The Dragon and the Gnarly King

  They proceeded from the small jelly-rolls to an omelet with beef marrow and chopped pork in it, which was considered an ideal sort of "summer dish." This was followed by a much heartier beef pie, and so the meal wore on.

  Jim was thoughtful, mulling over the fact that Chandos had made only a single fleeting reference to a man he knew to be Jim's best friend—Brian. The omission was very noticeable. Chandos must realize that. But plainly no explanations would come until they were more private than they could be, here in the Great Hall.

  Meanwhile, Sir John had now fallen into conversation with Angie, seated on his other side. Jim felt a slight twinge. He did not think of himself as being the jealous type; but the manners of this particular time seemed ideally adapted for the seduction of any lady that a gentleman might meet. In fact, it seemed to be something of a slight not to try to seduce any lady of equal rank you met; and it could not be denied that Sir John was a master of the manners of his day.

  On this occasion, however, Jim had Brian too heavily on his mind to worry much about that—and anyway, he trusted Angie.

  Angie, meanwhile, taking notice of Jim's silence—which was becoming almost as noticeable as the respectful silence of the three younger knights who had come with Sir John—began to wonder if possibly something about her conversation with Sir John was bothering Jim.

  She was rather amused that this husband of hers showed a touch of jealousy where the older knight was concerned. Sir John was certainly in his forties, and might easily be into his early fifties, although he neither looked nor acted like it; and he undeniably was attractive. But if Jim were really getting concerned, she should probably back off a bit. After watching him for a moment, however, she decided that it was nothing to worry about and let herself enjoy Sir John's company.

  Finally they were served a Faun Tempere—Gilly-Flower Pudding—the best Malencontri could do by way of dessert, most fruits not being ripe yet. It was a dish of beef broth, white flour, finely powdered cubeb berries, and ground almonds, atop which were sprinkled the petals of dandelions—basically for ornament. At this point, John Steward made his appearance, looking as formal as possible and carrying his staff of office, which under ordinary conditions he usually did not bother to lug around.

  "Your pardon, my Lord, my Lady, Sir Knights—" he intoned. "Both the guest room for Sir John and the chamber for the other three gentlemen are now prepared."

  He bowed and backed out of the Great Hall.

  There was a clearing of throats at the far end of the table and Sir Charles Lederer, the oldest of the younger knights, spoke up.

  "Pray pardon me, my Lord, my Lady, Sir John," he said. "But I find myself feeling faint. I have been somewhat unwell all day, and it may be something I, Sir William, and Sir Alan, here with me, together ate at breakfast this morning before our day's ride. I would greatly desire to retire now and sleep, with your kind grace and permission."

  Chandos looked at Jim, who picked up the cue.

  "Certainly, Sir Charles," he said. "Sleep is a sovereign cure for most ills. My Lady and I most certainly excuse you if you wish to go, though of course it will be a matter for Sir John to rule on."

  "You have my permission, Charles," said Sir John. "And if either of you others are at all faint, or uneasy in the guts, you could do no better than to follow Sir Charles' example."

  "Thank you, Sir John, my Lord, my Lady," chorused the other two politely, standing up immediately and bowing. "A good night and God's blessing on you all."

  Jim and the rest wished them a good night in return, and, as the three left the dais, John Steward appeared instantly in the entrance to the Serving Room, to lead them to their accommodation.

  "They are good lads," said Chandos, looking after them. "Mannerly and obedient. But they know nothing yet about real battle, or anything in the way of serious fighting. Yet, they all seem stout-hearted enough."

  He turned back to Jim.

  "We must talk, Sir James," he said. "We can do so here, if you think there will not be too many servants' ears close upon us. Or have you a more privy place for important conversation?"

  "Our Solar, of course," answered Jim. The question had been a matter of form. Chandos was already familiar with their Solar.

  So that was where the three of them went. Wine had been sent up, as well as more little cakes to nibble as they drank; but these went untouched. All three had already eaten more than they wanted—Chandos, out of polite compliment for the food; Jim and Angie to set a good example to their guests.

