The Dragon and the Gnarly King, Page 3

  But just when had this message been sent?

  How long had the messenger pigeon been here, and when might Brian and Geronde arrive? Beyond any advice the two might want, there would be a need for a certain amount of creature comforts. That meant that not only had the Kitchen to be set to preparing some special eatables, but two rooms had to be cleaned, aired, and readied. Angie left the loft on the run, dismissing the matter of the drunken bird-keeper from her mind, and headed swiftly down the spiral stairs on the inside wall of the tower, toward the Serving Room.

  Now, as she approached it, she began to hear the same raised voices she had heard earlier. A passionate fight was going on between a woman and a girl; and since Angie knew the voices of the individual servants—who better?—she identified them immediately. The woman was Gwynneth Plyseth, Mistress of the Serving Room, where dishes from the outside Kitchen were kept hot or ready for serving to people eating in the Great Hall—and particularly the High Table, at which Jim, Angie, and any guests of high rank or importance would be seated. The girl was Gwynneth's new apprentice.

  Angie, already irritated by the siege, drunken pigeon-boys, and impending visitors, stalked into the Serving Room; and there they were, standing nose to nose.

  The apprentice was May Heather, a handful by anyone's standard, though only thirteen years old. She had recently been transferred from the Kitchen staff to be a direct understudy of Gwynneth. The image of them both, face-to-face, was striking—they could have posed for a picture titled AGE VERSUS YOUTH—AT SWORDS-POINTS.

  May Heather, short as she was, still stood only some three or so inches shorter than Gwynneth Plyseth. But the Mistress of the Serving Room had a good hundred pounds in weight over her opponent. Nonetheless, May was clearly ready to do battle with any weapons the other chose, and Mistress Plyseth was equally willing on her side.

  Angie's appearance struck them both dumb, however. They stared at her.

  "Mistress!" snapped Angie at Gwynneth Plyseth. "What's the meaning of this?"

  She was shocked at the sound of her own voice. Once more she felt as she had in the moment when she had come very close to kicking the Pigeon-Keeper. It reminded her she had lately become aware the servants were saying that she was very fierce and dangerous to deal with, since she and Jim had acquired the wardship of young Robert Falon.

  Too often lately, instead of having to pretend a Chatelaine-like outrage, she had found herself actually feeling it. She was feeling it now.

  The two stared at her.

  It was not that anything she said or did was unusual, coming from a superior to an inferior, in this age. But from the beginning, neither she nor Jim had acted like this with the Castle servants, the men-at-arms, the tenants, and the serfs, and as their neighbors—Geronde among them—said, the Malencontri servants were spoiled. But at the moment she was just as angry as the two she was looking at, and they knew it.

  "Nay—pray pardon, m'Lady," gasped Gwynneth, "forgive me, m'Lady, but I must have a man-at-arms to beat this girl properly. She's too strong for me, m'Lady. I get all worn out."

  On its face, it was not an unreasonable request from a fourteenth-century standpoint. But it was also not a usual service to be performed by a man-at-arms, who would feel it beneath his dignity.

  "She—" May Heather burst out passionately. But a look from Angie silenced her. Angie turned back to Gwynneth.

  "Why beat her? You know my orders about things like that! Well?"

  "But I was teaching her, m'Lady!" said Gwynneth. "I have to teach her what we do, here in the Serving Room. Only, she won't let me teach her proper."

  "What's teaching got to do with beating her?" demanded Angie.

  "Why, m'Lady," said Gwynneth, "how else can she learn? To teach a lass like her, you must first show her what is to be done, and then beat her so that she remembers it. This one is quick to learn—I'll say that for her—but she's got a lot to learn yet, and I'm fair wore out, trying to beat her after each time I show her something. She won't take her beatings. She fights me!"

  Angie could believe the last. May Heather had once been willing to confront a dragon—who was actually Jim in dragon form, but May had not known it then—with an ancient battle-axe she had managed to get off the wall and could barely lift. Once again, now, she tried to talk and give Angie her side of the situation.

