Merlin's Mistake Page 4

  “I see,” said Tertius. “Well, I’m sure you took no more than you needed or than the travelers could spare.”

  “It always seemed to me that we were fair,” said Hugh. “But you’d be surprised at how opinions differ on such things.”

  “What about my brothers?” asked Tertius. “Had you any trouble with them? I would have thought that hunting outlaws would be very much to their taste.”

  “The word was that they had gone off somewhere. And perhaps it was just as well. For hunting outlaws can be a dangerous sport.”

  “I can well imagine that,” said Tertius, looking at the arrows in Hugh’s belt. “But since what happens at Bedegraine has little to do with me, I still consider that we are friends.”

  “Good,” said Hugh. “I can use friends more than most men. And so, a good journey to you. Or rather, a good quest.” And raising his hand in farewell, he disappeared into the forest.

  “How did he know we were on a quest?” asked Brian. “Did you tell him?”

  “No,” said Tertius. “But sharp wits go with sharp ears and eyes. I think he is someone who will always know more than he seems to. Shall we ride?”

  They mounted and almost at once Gaillard, tired of restraint and eager for exercise, broke into a canter. Tertius’s gray followed, and so they raced over the meadows and soon gained the road. It was wide, white, and dusty; and for the first time since leaving Caercorbin, they began to encounter other travelers. There were country folk in carts, some drawn by horses and some by oxen, chapmen on slow-pacing hacks leading sumpter mules, pilgrims with silver badges on their hats and staves in their hands, and farmers and their wives. They were all moving in the same direction, east toward Meliot. And as Brian and Tertius turned their horses that way, many eyes followed them—particularly those of the women—for, though Brian did not know it, he made a brave sight as he guided Gaillard up the road, the sun bright on his flaxen hair and newly burnished hauberk.

  Reaching the top of a hill, they paused for a moment, for there below them was Meliot. It was a fair town, set in rich farmland with a wide river just beyond it. On the far side of the river there was a forest as thick and dark as the one they had just left, but on the near side all was open, green with pasture and golden with growing grain. A high wall circled the town, and at intervals, strengthening the wall, there were round towers pierced by arrow slits. The road went down the hill and through the wide open gates and, following it, Brian and Tertius found themselves in narrow, cobbled streets where the houses jutted out so that they almost touched overhead. Even when they came to the merchants’ quarter where the street was wider, the throng was so thick that they could barely press their way through it and finally, opposite a goldsmith’s shop, they dismounted.

  The goldsmith, a portly man with a forked beard and shrewd eyes, was standing in the doorway.

  “Is your town always like this?” Brian asked him. “Or is this a Fair day?”

  “There are some who may treat it as a Fair day,” he said, “but it is not. It is Midsummer Day, which is one of the two darkest days of the year for Meliot. For it is tribute day.”

  “Tribute?” Looking more closely at those who were passing by, Brian noticed for the first time that none of them looked gay and excited as they would if they were going to a fair, but sober and serious. “To whom do you pay tribute?”

  “To the Black Knight of Benoye,” said the goldsmith. “You must have come from faraway if you have not heard the tale.”

  “We come from far enough so that we have not,” said Brian. “But we would like to hear it.”

  “It is a grim tale,” said the goldsmith, settling himself against the doorpost. “It began some score of years ago. Until that time Meliot had been a rich and happy town. We had some of the most prosperous merchants, the best weavers, gold and silversmiths in all Britain. Early each summer they would journey in company across the ford and through the forest, south to Camelot and east to London, to sell their wares, returning again in the fall. Then, in the reign of King Rience, that all changed.”

  “How?” asked Brian.

  “One day, when they arrived at the ford to begin their journey, they found a knight in black armor there. No one knew who he was, but it was said that he had traveled in the East and learned dark arts. He told the merchants that no knight could cross the river unless he jousted with him and no merchant should cross unless he paid him a tenth of all his goods as a toll.”

  “Was he alone?” asked Tertius.

  “No. He had more than a hundred men-at-arms with him. Well, the merchants returned and told the king about it. Rience was a famous jouster; so he armed himself and rode down to the ford, and he and the Black Knight had at one another.”

  “And?”

  “The Black Knight overthrew him, giving him such a great fall that for several days he lay unconscious. Now King Rience had two sons, Dinas and Galleron, and they were skilled jousters, too. When King Rience was himself again, Dinas, the elder son, armed himself and went against the Black Knight, and the Black Knight overthrew him as he had the king. The fall that he gave him was so great that Dinas never recovered from the hurt and some time later he died.”

  “You said it was a grim tale,” said Brian. “And it is.”

  “It becomes even more so. By now it was almost midsummer, and the merchants came to the king and pressed him to win them passage of the ford. For if they were delayed much longer, they would not be able to complete their journeys and return before the bad weather set in. The king, heartsick at the death of Sir Dinas, swore a great oath, saying, ‘I swear by my head that I shall deal with this Black Knight!’ Hearing this, Galleron, his youngest son, begged that he might go against him, and Rience finally agreed. But he did not let him go alone. Rience followed him with a company of bowmen.”

  “Bowmen?” said Brian, frowning.

