The Dragon and the Gnarly King

  "Carolinus!" he called. "If you're in there, but can't answer, give me some signal, if you can."

  He waited. He listened. But nothing changed. The tinkling water of the fountain, from which the clearing got its name, went on. He pressed his head against the door and listened closely.

  At first he heard nothing. Then an inspiration came to him.

  He visualized himself as having the sensitive hearing of a bird who could hear an insect moving in the grass. He listened again.

  This time, he did hear something—a sort of breathy singing, like that of a kettle on the hob, over a fire, just about to break into a boil.

  Of course, he told himself, it would be Carolinus' kettle, which he had ordered magically to be always "on-the-boil," so that he could have his hot cup of tea without delay any time he wanted it. The same kettle that had once nearly worn its bottom through, sliding all the way to Malencontri to bring word that Carolinus needed help.

  The local people all believed that the kettle, as well as the other utensils and appurtenances in Carolinus's cottage, had a life of its own. Certainly, the kettle had given some evidence of this—though it was limited in what it could do. It occurred to Jim that it could be worth trying, at least, to speak to the kettle now.

  "Kettle!" he shouted through the door. "This is Jim Eckert, just outside. Carolinus' ward is keeping me out, but I need to talk to you. Is there any way I can get in? Or can you come out?"

  He pressed his ear to the door again, to hear if there was any change in the kettle's noise—and there was.

  Suddenly the kettle was singing recognizable words.

  "Jim, Carolinus said you might

  Come, if anything's not right.

  Give two knocks, then a third

  And simply say the magic word."

  Jim took his head from the door and stood there, thinking. Magic word. What magic word? It was just like Carolinus to turn something simple into a lesson in magic. But no one had ever mentioned magic words before.

  Jim checked himself from getting really angry. Emotion would get him nowhere. There was a puzzle here. Obviously it was meant to baffle anyone else who might hear the song; but Carolinus had assumed it would be solvable by him. That would mean…

  Of course. The magic words would have to be some that no fourteenth-century person would know. No sooner had this thought occurred to him than Jim almost lost his temper again, as a particular magic word suggested itself to him. Oh, no, he told himself. Carolinus couldn't be that obvious and ridiculous… but maybe he could.

  Jim took a deep breath, knocked, and addressed the door.

  "Open, Sesame," he said.

  The door swung open. Jim walked in. The door closed behind him; and in the dimmer, but still adequate light from the windows, he saw the kettle on the hob and heard it singing to him. Now it was singing something that sounded like a chorus.

  "Welcome, good Jim Eckert!

  Welcome…"

  It kept on singing until Jim spoke.

  "I'm happy to see you again, too, good kettle," he said. "I don't suppose you know where Carolinus is?"

  The kettle rocked itself a little above the fire and gave vent to a long, slow whistle, quavering down on a sad descending note.

  "You don't, then?" asked Jim.

  The kettle gave a short, sharp whistle.

  Jim nodded.

  "I understand," he said. "Well, if you don't and I don't, there's no guessing where he might be. But it occurs to me that wherever he is, he may think of having tea, and the kind of tea he'll want is the kind you give him back here at his cottage. So, maybe he'll come back just long enough for a cup of tea, or maybe he'll just sort of reach in here magically to tell you to make him a cup of tea and then get it from you magically and drink it where he is—or something like that. In any case, what I thought was I might give you a little rhyme you could sing to him if he does anything like that, to give him a message. Would you do that for me?"

  Another short, sharp, affirmative whistle from the kettle.

  "Fine," said Jim. "Give me a minute, now. I'll have to think the rhyme out…"

  Indeed, he had. He was not really any good with poetry of any kind, and probably no better at making up a snatch of song. Happily, he knew the melody that the kettle sang everything to, so he could put the words to that. He pondered a moment; and after some struggle, came up with:

  "Robert's stolen, Angie's said.

  All of us are very mad.

  Advise us, Carolinus!"

