickly at Bedivere and Sir Kai. "Was, ah, was either of you with Culloch when he achieved his prize?"

  Bedivere shook his head slowly, his eyes meeting Dinadan's quizzical glance with a look of weariness. Sir Kai, standing beside Dinadan, said gruffly, "I'm sure you shall hear the tale soon. Until then, keep your thoughts to yourself, lad. You would not wish to prolong this quest, would you?"

  Sir Kai was right. Even if the cup was fake, what would be the value of pointing it out? Dinadan heard the tale that very night, but the story did not make anything more clear, as Wadsworth's telling included such details as Culloch's fighting off three giants and leaping over tall pine trees and hurling rocks as large as cows. If anything, the fanciful account made things worse, because Dinadan could not believe that King Isbaddadon would accept either the tale or the cup as genuine.

  He was wrong. Either King Isbaddadon was not very observant, or he didn't care, because when they had returned to the king's home with the "Cup of Lloyr" the king only ordered the cooks to prepare a banquet. As for Wadsworth's tale, Isbaddadon's only response to it was to laugh uproariously and clap Culloch heavily on the back a few times. Culloch, his face buried in a plate of boar meat, sauce dripping in globs from his chin, hardly seemed to notice. Bedivere held his head in his hands and looked old. Dinadan looked away with distaste, and his eyes met Lady Brangienne's. She was gazing steadily at Dinadan and was not at all embarrassed when Dinadan noticed her stare. She nodded gravely at him, and Dinadan nodded back. He didn't like her, of course, but he needed to be civil; he wanted to ask her a few questions later.

  Dinadan didn't know when he'd find her alone, though. King Isbaddadon was supposed to give Culloch his next task the following morning, and then they would be off again. Luck was with him, though. At midnight, his lack of appetite at dinner having caught up with him, he made his way to the kitchens and found her waiting there.

  "Well, it's about time you got here."

  "Did we have an appointment?" Dinadan asked, surprised.

  "Not officially, but when else were we to talk?"

  "Are we having a secret tryst, my lady? Because I'll have you know I'm not that sort—"

  "Don't be an ass," Lady Brangienne said impatiently. "Where the devil did you dig up that silly cup? Any fool could see it's a fake. Aren't the knights of the Round Table supposed to be honorable and trustworthy or something like that?"

  "We knights of the table had nothing to do with it," Dinadan snapped back, nettled. "That was all Culloch's doing, while we were looking for the cup separately."

  Lady Brangienne digested this information for a moment, then said, "Yes, I can see that. Whatever your numerous faults, you aren't a fool, and only a fool would try to pass that off as an ancient cup. But still, I didn't notice you objecting to the fraud."

  Dinadan shook his head slowly. "I think it bothers Bedivere more than he shows. But as for Sir Kai and me, you're right: we don't object at all. Answer me this: is it worse to end a stupid task falsely or to continue a stupid task honestly?"

  Lady Brangienne paused, considering this. At last, a tiny smile beginning at the corner of her mouth, she said, "It's a close race, isn't it? All right, I suppose I understand, even if I don't like it. I'm glad you and Bedivere didn't plan it, anyway."

  She started to leave, but Dinadan held up his hand and touched her sleeve. "Wait!"

  Lady Brangienne looked at Dinadan's hand for a second. "Yes?"

  "I need to ask you something. Didn't you say that Sir Marhault was killed fighting for the King of Ireland and his daughter Iseult?"

  "That's right." Her face grew forbidding at the memory.

  "And Tristram killed him, right?"

  "That's what I said. Why are you—?"

  "So why is Tristram in love with Iseult?"

  Lady Brangienne looked carefully at Dinadan. "How did you hear that?"

  "Tristram told me himself. I ran into him while I was out."

  "He told you?" Lady Brangienne rolled her eyes. "He is such a moron." She frowned suddenly. "You didn't mention me to him, did you?" Dinadan shook his head, and she let out a breath. "Good. Don't. I don't want him to know where I am." And with that, she turned on her heels and strode briskly away, leaving Dinadan alone, more confused than ever.

  V Questing

  Culloch's next task, which was announced the following morning, was much like the one before. He was to seek out and find the Magic Picnic Basket of Guidno, which could miraculously refill itself as soon as it was emptied, so that no picnic party should ever be short of food. Culloch's eyes had gleamed at the very thought. Bedivere had pleaded with King Isbaddadon to assign a task that would actually help someone in need, but it was no use
; and leaving behind the minstrel Wadsworth, who had caught a chill, the four knights rode away. Sir Kai was disgusted, Bedivere despondent, Culloch delighted, and Dinadan preoccupied. His mind was busy with something besides the search for the perfect picnic.

  For Dinadan had his own quest now. There was some mystery surrounding his brother Tristram and the Irish princess Iseult, and that mystery somehow touched on the person of Lady Brangienne, who wished it kept secret. He was not sure why he felt compelled to discover the truth, but he intended to find it nevertheless. The only place he could think of to investigate was in Cornwall, where King Mark held court at Tintagel Castle, and where most of the stories about Tristram took place. So, as soon as the knights were out of sight of Isbaddadon's castle, Dinadan suggested that they separate again, and when the others agreed, he headed in that direction. After all, he reflected, there were probably as many magic picnic baskets in Cornwall as there were anywhere else. He'd try to remember to ask around.

  They were short on magic baskets in Cornwall, it seemed, but Dinadan had no trouble locating Tristram. Nearly everyone had heard of the great, love-lorn knight in golden armor who would not reveal his name because of a vow. Surely there was never a knight that traveled incognito so publicly. And so it was that after only five days of searching, Dinadan rode up to a stone hermitage in the woods, where a harried-looking young Benedictine monk greeted him and, when asked if he knew Tristram, jerked his head at the stone building and said, "Inside. You can take him with you, if you want."

  Dinadan grinned. "I see. Has he been vowing silence at you?"

  The monk sighed. "He never stops. Heaven help women everywhere if he should take a vow of chastity." Dinadan laughed aloud, but the monk frowned and shook his head briskly. "Oh bother, I've done it again. I'm supposed to be learning patience in my solitude, and there I go snipping at someone."

  "Don't let it worry you," Dinadan said, swinging down from his horse. "I'm sure your patience has been well exercised since Tristram arrived. How long has he been here, by the way?"