  “Yes,” said the goldsmith. “Galleron and the Black Knight met at the ford. And when Galleron was overthrown like his father and his brother, King Rience signaled his archers. They loosed a flight of arrows, and the Black Knight fell into the river and did not rise again.”

  “Wicked though the Black Knight may have been,” said Brian, “that was still an evil deed.”

  “It was,” agreed the goldsmith. “He was an honorable man, was King Rience, and he would never have done it if he had not lost his son and if the merchants had not pressed him so hard. But he paid for it. And we have been paying for it ever since.”

  “How so?”

  “In the morning the merchants gathered again and prepared to leave on their journey through the forest. But when they reached the ford there, as before, was the Black Knight, waiting for them.”

  “But he was dead,” said Brian. “You said that he fell into the river and did not rise again.”

  “If he were a mortal man, he would have been dead,” said the goldsmith. “He was struck by more than a score of arrows. But I also said that he had learned dark arts in the East. The merchants hurried back to Meliot and told the king what had happened. And hard on their heels, into the town square, came the Black Knight and his men.”

  “They came into the town?”

  “Yes. The Black Knight rode up to Rience and said, ‘I am here for the fulfillment of your oath, oh king.’ ‘What oath?’ asked Rience. ‘You swore by your head that you would deal with me,’ said the Black Knight. ‘But, as you see, you did not. So I am here for your head.’ And he drew his sword.”

  Several passersby had stopped while the goldsmith was telling this tale. And, though it was one they all must have known, they sighed.

  “And did he …?” asked Brian.

  “No,” said the goldsmith. “Rience had always been a good king, and one of the merchants, a friend of my father’s, began to reason with the Black Knight, offering him the weight of the king’s head in gold if he would let him live. At first the Black Knight refused. But the merchant increased the offer and finally he made one that was acceptable. The Bl
ack Knight would come here twice a year, on Midsummer Day and at Yule, and issue a challenge. If no one answered it and overcame him, he would be given the weight of the king’s head in gold. In addition, the merchants who wished to travel through the forest would pay him a tithe of the value of their goods.”

  Again those who stood listening behind Brian and Tertius sighed.

  “What they had agreed to was written out by a clerk and signed,” said the goldsmith. “The king and the merchants each put up one half of the gold, and the next day the merchants left for their journey through the forest, each paying out the tenth part of the value of their goods. At Yule the Black Knight came again, and they paid him his tribute, and again the next midsummer. But this time some of the merchants who made the journey did not come back. For, they said to themselves, why should we pay part of our goods to the Black Knight and also give gold for tribute when he can live freely in London, Camelot or one of the other towns? And so it has been ever since. Each year there are more who do not come back, and year by year Meliot has become less and less, until now it is but a shadow of what it once was.”

  Looking again at those who filled the street, Brian saw that most of them were not townspeople, but folk from the surrounding countryside. And he also saw that many of the shops nearby were empty and the houses boarded up.

  “This has been going on for how long?” asked Tertius.

  “Since my father’s time,” said the goldsmith. “For more than twenty years now.”

  “And there has been no one in all that time to challenge the Black Knight?” asked Brian.

  “There have been many,” said the goldsmith. “Especially in the beginning. During the first few years, champions came from all over Britain to break a spear with the Black Knight. But he overcame them all, killing many of them. And during these past few years there have been fewer and fewer who have even dared to try him.”

  “And this has been going on for more than twenty years?” said Tertius.

  “You are thinking that in that time he must have grown older and his strength less,” said the goldsmith. “That would be true if he were a mortal man. But it is clear that he is not.”

  “Why so?” asked Tertius.

  “Because he was not slain by that storm of arrows and because he is still as strong and dangerous as ever. Rience died a few years after it all began. Of grief for Dinas, we think, and because of the woe that had come on Meliot. And his younger son, Galleron, became king. Some time after that, after many stout champions had gone against the Black Knight to no avail, King Galleron sent a messenger to Merlin, asking him what could be done about it. And Merlin sent back word that, in all the world, there was only one knight who could overthrow the Black Knight. And that was the Knight with the Red Shield.”

  “Who is he, this Knight with the Red Shield?” asked Brian.

  “No one knows,” said the goldsmith. “And of course ever since then there have been few who have dared answer the Black Knight’s challenge. For they feel there is no hope of conquering him.”

  “Has anyone ever seen his face, this Black Knight of yours?” asked Tertius.

  “Why, no,” said the goldsmith. “At least, no one but his own men. For he comes here fully armed, with his helmet on. Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered,” said Tertius.

  “I’m not a fearful man,” said the goldsmith, “but I do not think I would like to see his face.”

  “When does he come here?” asked Brian.

  “Very soon now, at high noon,” said the goldsmith. “If you would see him, go up this street to the town square. For that is where he will confront the king.”

  “Thank you,” said Brian. “And thank you for telling us the tale.”

  “There is nothing to thank me for. It is a tale that anyone in the shire could have told you.”

  “Before we go,” said Tertius, “can you, by any chance, cut and polish gems?”