  It sounded very bad in his own ears, even as he sang it to the kettle. But when the kettle sang it back in its own plaintive, breathy little voice, it sounded a little better.

  "Well," said Jim to the kettle, "maybe it'll help. Thank you, kettle."

  The kettle gave a short, sharp whistle.

  "And the best to you, too," said Jim. He went out the door, which closed firmly behind him. Just for fun, he tried it and it was as firmly locked as it had been originally.

  He changed back into his dragon form and flew somberly home to Malencontri.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jim was still somber the next morning. He had slept well, but he woke to worry. It stayed with him all through breakfast—which, mercifully, the servants did not object to him taking in the Solar, unlike dinner and supper, which must always be taken in state, in the Great Hall. Angie had already left before he woke; and Jim ate with only his own thoughts for company. But there were plenty of these.

  Carolinus being out of touch just when they needed him was bad, but that problem had to be put aside for the moment. On a chance, he tried calling Kineteté; but again there was no answer. He tried moving himself to her, but he had never been able to do that without envisioning where he was trying to go, and he did not believe it would work. It did not. He put thoughts of her aside.

  Right away, first, he had to do what he had been dreading—it had to be done—talk to an at least conscious Brian about how he had come to be wounded. Still lost in his thoughts, he went out the door and literally bumped into two women just about to come in through it.

  "My Lady's not here—" he began.

  "We know," said the shorter woman sharply. "She's meeting us here in a few moments and sent us on ahead." Jim blinked and came back out of his thoughts.

  "Oh, hello," he said, recognizing the two. "Geronde! Danielle!"

  "I have just seen Brian," said Geronde, the shorter of the two. "You don't suppose I'd stay at Malvern Castle with Brian sore hurt?"

  "No, of course not—" said Jim. "Of course not. It's just that I wasn't expecting…" Jim let himself run down rather than get into trouble.

  "I expect you'll find Dafydd in the Great Hall," said the tall young wife of the Welsh bowman, still strikingly beautiful even after two children.

  "Of course. Good to see you both. I went to try to get in touch with Carolinus last night, but I didn't have any luck," said Jim, realizing even before the words were all out of his mouth that they already knew about this.

  "Oh?" said Danielle.

  "Ah, yes," said Geronde.

  Geronde opened the Solar door. The two swept by him, went in, and closed the door behind them. He was left in the corridor, feeling as if he had suddenly become unwashed, unshaven, and generally disreputable-looking.

  The encounter had not done anything to make him eager to see Brian. Nonetheless, he went on down to the room to which Brian had been taken the day before.

  "James!" said Brian, sitting up in bed and looking far less pale. "I have been hoping someone would come by—most of all you! It's a damned dull life, lying here. Particularly when I know I could be up and about."

  "Not quite yet, Brian, I don't think," said Jim. He looked at the serving-woman on duty, seated on the stool in a corner of the room. "Bet, step outside and close the door behind you firmly. Wait in the hall until I call you."

  "Yes, m'Lord."

  "Sit down! Sit down!" said Brian. Jim pushed Bet's stool closer to the bed and sat down.
"The last thing I remember," Brian went on, "I was up in Cumberland; and you were down here in Somerset."

  "Not exactly," said Jim. "The fact was, I was up there in Cumberland at the same place you were."

  "Were you!" said Brian. "Be hung, drawn, and quartered if I can remember a thing about that!"

  "Well," said Jim, "do you remember the people you were with being attacked by another group when you were in the Skiddaw Forest?"

  Brian rubbed his forehead.

  "I do seem to recall something of the kind. But I do not remember your being there, James."

  "I was on the other side," said Jim.

  "Were you, by God!"

  "Yes," said Jim. "In fact, when our line rode against yours, I was almost opposite you. Not really opposite, but a little off to one side—two or three riders away from coming directly at you—so that I didn't think we'd encounter when the lines met. But as it happened, Gorp was crowded over by the other horses, in your direction, and I found myself riding at the man right next to you."

