"Ah well," Marhalt said, "I suppose that's what he is, for all his size. Does he wear armor?"
"No, only the skins of animals, and for weapons he has clubs. Tree trunks and bars of iron, anything he can come by."
"Well, we'll see," Marhalt said. "I suppose I could go to find him now, but I would rather wait until the morning. May I use a grindstone on my sword, sir?"
"I'll call a servant to sharpen for you."
"No," said Marhalt. "I would prefer to do it myself. I want a very special edge. And now, my lord, are we free to disarm and make ourselves comfortable?"
"A thousand pardons," Fergus said. "Please come into my hall--or better, let us sup in my little room before the fire. There is no company here. Taulurd is making this whole area unpopular. Come, my lady. Come, sir. I hope you don't mind country fare. The beds are comfortable though. I'll have hot stones placed in them to dry and warm them. It's been a rainy spring."
Earl Fergus's little castle was a pleasant place near the edge of the river Cam. The castle formed an island, moated by the fresh flowing water of the Cam. And because the moat was deep the walls could be low. It was a light and airy place where the sun could penetrate, as it did in the morning when Sir Marhalt prepared to fight the giant. He dressed himself in a soft leather jacket and pants, which ordinarily he wore under his armor, but this day he wore no metal to cover his body or his head. His feet he clad in deerskin stockings, wrapped to the knee with bands.
Fergus protested, "Are you insane? Taulurd will mince you with his club."
But Marhalt smiled at him. "I will not carry my own trap," he said. "Would armor save me from the battering?"
"No, I guess not."
Marhalt said, "His brother taught me this. He nearly killed me. The only weapons against strength and size are smallness and speed. Give me my shield, my dear," he said to his lady, and he took his sword, sharpened to cut a single hair, and balanced it in his hand.
"I will belt on your scabbard," the lady said.
"No, my lady. I will not take it. I want nothing to stick out, nothing to get in my way. Now, my lord Fergus, will you guide me to this giant?"
"I don't think I could bear the sight of you out against an elephant. I will send a man with you."
"I will go," the damsel said.
"No, my dear. Wait here for me."
"Why should I not go?"
"For the same reason I do not take the scabbard, my lady."
The guide conducted Marhalt along an ill-marked pathway on the sward and over stony ground with a growth of thorny yellow gorse, and on the riverbank he pointed to a large dark lump on a pile of rocks. "There he is, sir, the monster thing, and here you be and, if you permit, sir, I will be hence."
"Take my horse," Sir Marhalt said. "Ride back a pace and wait for me."
"You'll fight afoot?"
"I want no horse to bother with. If he should clobber me, try to save a little piece of me for my lady. She treasures keepsakes."
Marhalt walked quietly in his light soft shoes toward the giant sitting on the rock pile. His great unclipped head was sunk on his breast and his shoulders moved, and he sang a tuneless song like a rebellious child. His skin was caked with dirt, and the breeze brought the filthy smell of him to Marhalt's nose. About him on the ground lay oaken clubs and battle maces with fluted crowns, and knobkerries of heavy thorn and a huge iron bar with a lump of lead set with nails on its end. The giant, intent on his baby son, did not hear Marhalt approaching.
"Good morning, Taulurd," the knight said quietly. "I bring you greetings from your brother, Taulas."
The huge head snapped up. Red eyes glared from the thicket of dirty hair and the wide mouth bubbled foam like a burped infant.
"Hub," said Taulurd. "Ho."
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Taulurd, but you will have to go away, far away. You don't know how to get along with people. You hurt people and you haven't learned to respect other people's property. Why, Taulurd, you haven't learned to clean yourself. Shame. You smell like a combination of a charnel house and a privy. You can't stay around here."
Taulurd's eyes watered and he seemed about to weep, and then his little eyes went wild with rage and his singsong turned into an animal howl. His great hand felt stealthily on the ground, crept to the long iron club, and suddenly he leaped up--twelve feet high he was and his haystack head was against the sky and his drooling lips opened to show black-painted teeth. He shambled forward, swinging his hips like a gorilla, and he beat his chest with his left fist and made a high-pitched scream of menace. The muscles of his arms and chest were like serpents.
