"Hmm," said Giles, getting up again to examine the innkeeper more closely. "I'd counsel you not to wear that assortment of metal in actual battle, Master Innkeeper. Now that I look close, you've got parts of four different suits upon you, none of which fits as armor ought. Can you raise your right arm above your head?"
Dick tried. The arm creaked halfway to shoulder height and stopped with a clank.
"Yes," said Giles, "I thought so. Your couter on that arm is overlarge, and your pauldron too small for a man of your shoulder. But from a distance… from a distance, and sitting on a horse, you might pass."
"Good," Brian said, briskly. "Something to eat then, Dick, and I'll ride to the castle to present Sir Hugh with my challenge."
"I'll go along with you," Jim offered. "I'd like you to point out where you want me to land inside the walls."
"I'll go, too," said Giles, "along with six of my lads, who'll each lead five to eight other bows against some particular part of the castle, once we're inside. We all need to look Malvern over and make our plans."
"And I," said Dafydd, "will have a glance at those walls where the lookouts may be standing."
"We might as well make it a bloody picnic," grunted Brian. "Anybody else want to come along, eh? How about you, Sir wolf?"
"What for?" Aragh replied. "I'll go in with you and Gorbash; and stay with you, killing all I find, until it's over and I go out again. That takes no study or planning."
The meal was served, as Brian requested; and a little more than an hour later all those who had spoken about going stood in the cover of a thick clump of beech trees, looking out at the broad stretch of cleared ground around Malvern Castle. Brian, armored and with spear upright in hand, rode his white warhorse forward at a walk to within perhaps sixty or eighty yards of the castle gate. There he stopped, and shouted to the heads whom those in the woods could see showing above the merlons and crenels of the battlements.
"He makes a brave show," said one of the outlaws.
"It's a custom of knights to do so, Jack," replied Giles, dryly.
"You were not wrong indeed, Master Giles," said Dafydd. The Welsh bowman was shading his eyes with one hand, peering at the heads on the walls. "It is, in fact, close to half of one of your English miles. But at dawn the wind should fall, and with no strong cross-breeze I see no trouble with up to six of them. I will mark the nearest crenel to each steel cap I see, then first shoot one watchman and wait for the others to look out, which they will surely all do when they see their comrade struck dead, and no one in view in the open ground. I will have five other arrows stuck in the ground before me, and I will put those in the air so close together that the five looking out will die almost at once—Hold, the knight speaks!"
In fact, Brian had begun to issue his challenge. A headgear brighter than the others had appeared on the battlements and the individual wearing it had called out something. Brian was responding. The fact that he was facing away from those in the forest edge caused a good share of what he said to be lost, even to Jim's sharp dragon-ears. Those words that Jim heard, however, were nearly all obscenities. He had not realized Brian had such a command of colorful language.
"Now, Sir Hugh answers," said Giles, for Brian had fallen silent and the voice that had shouted earlier was making itself heard again—though none of its words were understandable to those at the forest's edge. "It'll be Sir Hugh, beyond a doubt, because of the high crest and visor of the helm that takes the light so. That's a headpiece for horseback."
"Master Giles," asked Dafydd, looking sideways at the outlaw, "is it that you ever wore such a helm and armor yourself, now?"
Giles glanced back for a second.
"If you ever do become one of the family," he said, "you can ask me that again. Otherwise, I don't hear such questions."
"Now come the bolts," commented the outlaw who Giles had addressed as Jack. "Best he turn and ride now. There—he does so!"
Brian had turned his charger and was galloping away from the castle.
"Can the crossbows get through his armor with their bolts at that distance?" asked Jim, fascinated.
"No," said Giles. "But they can cripple his horse—and that's a beast worth twenty farms, if it's worth one. Ah, they've missed…"
A swarm of what looked like little black match-sticks against the blue of the sky was descending around Brian and his galloping steed. Jim was puzzled about how Giles could be sure the quarrels from the crossbows had all missed, when most of them seemed still to be in the air. A matter of the trained eye, he supposed. In fact, by the time he finished his thought the missiles had fallen either behind or to one side or the other of the running horse.
"And that's that!" said Jack, spitting on the ground. "Sir knight'll be in the woods with us here before they can rewind those engines for a second shot. Give me two of our better men and the horse would have been down within ten strides—and the knight, too, with any luck."
Dafydd, leaning on his great bow, looked aside and down at Jack. For a second it looked as if he would say something, but then he turned his attention back to the approaching Sir Brian.
"Good, Master Welshman," said Giles, softly. He had been watching the tall young man. "A slow tongue indicates a wise head."
Dafydd said nothing.
In the next moment Brian came riding into the shadows of the forest and pulled his snorting charger to a stop. He wheeled the animal around, pushing up his visor.