  "A pleasant chamber," said Sir John, sipping his wine and looking out of the nearest of the windows that had resulted from Jim having the arrow-slits enlarged. These were now not only glazed, but framed in and hinged, so that they could be swung inward to open the Solar to the outside air.

  That window was open now, and the twilight breeze moving through the room was probably welcome to Sir John, who, like most people of this time, was usually overdressed rather than otherwise. Clothes were considered to be for the purpose of keeping one warm; if it turned out that wearing them made you hot—well, of course, you could always sweat. Better to sweat for a few months than go cold the rest of the year.

  "We like it very much," said Angie.

  "I do not wonder at it," said Sir John. He looked at Jim. "It touches me with guilt, Sir James, to take you away from such pleasantness; but duty to our King calls us both, you and I. No doubt you have been wondering why his order reached you, putting you at my disposal."

  "I assumed something was in the wind," said Jim, "but I didn't have any idea what—still don't, for that matter."

  "We are both caught up in the cares and problems of our times," said Sir John, sipping at his wine. "For both of us it comes of having gained somewhat of a name, so that we are thought of when matters are at hand that can only be dealt with in certain ways. I will explain; but I would that the explanation be kept strictly amongst ourselves, the three of us here."

  "Of course," said Jim and Angie almost simultaneously.

  Jim turned in his chair and looked directly at the Solar fireplace, where a freshly laid, small summer fire crackled pleasantly.

  "Hob!" he called.

  "Yes, m'Lord?" answered the fireplace.

  "Go someplace else, where you can't hear what we're talking about."

  "Yes, m'Lord."

  Jim turned back to Angie and their guest, and met Chandos' inquiring gaze.

  "Just our Castle Hobgoblin," he said. "A staunch friend and ally. But he's likely to be in any chimney or fireplace we have. Still, I'd back him against any other Hob in England."

  A small, happy sound escaped from the fireplace.

  "Hob!" said Jim, over his shoulder.

  "Yes, m'Lord. I'm going…" The voice faded away out of hearing.

  "I give you thanks," said Sir John. "Well, it is a small matter of bickering between some of the nobles of the land; important only because on one side we have a gentleman who is sometimes overactive in his advice to his Majesty. On the other we have gentlemen who feel that the first has been giving ill advice to our ruler in the laying on of taxes in the last few years—you may even have heard some murmuring about the one or the others."

  "Now I think of it," said Jim, "it seems to me I did hear about something like that, quite recently."

  "Alas," said Chandos, "the complaints are all too common. I would you understood what is at stake here. Our Sovereign is determined to recover full control of Aquitaine, that portion of France which is his by rightful inheritance. And equally the Kingship of all of France, to which he also has claim, his grandfather having been King Philip the Fourth."

  "That's right," said Jim, remembering his studies, "Philip of Valois was the one actually chosen by the French for their King, being a grandson of King Philip the Third."

  "Yes," said Chandos. "In truth, our Edward had as good a claim as Philip. But it is not heritance alone that concerns those of us who are close to the King. We are concerned with the health of the K
ingdom. The land of Aquitaine, of course, contains the wineries whence we get our wine of Bordeaux; and indeed, where all the world gets its wine of Bordeaux."

  He paused to take another sip from his mazer.

  "If we were to recover these lands and these wineries, the tax on the wine alone would make unnecessary a great many of these other small taxes of which our English people complain. So, in essence, by stopping individual quarrels between those about the King, and those who feel ill-counsel has been given, we not only keep the land peaceful, but in a way we answer the general unhappiness with some of these necessary measures."

  He stopped speaking and looked at Jim.

  "I see," said Jim. He could not bring himself to voice a heartier agreement. This was an Englishman speaking about his King's claim to the French throne, of course, Jim told himself. But the facts and reasoning were correct.

  "I see," he said. "But what's all this to do with me, and what do you want from me at the moment?"

  Chandos did not reply immediately, but got to his feet like someone who needs to stretch his legs, and sauntered over to the nearest open window, looking down on the interior courtyard of the Castle. With his back to Jim and Angie, he went on talking.