Sir Marhalt stood his ground quietly until the giant towered over him and he could smell the fetid breath. The iron club rose and started down, and only then the knight slipped under the blow and stood behind the giant and the bad knob thudded to the ground.
"It's no use," Marhalt said. "You're just a big strong baby. I don't want to hurt you; if you go away we could be friends."
He saw a crafty look come to the giant's eyes as he turned slowly, and he saw the club rise a little, and from the muscle tension he knew a quick sideswipe was coming. Instantly he plotted its swing and knew where he should dodge. The club swung like a scythe and Marhalt tried to leap away, but a stone rolled under his foot and he staggered, and the club struck his shield and the iron studs sank in and tore it from his hand and nearly tore his left arm off in the process. He rolled and scampered away on hands and knees, and when he stood the pain in his left shoulder was dreadful.
Taulurd jumped up and down, landing on his heels, crowing and giggling. "Ho!" he cried. "Ha! Ha-ha!"
"You're a bad boy," Marhalt said. "I don't want to hurt you, but if you act like a bad animal I'm afraid I'll have to kill you, and it seems a shame."
Now the giant came at him with a shambling run, raising his club as he came and roaring with delighted rage. Marhalt looked quickly at the ground for rolling stones. He waited until the giant was six feet away, then ducked down and jumped left under the tree trunk of a right arm, and as he went his razor sword leaped upright and sliced the tendon of the arm, and the arm bent backward and the club fell to the ground.
Taulurd looked astonished at his ruined arm, with blood pumping in spurts from the severed artery, and suddenly the giant burst into tears and cried like a hurt and frightened child. He shambled toward the river and waded in and continued until only his head showed above the surface, and there he stood out of reach, gibbering and moaning, and the water reddened about him from his pumping blood.
Marhalt stood on the bank. He could not go to the giant because of the water's depth. "Poor thing," he said. "I have killed many things and many men and never so sadly as now. I'm sorry, Taulurd, but perhaps the quicker the better."
He picked up a round stone from the water's edge and cast it at the huge head. The giant dodged and the stone splashed under his ear. Marhalt cast again, and missed, but his third stone struck the forehead above and between the staring red eyes, and Taulurd sank quickly with open mouth, and a burst of bubbles rose to the bloody surface of the river.
Marhalt stood waiting and in a moment the monster floated, rolling a little like a felled timber. Then the current took control and urged the great carrion downstream toward the sea.
Now the retainer galloped near, crying, "Victory, my lord. It was beautiful."
"It was horrible," Marhalt said.
"Let us go quickly to his castle. He has prisoners and treasure."
"Yes, let us go!"
The castle was a rude structure of piled stones like a huge sheep cote roofed with branches and sod. And in the darkness knights and ladies and sheep and pigs lay bound hand and foot, rolling in filth and misery.
"Tear off the roof," Marhalt said. "Let some light into this sty." And when he could see, he cut the bonds of animals and people with his sharp sword, and they struggled to get up and fell back in pain until the blood should circulate.
In a corner lay the giant's ho
ard. Gold and silver, jewels and bright cloth, crucifixes of precious things and chalices set with rubies and emeralds, and along with these colored stones and pieces of broken glass from church windows and quartz and knobby crystal and shards of blue and yellow pottery--a mighty mixture of great wealth and great nonsense. And Sir Marhalt, looking at the heap, said sadly, "Poor thing. He didn't know the difference. He couldn't learn to steal only valuable things as civilized men and women do."
"There's still enough," the retainer said. "You will be rich all your days though you live two hundred years."
"Have it carried to Earl Fergus's castle, my friend," said Marhalt. "And see you don't steal broken glass." He mounted his horse and rode away, and his triumph was a sad and ugly feeling in his throat. "And yet it had to be," he told himself. "He was a danger, poor thing." And in his memory he saw the frightened eyes of the monster child and he knew that fear is the most ghastly wound of all.