  "Did you, now!" said Brian. "I hope you remembered to keep your shield up and a loose grip on your lance, as I've taught you. Did you unhorse the man you were riding at?"

  "Well—as a matter of fact," said Jim, and coughed awkwardly."—you see, I was concentrating on you. You saw me, too, just about that time, and you lifted your lance so that you couldn't possibly strike me with it, even if you were crowded in my direction."

  "Quite right. Naturally," said Brian. "But then what?"

  "Well, to tell you the truth, Brian," said Jim, "the rider I was encountering tilted his shield sideways, the way you've tried to teach me to do; and the tip of my lance glanced off it; and—well, to make a long story short, Brian, I was the one who put the lance into you."

  "Were you!" Brian stared at Jim. "Well, of course. Only right that you should choose the next possible opponent—"

  "Brian, I didn't do it on purpose!" said Jim. "Believe me, it was just an accident. My lance-point simply slid in your direction; and since we happened to be moving toward each other—you know how it is—my point took you behind your shield's edge and gave you the wound that's got you in bed right now. It was all my doing."

  "Ah, that explains it," said Brian. "Nonetheless, James, you must remember this. If duty calls upon you to ride against foes, you should not hesitate to encounter whoever might be riding against you. At such times, duty comes first."

  "I should have raised my lance-point, like you did," said Jim miserably. "But there just wasn't time. It was all over in a flash. I can't tell you how sorry I am, Brian."

  "Sorry?" said Brian, frowning. "Why should you be sorry, James? Certes, your lance-point in me is no different from that of any other man."

  "But it's the last thing I'd ever want to do to you," said Jim. "Only, I couldn't avoid doing it."

  "Well then, how could things have been different?" said Brian. "I thank you for your friendship and courtesy in rescuing me after I was wounded; and, in any case, here I am, healing merrily and due to be up—possibly this evening for supper?"

  "It's still a little early. Just a little early," said Jim. "You must remember—"

  "I know!" said Brian. "I've got to lie here and make blood for myself! Angela told me so when she brought Geronde by, earlier this morning. A healthy man ought to be able to replace his own blood in an hour or so, you'd think. But no, apparently it takes days. I tell you, James, I feel ready to ride a course against anyone right now."

  "I don't doubt you do," said Jim. "But I'd feel better, Angie'd feel better, Geronde'd feel better, if you just kept to your bed for a little while longer."

  "Well, no help for it," said Brian. "I will even endure it, then. But, James, tell me of the fight—if it could be dignified by such a name. Who won?"

  "I don't know," said Jim. "When I struck you, I was thrown from my own horse as well. Blanchard started to attack me, and the fight was likely to trample us both into the ground; so I took us both away from there."

  "Blanchard!" cried Brian, coming bolt upright in the bed. "What of Blanchard? Have you any idea what happened to him? There are many who would like to have him, no doubt about that—"

  "It's all right—it's all right! Blanchard's right here in my stable," said Jim. "I brought him back with us."

  Brian let out a long sigh and slumped back against the headboard.

  "You have saved life and soul for me at once, James!" he said. "I had rather lose a limb than Blanchard. Rather anything than that. You know how much he means to me—and, to say truth, it is no less than his true worth."

  "I know," said Jim. "Actually, just before our encounter with your group, Sir John Chandos had told me that he knew you were there—he had seen Blanchard, and recognized him at once. He spoke of Blanchard being worth a King's ransom."

  "A ransom for all the Kings that ever were!" said Brian fiercely. "And still I would not sell him for such price! But James—now you are here, shall we not spend a little time pleasantly? I know there is no asking you if I may have wine, but there is no lack of this small beer and perhaps we might play a game of chess?"

  Jim stared at his friend for a moment. But Brian was not showing off. That wound in his shoulder might be healed, but the body would be remembering, with pain, the insult it had taken. Jim had no way of relieving that pain. He could to some extent short-circuit his own pains magically, but the only available help for Brian in this time was the alcohol in the wine he would have liked to drink, and Jim did not want to risk it on a blood-depleted body. But the only complaint Brian was making was of boredom.