"Half thought they might make a sally after me," he said. "But I see not."
He swung down from the saddle with surprising lightness, considering the weight of metal he was carrying.
"You tempted those crossbows closer than I should have," said Giles.
"Blanchard of Tours, here," Giles answered, slapping the white horse affectionately on one sweaty shoulder, "is faster than most would guess."
He looked around at them.
"What do you think of what you saw?" he asked.
"Judging by the heads on that front wall," said Giles, "your Sir Hugh has at least the fifty men with him. But he's got no archers, or he would have used them against you right now; and his men with the crossbows were nothing admirable. Draw me a plan of the castle, now, while we have it out there in front of us; so I can gain some idea of where my lads should go, once they're inside."
Brian drew the dagger from his belt, bent stiffly at the waist and began to scratch on the ground.
"As you see," he said, "Malvern's more wide than deep. The top of the keep you can barely see from here. It's in the left corner of the rear wall, its upper part rising above the towers in the other three corners—which are watchtowers and granaries, only. The Lord of Malvern's chambers are just under what was the original top floor of the keep, back when the keep was the same height as the watchtowers. My lady's grandfather added two more floors and a new battlement floor above the keep, so as to give Sir Orrin and his new bride separate bed space, with a solar above them for good measure, and the new battlement floor above the solar, with supplies of heavy stones there to cast down and kettles for the heating of oil to pour on any who might try to scale the keep's outer walls."
His dagger scratched in the dirt.
"Below and before the keep, in Sir Orrin's time," he explained, "was added a great hall, mainly of wood—the original walls and towers of the castle are stone, as you see. This filled up much of the old courtyard. It is joined to the keep as high as the first floor and has served both as dining hall and as barracks for the large number of men Sir Orrin would gather about him from time to time when he went off to war. Stables of wood and outbuildings were also added inside the outer walls, so that there's much that can burn—but look that Sir Hugh's men don't try to set fires to cover their escape, once we're inside and they find themselves losing the fight. Of your men, Master outlaw, there should be a party to secure every tower, another party to hold the courtyard, and yet another strong party to invade the keep by way of the great hall. I, and possibly Sir James, will already
be in the upper levels of the keep when you and your men come through the gate—if so we be still alive. Now, give me your questions…"
Giles, Dafydd, and even some of the other outlaws Giles had brought along proceeded to do so. Their queries had mainly to do with distances and angles within the castle.
Jim found his attention wandering. What he himself wanted, he thought, was to get a direct look at the inside of those walls—and there was no reason he should not be able to do so. Flying high enough, and in a direct line, on a pass that took him by but not directly over the castle, he should be able to use his telescopic vision to get a pretty fair view of everything inside. At a sufficient distance, he might not even be noticed by Sir Hugh's men; or, if he was, they might merely take him for a large bird.
Even if they identified him as a dragon, a dragon who was simply passing by and apparently paying no attention to them should hardly be cause for alarm or speculation. At the same time, it probably would not hurt to make his overflight just at twilight, when at the end of the day and their evening meal, the watchers on the castle walls would be least likely to be alarmed by something passing high overhead.
Accordingly, he waited until the questions of the others had been answered to Brian's best ability and they had all returned to the inn. Once there, however, he took Brian aside and explained what he planned to do.
"What I mainly want to be sure of," Jim said, "is where I ought to land, when I come in."
"My lady's main chamber has a balcony—but a small one," Brian pointed out. "The solar above has no balcony, but very large windows through which you might fly directly."
Jim felt doubt stir in him.
"I don't know that," he said. "I haven't had all that experience in flying."
"Then," said Brian, "there's only the battlement floor—the open top level of the keep. In fact, it might be the best place for you to land, since there'll be at least one guard on duty there, and possibly someone else belonging to Sir Hugh in the solar. So that if you can slay those and fight your way down to Geronde's floor, you'll have made all safe to the top of the keep; and in case of anything going amiss, you can carry her off from there by air, to safety."
Secretly Jim had a few doubts about his ability to carry the weight of an adult human, and still fly. True, his wings were capable of exerting tremendous lift for a short time. But he was fairly sure that he would not be able to soar with the added burden of a grown woman; and if he could not soar, how far could he fly by wing power alone? For safety, it should be at least to the edge of the surrounding wood, which Giles had pointed out was half a mile away. But there was no point in loading these doubts on Brian. The knight had enough uncertainties already to trouble him, although Jim had to admit that Brian showed little sign of being overwhelmed by them.
"I'll let you know what I see," Jim said.