Earl Fergus was pleased and grateful. He said, "You can't imagine the damage that giant did--whole hides of land unplowed because he ate the horses, no traders or tinkers or gypsies coming through, no singers or story-tellers from France to tell us our own history. Now it is changed and due to you, my friend. I would give you lands if you wanted them. But you have treasure enough to satisfy four men. Why don't you rest here as my guest? This is your house for as long as you can keep your restless heart in leash."
In the evening, walking in the meadow by the moat, Marhalt said to the lady, "Why not? I am old enough not to have to collect adventures for themselves. It is many months before we meet my friends at the three-way cross. I will be governed by you, my lady, but if in your judgment we could stay a while, I would not say no. A good bed and regular meals appeal to me. Perhaps it is my age."
"It sounds pleasant," she said. "If I could get some good Flanders cloth I would engage my needle. There are idle damsels here. Earl Fergus has asked me to teach their fingers."
Sir Marhalt said, "I could send a party to the southern coast. The Tuscan ships bring Prato cloth woven from English wool but dyed and finished as only Florentines can do it. Expensive stuff, but don't forget I have a treasure, ma'am."
"Would you do that for me? You are a good friend. Buy a great piece of royal red and I will make a royal robe for you, my king, and on it I will embroider the adventures of this year, a record of our questing written in bright-colored silk."
It was a sweet domestic time. The lady set her allotted sewing to order, kept servants busy, cobwebs swept, and clean linen drying and bleaching on the meadow grass. And Marhalt caught salmon in the river, ran greyhounds after buckling leverets, and hardly a day passed that he did not bring back hawk-caught birds. Fergus happily improved his lands, and in the long summer evenings they gossiped of crops and recipes and people; told stories they remembered, drank mead made of fermented honey and sometimes the strong spiced mead called metheglin, which set their heads to reeling and tuned their voices to laughter.
More and more the lady cared for her questing lord, trimmed his hair and clipped his nails, and picked up after him. "Why don't you wear the blue and yellow robe tonight?" she said. "You are handsome in it. It brings out the color of your eyes."
"I hadn't thought to change, my dear."
"Oh, but you must! Fergus does. Everybody does."
"I am not Fergus. I am not everybody."
"I don't see why you mind. It's very little trouble and it is much more comfortable to be clean. Here--smell your blue robe. I put it in the chest with lavender."
And toward the summer end she said, "I don't see why you drop your clothes. It's just as easy to pick them up. Someone has to, have you thought of that?"
And in September, "My lord, if you are looking for that smelly hawk's hood and jesses, you will find them in the box at the end of the passage. You left them lying on the window ledge. They blooded my drying handkerchiefs."
"Can I not have a window ledge for my things, my dear?"
"Such things belong in the box at the end of the corridor. Put them there and you will always be able to find them."
"I know where to find them on the window ledge."
"I hate things lying around."
"Except your things."
"You are quarrelsome, sir."
When the November frost sparkled on the grass, she said, "You are never at home. Are horses such good company, or is there a gallant stable maid with straw in her hair?"
And when the squalls of winter returned and whined against the walls and felt their way behind the hangings, she complained, "You should get out and take some exercise. You are gaining weight."
"No, I am not."
"You may tell lies to yourself, sir, but they don't convince the buttons I must sew back when they have snapped off. No, don't get up and leave the room. That is insulting."
In February she said, "You are restless, sir, and I know why. It is not pleasant to be a guest. Fergus is a fine man and I am the first to say so always. But don't you think he might like our room?"
"He says not. I asked him."
"Nonsense. A woman can tell. I wish you would stop pacing. It's because you have no responsibility. You have lands, my lord. Why don't we go to them? Then you would have your work as Fergus has and you wouldn't be so restless. It would be pleasant to build a little castle of our own. Why do you stare at me, my lord? Are you going to have a temper again?"
He came to her and stood, mouth open, breathing heavily. "Madame," he said, "you have changed since you rode pillion. Madame--enough."
"If I have changed, so have you. You are not gay or thoughtful any more. You pick and complain. Changed! Look in the mirror if you want to see a change! Don't roll your eyes and scowl. You do not frighten me as you did that poor giant."
He turned and strode quickly out, and she went back to her needlework, humming a little to herself. She heard him come clanking along the corridor and the door burst open. He wore armor polished and oiled, and under his arm he carried his helmet.