  "In a word," he said, "your company most of all; but also your assistance. Word has reached us that your friend, Sir Brian Neville-Smythe, may be among those who plan to disturb the peace of my Lord the Earl of Cumberland—for you must know sooner or later whom we wish to protect."

  Jim's heart sank.

  "I understand," Chandos went on, "that Sir Brian has gotten permission from his liege lord, my Lord the Earl of Somerset, to engage himself with those who are currently at feud—shall we say—with my Lord of Cumberland." He seemed to shake his head.

  "Meanwhile, all concerned wish to keep the matter as quiet as possible—though indeed it will not, in the long run, be possible to keep it unknown and undiscussed throughout the Kingdom. Sir Brian, from his name as a great lance and a winner of tournaments, will draw good men to the side of those who would now threaten Cumberland. I would make known the fact you are not with him, and as well add an equally weighty name to the other side."

  "In any case I have the King's order for you; and I regret the promptness of such a going, but you and I must be leaving tomorrow, early. It is a necessity for us—"

  He broke off suddenly.

  "By Saint George," he said. "Your Castle is on fire! But a great many of your servants seem more interested in a fight that is going on down in your courtyard."

  Chapter Six

  Jim reached the window in two strides and looked.

  "Oh, Hell, Angie!" he said. "It's May Heather and Tom, the Kitchen-boy. They're at it again!"

  "And it's the Kitchen on fire!" said Angie, who had just reached one of the other windows.

  They all three hurried downstairs.

  When Jim, Angie, and Sir John came out into the courtyard, the smoke was beginning to thin, but the crowd was no smaller, and the fight was still going on, although the tall adult bodies of the servants hid the combatants, who were wrestling on the ground.

  "Pull those two apart!" shouted Angie, as she, Jim, and Sir John strode rapidly up to the mass of watchers. "The rest of you stay here! You hear me? Stay! I don't want any of you leaving!"

  The crowd, which had showed signs of scattering, reluctantly stayed, parting to let its superiors through to the center. Separation of the fighters was being managed, at the cost of some damage to those doing the separating, and it became undeniable that the combatants, as on several other occasions recently, were indeed May Heather and her opposite number on the Kitchen staff, a boy named Tom.

  The two were the best of friends, but often at odds, and lately they had gotten into several of these battles-royal—which for some reason attracted every servant able to slip away from their duties. But not one servant could be made to explain why the fight was such an attraction.

  "Beat thee again!" said May, triumphantly, as they were pulled out of each other's reach. Tom growled something unintelligible.

  "Well?" snapped Angie. "What's it about this time?"

  " 'Ee lied!" cried May Heather, forgetting in her passion her careful Castle pronunciation and dropping into the broad local speech.

  "Didn't!" shouted Tom.

  Both made a serious effort to break loose and re-engage. They were cuffed by those who held them prisoner.

  "All right, leave them alone," said Angie. "I want answers, not a couple of deaf children. I've told all of you about hitting the young ones on the side of the head. Now, Tom! You tell me. What does May Heather say you were lying about?"

  "There was a hole!" cried Tom, still at the top of his voice. " Twas by the big oven!"

  "There's not! There's not!" shouted May Heather. "M'Lady, look for yourself. There's no hole there. It was his doing, the chimney getting stopped up!"

  Getting the whole story in cases like this, Jim knew, was sometimes a slow affair, since those telling it tended to react to the last words said by those in opposition to them. Accordingly, he left Angie with the crowd and the two furious youngsters and went on into the Kitchen himself, accompanied by Sir John.

  The air there was surprisingly clear. A few of the Kitchen staff, who had ducked back in there at Angie's first words, were now standing back in corners and looking guilty. Jim's eyes fastened on the Mistress of the Kitchen, who was standing with her lieutenant, the Bakery-Mistress, beside the oven.

  This was a large kiln-like structure with walls of hard-packed earth. Low down at its center was a massive fire-box, with space above it where dishes could be put to cook, or merely be kept warm until needed. Behind, a chimney ascended from the fire-box, a chimney as massive in its own right as the oven.