  "I remembers," she said earnestly. "Better than anybody. Listen, m'Lady"—she began to chant—" 'hippocras: for parties large—in Kitchen made—for small, our Lord and Lady guests—Serving Room is best—ginger—cinnamon—cardamom, few grains—sugar, pepper (not for m'Lady)—blue blossoms heliotrope, add one Quart red wine, and for measure, ginger, six slivers, small, the cinnamon sticks'—"

  "Stop that!" said Angie. "Let your Mistress speak!"

  May Heather stopped chanting, but added with the last of her final breath "—anyway, she don't need to keep beating on me!"

  "May!" snapped Angie. May Heather was mute. Angie turned back to the older woman. "Now, Gwynneth. You explain what beating your apprentice has to do with her remembering?"

  "Why, otherwise, how will she ever remember it?" said Gwynneth. "There are many, many important things to do in this Serving Room, m'Lady. Hundreds. Her young brain will be fair mazed by them, unless she has some reason to remember each one separately. That's why I have to beat her after each showing."

  Angie felt a new spasm of exasperation. Custom ruled among the servants, the tenants, the serfs, or anyone else on Malencontri land. If things had been done a certain way since time immemorial, they must be done that way forever. It was an attitude she was surrounded by, and which sometimes made her think that what everyone in this world needed was to have their heads opened up and a little common sense stuffed into them before being sewn up again.

  "Mistress," she said grimly, "from now on you will show May Heather what's to be done, you will watch while she practices doing it, and when she has done it properly several times, then you can go on and teach her something more. There should be no reason to beat her unless she refuses to learn."

  "Not beat her!" said Gwynneth, staring at her Lady. Her hands clutched at the fabric of her skirts. "But m'Lady, how can it be done without? Their little heads are too small to hold lessons unless those are thoroughly beaten into them. Everyone knows that. Why, if there is a new boundary post to be put up in the village, what do the men there do? They catch one of the village boys, take him to the post, and beat him. So as long as he lives ever after he can show people where the post is. Otherwise, how could they be sure he'd remember?"

  The argument was sound, if you accepted Gwynneth's view of the world, and particularly of non-adults and the necessity to remember everything, because writing it down was unknown. It was like having witnesses at a wedding—they were there primarily so they could testify afterward that the wedding took place at a certain date and time. It was the one thing that could work in an illiterate society.

  The only answer here was to stand on her rank.

  "Well, we aren't going to do that here," Angie said, falling back on her own unanswerable authority over all things. "I'll tell you this once, Mistress, and I expect not to need to tell you again: you will teach May Heather the way I say, and that's an end to that. Now, May!"

  She turned on the girl.

  "This doesn't mean that you can get away with anything you shouldn't, May Heather," she said. "Mistress Plyseth will not beat you after every lesson; but she has a perfect right to beat you if you don't obey her orders; and you are to accept that like a good girl. If you don't, we'll have other ways of dealing with you. We'll trice you up like we would one of the men-at-arms in the courtyard and flog you. How would you like that?"

  May Heather stuck out her chin and lowered her lip belligerently. For a heartbeat Angie was afraid her bluff was about to be called—because she could never actually carry through on such a threat to a half-grown girl. May could not possibly be dealt with as the Castle's fighting men were—and that was brutal eno
ugh even for grown men, in all conscience. But if a knight's banner should read "Death before Dishonor," then May Heather's would certainly read "Death before One Step Backward."

  "I knows what's right, m'Lady!" she said.

  "No, you don't!" said Angie. "I do. And I tell you what to do. Do you understand?"

  May's eyes dropped to stare at the Serving Room floor. "Yes, m'Lady," she said. Angie rounded on Gwynneth.

  "And you, Mistress Plyseth?" she said. "Do you understand?"

  "Oh, yes, m'Lady!" cried Gwynneth. But she was wringing her hands. "Though—well, I don't know m'Lady, I don't indeed. I'm sure, I don't know. It was the way I was taught when I was an apprentice in the Serving Room, and very grateful I am for the lessons, I'm sure; but if my Lady says I should teach her another way, I will do so. But—"

  "No buts," said Angie. "You just do it."