"What is this?" she asked. "Another tantrum?"
"Damsel," he began. "And remember I said 'Damsel.' Pack the necessities in your little bag. Take a warm cloak. We go. I have ordered my war horse readied."
"In the winter? Are you mad? I would not think of it."
"Damsel, farewell," he said, and the clashing of his metaled footsteps echoed in the corridors. She sprang up. "My lord," she cried, "wait! Wait for me, sir. I am coming. Wait for me, my lord." She threw open a chest, dug out her questing bag, and threw things into it. She seized a cloak and ran out after him.
In the afternoon, riding north with a thin hail rattling against his shield, and the wind whining over his visor, he came upon three knights of Arthur's court. He set his damsel in the lee of an oak out of the wind and Sir Marhalt ran four courses and left fair knights sprawling on the ground. Then he went back and handed his lady lightly up behind him. "Wrap up well, my dear," he said. "We may not find a place to shelter tonight."
"Yes, my lord," she said, and she drew the hood of her traveling cloak over her head and laid her head against his broad iron back.
When the sweet showers of April had pierced the roots of March, they came near to the trysting place where the path tripled to stamp the oath of quest.
"What a good year," he said. "And the returning here is not to be ashamed of."
"Good my lord, what will you do now? Will you go to your holding, will you go to Arthur's court? Don't tell me, sir. I know. Either way a shaft of spring will find its way to you, and you will pace and fret, and one day, without warning, you will mount and ride away."
"Perhaps so," he said. "That is not what worries me. What will you do? Would you come to my manor? We could perhaps build a little castle."
She laughed and slipped to the ground and untied her little bag from his saddle string. "Farewell, my lord," she said. She climbed the slope to the mossy place where the fountain of clear water bubbled, and she spread her cloak on the ground and seated herself g
racefully upon it. Then she dug in her bag and brought out a chaplet of gold and placed it on her head. She looked down where Marhalt sat his horse; she smiled at him and waved her hand.
A young knight rode by. "Is that a damsel seated there, sir?" he asked.
"It is, young sir."
"What does she there?"
"Why don't you ask her?"
"What is her name, sir?"
"I never thought to ask," Marhalt said, and he reined his horse about and rode to the triple cross to wait.
Now must we flip back the pages of the year and follow Sir Ewain riding with the lady of threescore years, and his road was to the westward toward Wales.
Young Ewain could not have told why, taking the first choice, he had picked his companion. Her hair was white and her years were written boldly on her face in lines and little wrinkles, and her cheeks had known cold, and heat and wind had made a leathery accommodation. Her nose was bold and high-bridged like a bald eagle's beak and her eyes were aquiline, yellow, and far-seeing and fierce, hot with tragic humor, or, when her lids squinted, sharp with inspection. When Ewain had surprised himself with his choice, she stood quickly and took his reins and led him away from the others as though to prevent a change of mind, for she had seen the glance of the young damsel. The lady was lithe as a willow but short-coupled and ready as a drawn bow. She did not wait for the young knight's hand but grasped his saddle by the high cantle and flung herself lightly on the horse's rump. And when the oaths were taken, she urged him away as quickly as she could.
"Let us go on, young sir," she said. "We have much to do. There take the westward road--quickly--quickly." And she looked back at the others still standing at the triple cross.
"Lady--there must be adventures nearby," Ewain said.
"Adventures? Oh, yes, adventures. We will see. I want to get out of sight of the others. I was afraid you might not choose me. I willed you to choose me, and you did--you did." Her voice was shrilly gay.
"Did you love me so quickly, lady?"
"My name is Lyne," she said. "You are Ewain, son of Morgan le Fay, nephew of the king. Love you?" She laughed. "No, I judged you among the others. Marhalt, a good, dependable knight, a superb fighter, and might be great except that he is more good than great. But Marhalt is fixed. Nothing will change in him. Gawain? A temperament, a handsome ugly bachelor who feeds upon himself like those lizards who consume their tails. Gawain has up days when the moon is an easy jump, and down days when an earthworm makes a high arc over his head."