  The doors of the fire-box were open, and the fire appeared to be out, although a palpable warmth could be felt. As Jim and Sir John joined the two women, one of the under-servants of the Kitchen crawled out of the fire-box, his face and clothes now so thick with soot and grime that he was hardly recognizable.

  " Tis blocked," he said, speaking to the Kitchen-Mistress, "with dirt. Hard blocked. We'll need rods to poke at it until it falls apart, and then we can shovel it out below here. By your leave, my Lord," he added, noticing the two knights.

  "Clear blocked?" said the Kitchen-Mistress. "Our Tom couldn't ha' done that. Nor even that girl, though I wouldn't put it past her otherwise. It's too heavy a work for a lad and girl their sizes. Well, get the rods, and to work!"

  " Twas the Fairies done it!" said the Baking-Mistress, lower-voiced, looking away from Jim. "Things like that happens when people coddle hobgoblins in their fireplaces. There's no hobgoblins in my oven, I can tell you! I've seen to that!"

  The statement was ostensibly directed at one of the other servants against the farther wall of the Kitchen, who was now trying to look as if he had not heard a word. The very fact that such a statement was made aloud in Jim's hearing at all, however, was evidence of what Geronde called "the terrible looseness" with which servants were governed in Malencontri.

  "Hobgoblins?" asked Sir John, looking at Jim, questioningly.

  "The one you heard me speak to," said Jim, more sharply than he had intended. "It's here by my leave and will stay here—or anyplace else in my Castle!" For once he was honestly angry, and the tone of his voice plainly carried conviction to all his vassals within earshot.

  They could not, without permission, step back from him. But they all leaned back a little as if in a strong breeze. The Baking-Mistress tried to edge behind the Kitchen-Mistress. A rather unsuccessful attempt, since both women were equally stout.

  "Excuse me a moment, Sir John," Jim said, remembering Chandos was a witness.

  He turned to the Kitchen-Mistress.

  "How did the chimney get filled with earth?" he demanded. "And what's all this business about a hole?"

  "I know not, my Lord," the woman answered, formally emphasizing the "my Lord" as two separate words, since a guest wa
s watching. "Our Tom, who came into the Kitchen at a time when—well, there was none else watching, just before the chimney stopped up—says there was a hole in the floor."

  She stamped on it.

  Jim looked down. He saw earth, pounded hard by many feet over many years. She pointed to her right. "The hole was just over here, he said, my Lord, and you can see the earth has been at least loosened."

  Jim and Sir John followed her to a rough circle on the floor, where the earth did indeed seem not to be so tightly packed. In fact, its top layer could almost have been swept away with a broom.

  "This challenges belief," said Sir John. "If indeed there was a hole, and if indeed something like a fairy came up it, then went into the oven—was there a fire in it at the time, Mistress?"

  "No, my Lord," said the Kitchen-Mistress. "The morning cooking was over, and the fire-box had just been cleaned out. Indeed, most of our people were having their own small bite of food before the evening's cooking should begin."

  "Then not a fire-demon," said Sir John, turning to Jim, "But by all the Saints, it seems no Christian thing. Mayhap the talk of a fairy was not amiss?"

  "I'll have to consult with Carolinus on that," said Jim, short-temperedly dodging the question.

  "Fairy" was a term everyone of high or low rank seemed to use indiscriminately. As far as Jim's knowledge went, in this world there were no beings specifically called "Fairies." Rather, the term was applied to just about anything outside the usual range of living being—Naturals, Supernatural, Goblins, Devils, Djinni, Demons—as well as Lords and Kings of Underworlds, Heavens, and Hells…

  Jim had never really figured out why it was that at some times these people seemed in mortal fear of even a mention of such creatures, but at other times gossiped eagerly about them—perhaps there was some nuance he did not totally understand, to the folk saying about Naming Calls, which as far as he knew meant that if you spoke such a creature's name aloud, it might come. To get you.

  For a moment, Jim worried that Sir John, who was more intelligent than almost anyone else he had met in this fourteenth-century world, might be offended at the stiffness of the answer Jim had just given. But a glance at the knight seemed to find him completely satisfied. They went back outside to rejoin Angie.