  "Of course, m'Lady," said Gwynneth, suddenly much calmer, now that it had become undeniable, an unyielding order—like rain, hail, and sleet, there was nothing more a Christian soul could do about it. "But I'm only not to beat her on the lessons, m'Lady? If she is pert or does things ill, or in a temper, it will be all right then?"

  "That's what I just told her," said Angie resignedly—and suddenly remembered what had brought her downstairs. "But never mind any more of that. Right now I need food fixed for guests. Lady Geronde and Sir Brian are going to be here any time now."

  "Yes, m'Lady," said Gwynneth, suddenly brisk and certain. She turned to May Heather.

  "May," she said, "you will find my Lord in the front Hall or just outside. Take m'Lady's message—"

  "Never mind!" said Angie, impatiently. There was no time to be lost, and she did not want Jim thinking that he could finish whatever he was doing before he came looking for her. "I'll go myself. You two go on about your business here."

  She swept out of the Serving Room into the Great Hall, and saw that its long, high-ceilinged space was empty of any human form. There was no one at the High Table on the dais, which looked crosswise down the long length of the Hall at two long, lower tables, at which the less-than-honored guests would sit, and none at those tables either.

  But at the end of the Hall, the door was ajar and a rectangle of bright sunlight gave her a glimpse of the courtyard. She could see no one there, but at that moment there was a heavy thump from somewhere just beyond the door and a confused shouting.

  She ran down the Hall toward the doorway.

  "Jim!" she called. "Geronde and Brian are coming!"

  "I know," answered the deep-voiced bellow of a mature male dragon. "They're already here. They just rode in."

  Angie was too familiar with that particular dragon voice not to recognize it immediately as Jim's. She opened her mouth to call back, but found that running was not leaving her with the breath she needed to shout. She would have something to say to Jim, however, once she reached him. What was he doing still in his dragon body, anyway? With unexpected guests coming into Malencontri's courtyard, it was no time to be fooling around.

  Chapter Three

  But the words she had in mind were never uttered, when at last she ran through the door into the bright sunlight and almost into Jim in his dragon body, who was sitting on the earth of the courtyard just outside. What stopped her was the fact that something unusual obviously was going on.

  Theoluf was just finishing explaining to Jim about their besiegers having left, but there was still tension in the air.

  Not only was Jim still being a dragon. Yves Mortain, the Chief of the men-at-arms, was running up the stairs to the catwalk; and John Steward was clumsily striding toward Jim across the courtyard, even as Geronde and Brian were riding their horses right up to the Great Hall door, while their escort peeled off to the stables. The Steward reached Jim before Brian and Geronde did, but Jim snapped at his squire first.

  "Theoluf, all our archers to arrow-slits looking on the courtyard. Keep them out of sight, but ready to shoot down on any force that's come through our gate. The five new Welsh archers are still in the Castle, aren't they?"

  "Yes, m'Lord," said Theoluf. "Trouble, m'Lord?"

  "I hope not," said Jim, "but I want to be ready. We might be facing thirty men-at-arms or more. But be sure no one shoots unless ordered. John Steward—"

  "Yes, m'Lord," puffed the very much middle-aged Steward, trying to regain his breath.

  "As I just told Theoluf," Jim said, "we're going to have visitors—a knight and a good number of men-at-arms, bearing the Royal badge. You will meet them and tell them that I'm not here. The last you saw of me, I was a dragon, flying up into the air; and that usually means that I will be away from Malencontri. If the knight insists, you may let him see my Lady."

  "What's all this, Jim?" asked Angie.

  "I'll give you the details later," said Jim, in a quick aside to her. "Right now—"

  "What arms, on the knight?" Brian's voice interrupted. He had already flung himself down from his saddle and was standing only a few feet away. Jim turned to him, and struggled to put his memory of what he had seen—the white hounds attacking a black boar on a gold background—into proper heraldic language. He could do it nowadays, where once it had been impossible for him, but it took a little thinking. "His arms were… or," he said after a moment. "Two hounds blanc, dexter, and a boar sable, sinister, rampant, combatant."

  Brian frowned.