  “Yes, I can,” said the goldsmith, glancing at him with sudden interest. “I learned the art in the Low Countries where they are more skilled at it than anywhere else. Why? Do you have a gem you wished cut?”

  “Not exactly a gem,” said Tertius. Then, seeing Brian’s impatience, “This won’t take long, Brian. But if you don’t want to wait, go ahead and I’ll meet you in the square.”

  “I’ll save a place for you,” said Brian. And leading Gaillard, he joined the crowd that was moving slowly up the narrow street.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The press became even thicker as Brian went up the street; and Gaillard became restive, for he was not used to crowds. Coming to an inn, Brian led him into the yard and, turning him over to a stableboy, went on his way on foot.

  The town square was just a few paces from the inn, and it was so large that even with those who had been coming in from the countryside all morning, it was still not full. Standing next to an elderly yeoman in a homespun tunic, Brian looked around. And now, having heard the tale of Meliot’s plight, he could see signs of decay everywhere. Grass grew between the cobblestones that paved the square, and there were empty shops and boarded-up houses. And of those that were still lived in, many were in bad repair: their plaster facing cracked and weatherbeaten and their shutters broken or hanging crookedly.

  Opposite Brian was a church, and on the steps there was a throne with a faldstool on either side of it. Seeing him looking at it, the yeoman said, “Aye. That is where the king will sit when he comes out of the church.”

  “And the stools?”

  “They are for his daughters.”

  “I did not know he had daughters.”

  “He has two of them.”

  “But there are only two stools. What about the queen?”

  “She is dead. She died soon after the princesses were born.”

  “Your king is a man who has had many misfortunes.”

  “That he has. And so have we all. Year by year things go harder with us.”

  “Because of the tribute?”

  “Because of the tribute and because each year there are fewer here in Meliot to whom we, who hold land, can sell what we raise. Twice a year I come here, as do all these others, hoping each time that some champion will have heard of the evil that has been visited on us, take up the Black Knight’s challenge and break his hold on us.”

  “But haven’t many tried to do so?”

  “Not in recent years. There was one who tried this past Yule, a Sir Uriel, but the Black Knight made short shrift of him. Of course,” he looked shrewdly at Brian, “now that the princesses are of a marriageable age perhaps things will be different.”

  “Perhaps. What about today? Is there any one …?”

  “I have not heard of anyone. Certainly not the Knight with the Red Shield who, they say, is the only one who can deal with him.”

  There was a faint murmur from the crowd and, looking across the square to the church, Brian saw that the door was opening. A priest came out and after him, King Galleron, followed by his daughters. The king was a tall man, richly dressed in a dark velvet robe of state. And though he was not old, his face was deeply lined and he was somewhat stooped as if his crown were too heavy for him. The priest remained standing by the church door, but the king came forward and seated himself on the throne, and his daughters took their places on either side of him. Seeing them, Brian had eyes for no one else.

  They were about his own age, one dark and one fair. The dark one was slender with a firm chin and eyes that looked out levelly at the crowd. But the fair one was so beautiful that she took his breath away. Her hair was wheat-blond and her eyes were blue and, after a quick glance around the square, she lowered them modestly and kept them down.

  “The dark one is Lianor,” said Tertius, “and the fair one is Alys. They’re twins.”

  Brian started. Staring at Alys, he had not seen Tertius working his way through the crowd to stand beside him.

  “But how can they be twins,” he asked, “when one is dark and one is fair?�
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  “Perfectly possible. They’re not identical twins. They’re fraternal.”

  “Oh,” said Brian, not understanding and not caring that he didn’t. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  “Which?”

  Brian looked at him in astonishment. “Alys, of course.”

  “Why, yes. Or at least she’s quite pretty, if you like that type.”

  “Pretty?” said Brian indignantly. “She’s …”

  He was interrupted by the sound of a horn. It was not the clear, silver call of a hunting horn, but a harsh, rasping blast that set the teeth on edge. Again the crowd murmured and began moving back, pressing close about the sides of the square and leaving the center clear. There was the slow plod of horses’ hoofs, the tramp of many feet, and into the square came the Black Knight and his men.

  The Black Knight rode a huge black stallion with wicked, red-rimmed eyes. His helmet was black and so was his shield and hauberk; the mail was dinted and rusty with brownish patches on it that looked like dried blood. He carried a lance and a two-handed sword hung from his belt. Behind him rode his captain, a lean, gray-bearded, hard-bitten man in a steel cap riding a rangy roan. And behind him, in ordered ranks, marched his men-at-arms, as dangerous and wolfish-looking as their captain, and like him, all wearing mail and steel caps.

  Slowly, looking neither to the right nor the left, the Black Knight walked his charger across the square. Wearing a tilting helm, he was faceless. But it was his controlled slowness that made him seem even more terrible. For, moving as he did, he seemed not human, but something mechanical, driven by clockwork. Arriving in front of the king, he checked his horse, and his captain drew up alongside him, the men-at-arms forming a phalanx behind them.

  “You know why we are here, O king,” said the captain. “Is there anyone who challenges our right to be here or our right to our Midsummer tribute?”

  The king, his face drawn, looked around the square and there was silence: no one in the close-packed crowd stirred or even seemed to breathe.