  Brian was not being stoic. He was simply ignoring pain he could do nothing about. Could I ever do that to such a degree? Jim asked himself—and knew the answer was No.

  "Chess, by all means," he said humbly.

  It was the least he could do, under the circumstances, for the man he had nearly killed. He was not particularly overjoyed at the idea, however. In the twentieth century he had considered himself a rather good chess player; but the rules Brian had been brought up with had never heard of castling; and the Queen, instead of being the most powerful, was one of the weakest pieces on the board, being only able to move diagonally, one square at a time.

  The changes were not so large that Jim could not play; but they threw his whole portfolio of tactics into disarray, and he was forced to either adapt what he would normally do, or come up with something fresh. And in the latter case, he was in the position of playing the game as if for the first time.

  Nonetheless, they played. Brian won three games quite easily, which cheered him up immensely; and, following his last defeat, Jim was able to plead that he had things to do; and leave a more contented Brian than the one he had encountered coming in, even though the other man knew the whole truth now.

  Once outside Brian's room, he turned automatically back up the stairs to the Solar. But the sound of women's voices checked him before he opened its door.

  This might not be the best time in the world for him to show up. There had been a touchiness in both Geronde and Danielle when he had met them on the way out. Until he knew the cause of it, the best plan would be to stay clear. Angie would handle it much better alone.

  He turned and went downstairs. He found Dafydd at the High Table in the Great Hall, as usual working on one of his arrows. Dafydd was one of those people who had to be doing something with his hands most of the time.

  "My Lord," he said formally as Jim sat down at the table with him.

  "James," Jim corrected him. "After these years of knowing each other, how can we be anything but 'James' and 'Dafydd' to each other?"

  Nonetheless, he looked closely at Dafydd as he said it. Dafydd had a way of speaking formally when he was about to disagree with Jim about something. A sort of warning flag that said, "Take me seriously, now!"

  "James, then, it shall be," said Dafydd, his regular features and tall slim body relaxed and calm as always. "Good it is to see you well; and will you tell me of Brian, how he is
now, and how he came to be wounded?"

  Jim told him.

  The only part he avoided was the matter of Brian being approached to fight for those opposed to the King's taxes Brian had certainly told him this in confidence; and he was not really free to share it with even as old and good a friend of Brian's as Dafydd, without permission.

  "—So," he wound up, when he got to the point of the two forces being opposed in Skiddaw Forest, "I was not expecting to find Brian facing me in the battle. I tried to avoid him—he saw me, and lifted his lance to miss me. But with the press of horses and men, I was pushed into him… and, well, I ended by putting my lance into him, even though I tried not to. That's why he's still in bed, upstairs. He doesn't like it, but he's got to rest while he makes back some of the blood he lost."

  "That is sad, now," said Dafydd. "But such haps will be, when men fight. I looked over my arrow-point once and saw my cousin, less than two hundred yards away, his own bow bent, but not at me. Indeed, he had not seen me. He was part turned from me, but I knew him by the way he stood. Yet, since those around me should not wonder, I let the arrow go, but so that it missed. Then I went back through the lines before he could see me. An archer less known would not have found it easy to so desert the front line. But I had some small reputation for skill and courage. Therefore, no man questioned my leaving. Which was well; for then I must needs have killed him; and I mislike the killing of any man or beast for small reason."

  As he spoke his fingers had been finishing whatever he had been doing with the arrow before him, and he now laid it down on the table. Jim looked at it curiously. Its point was about six inches long, and of metal, narrow and six-sided, tapering to a needle point.

  "That looks like the arrow you made to deal with the Hollow Men, when we were up on the Scottish border with Giles de Mer and his family," Jim said.

  "It is like," said Dafydd. "But it is not as the ones I made then, but of a somewhat newer fashion. I find other archers have been making these, to deal with the armor of steel plate that is becoming more common now. This is called a bodkin point."