  "I do not know those arms," he said. "He will be from the Court, no doubt, particularly if he has King's troops with him. You are wise, James, to avoid seeing him yourself at once, until you know what his intentions are. Thirty men-at-arms is too many to welcome happily inside your curtain wall—but you cannot close the gate on King's troops without reason."

  "No," said Jim. He turned back. "Angie, why don't you take Geronde up to the Solar? You can take Brian too, as far as the chamber below the Solar, that looks out on the courtyard—the one we usually give Carolinus when he's here. Brian, I'm going to fly to the top of the tower, and then I'll come down in my regular body to join you in Carolinus' chamber."

  "Good," said Brian briefly. He had already turned away to assist Geronde out of her saddle—in actuality, he simply lifted her out of it.

  Geronde was perfectly capable of descending from horseback by herself; although it was something of a social art, in this period before the sidesaddle had been invented, to do so with proper ladylike grace. But it was a social requirement on the part of a gentleman to help a lady off a horse, and so Brian did.

  He swung her down as if she had no weight at all, accordingly. It was still a little surprising to someone like Jim, who knew that Geronde, in spite of her small size, was all bone and muscle. But then, so was Brian. He was several inches shorter and lighter than Jim, but could undoubtedly match or excel him for strength in most bodily areas, except the legs—where Jim had been unusual even before coming to this century.

  Brian took a couple of steps, half-raising his arms toward Jim, and then checked.

  "Damme, James!" he said. "Much as I love and honor you, I cannot bring myself to kiss a dragon in greeting! In fact, I am not sure but what Holy Church forbids such things."

  "That's all right," said Jim. "I understand."

  He did. On the other hand, there was something now about Brian he did not understand. There was an excitement and tension showing in little ways that Jim could hardly have pointed out consciously, but which clearly registered as he watched his old friend.

  It could be just this matter of a King's officer with men-at-arms about to descend on them that had triggered off some reaction in his friend. But Brian did not usually react so strongly for so small a reason. This armed visit could just as well be a thoroughly friendly one, in spite of Brian's talk lately—in fact, it was more likely to be friendly than otherwise—unless there was something new Jim did not know. His gaze sharpened on Brian, as he tried to put his finger on what exactly he was seeing that gave him the impression that Brian was almost keyed up enough to be ready for battle.
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br />   The bright sunlight told him nothing. It merely lit up Brian's bony face as he stepped back, a face that might have been called handsome if it had not been for a somewhat oversized, strongly arched nose. A Norman nose, as it was commonly called. On either side of that nose, Brian's blue eyes were bright with anticipation, but in no way concerned or upset. The result was a gaze something like that of a fierce, but friendly, falcon, a look Jim had seen in Brian before this, in moments when the two of them were about to find themselves fighting for their lives. Brian, unlike Jim, enjoyed fighting, and the anticipation of it always showed.

  "But you'd better all start moving," Jim said, even as he studied Brian. "Angie, you can get everybody inside, can't you?"

  "Certainly," said Angie. "Come on, Geronde. Brian—"

  She turned and led the way into the Great Hall, Geronde and Brian following. Jim turned to find Theoluf gone, which he should have been by this time, but John Steward still there.

  "John," said Jim. "I'm going to fly up to the top of the tower now, and you're to wait here to meet the knight and whoever he brings in through the gates with him. Don't let any of our people challenge or question him if he leads his men in. Just remember—the last time I was seen alive, I was a dragon."

  "Oh, my Lord!" said John, wringing his hands.

  "Don't be an idiot!" said Jim, more harshly than he ordinarily would have. "Nothing's going to happen to me. I only wanted you to be truthful when you say you saw me last as a dragon. Also, I want you to be able to take a church-oath on that, if necessary. Now, stand aside."

  John hastily backed up. Jim sprang into the air with a thunder-clap of wings, flew with the usual effort up to the top of his own tower—and thumped down on it. The armsman on duty there saluted with his spear, and greeted him with the ritual cry that the servants had decided suited his two-body ability—a scream in the case of the women, a shout in the case of the men—whenever their Lord appeared before them in his dragon form. The man was just in time with his reaction; for Jim turned immediately back into his human self, clothes and all.