But he did not. Half an hour later, he cruised past the castle at about twelve hundred feet altitude and his telescopic vision failed to catch one of the guards so much as looking up, let alone watching in his direction. Nor did he discover anything about the castle that was different from what Brian had said. He checked out the battlemented roof of the keep and saw only one man on guard there, as Brian had guessed. Things were working out almost too predictably to be interesting.
He circled back at a distance and landed at the inn just as darkness was closing in. To his surprise, most of the outlaws—except Giles and a few of his subsidiary leaders—were already asleep, the ale apparently having assisted them to slumber. Brian, with no more than a normal amount of wine in him, was also slumbering. So was Danielle. Aragh had gone off into the night woods and would probably not return until morning. Even Dick Innkeeper, with most of his family and employees, was asleep—except for one older woman who was supplying wine to Giles and ale to his outlaw lieutenants.
Disgruntled, Jim settled down in the main room of the inn, tucked his head under his wing, and prepared himself to spend a sleepless night…
It seemed he had only blinked and then again lifted his head from under his wing, however, to find activity all around him.
Dick, his family and the servants were bustling about. Danielle was bandaging Aragh's neck—the wolf had somehow managed to get himself hurt or wounded during the night. Giles was seated at a table, drawing plans of the castle on thin leather sheets, in quintuplicate for his lieutenants; and Dafydd, working in a concentration that hinted he would not welcome interruption, had set up a small pair of pan balances and was weighing half a dozen of his arrows, one at a time, then slightly but meticulously trimming their shafts and feathers. Brian, seated at a table a few feet away, was eating an enormous breakfast of bacon, bread and cold beef, with several more bottles of wine.
Outside, it was still dark. Far from being daybreak, it was not even first light. Jim guessed the hour to be about 4 a.m.
He looked enviously at Brian. Anybody who could have that kind of appetite before the sun was up, on a day when he might well expect to be killed—
"Ah, there, Sir James," said Brian, waving his jack. "Have some wine?"
Jim decided he deserved a drink, in spite of his debt to Dick Innkeeper.
"Yes," he said.
Brian uncorked a fresh bottle and passed it over. Jim took it in one claw grasp and put it to his jaws, swallowing its contents in a gulp.
"Thanks," he said.
"Dick!" roared Brian. "Wine for Sir James!"
Dick Innkeeper came up, wringing his hands.
"Sir knight, please," he said, "not another quarter tun of Bordeaux—"
"Nonsense!" said Brian. "Of course not! Just a few dozen bottles, or their equivalent. Just enough to wet the good knight's throat."
"Oh, in that case… of course, of course…"
Dick hurried out of the room. Jim heard him shouting for one of the menservants.
What appeared a few minutes later was not a few dozen bottles of the innkeeper's best, but a small cask holding no more than ten gallons or so of good, if second-rate, wine. But the cask was full and Jim, with a momentary wistful thought for the vintages he had sampled in the cellar, settled down to its contents philosophically. After all, not even a dragon could have the best of everything all the time.
He sat drinking with Brian and gradually absorbing the bustle going on around him. Everybody was very busy and very businesslike. He heard a great deal of sharpening of weapons, making of last-minute repairs in equipment, checking of maps, and directions and orders. Correspondingly, he noted almost a complete lack of the cheerful jokes and insults that had been a noticeable part of the give-and-take between the outlaws, in particular, the day before. Now, everybody was serious. Torches smoked and glared everywhere. People went back and forth at high speed, each one engaged in some task that did not brook interruption. Giles was neck-deep in lieutenants, and unapproachable. Aragh, bandaged, soon went out; and Danielle was now nowhere to be seen. Dick and his staff were like the captain and crew of a ship fighting a hurricane. Finally, even Brian gave up the wine bottles and suggested in a friendly voice that Jim get the hell out, take a walk or something, because it was time he was seeing to Blanchard and his weapons…
Jim took the advice and left the inn for the deep, chilly, pre-dawn darkness outside. He was feeling a distinct loneliness and awkwardness, like a stranger at a large family gathering; and this feeling was reinforced by a sort of gentle melancholy induced by the wine he had just drunk. He was not really lonely for his own world—strangely enough, with all its hard, medieval realities, he was discovering he liked it here—but for somebody to whom he could anchor. Preferably Angie; but, failing that, anyone who could give him a feeling of belonging, instead of one of being a sort of wandering soul adrift between worlds.
He looked around again for Aragh and remembered he had seen the wolf leave the inn immediately after Danielle had bandaged him. But neither his dragon-nose or ears gave him any evidence that the wolf was anywhere in the vicinity; and Jim had seen enough of Aragh to kn
ow that unless the other was plainly in evidence, his chances of finding him were close to nonexistent.
Jim gave up and sat down by himself in the darkness. Behind him were the noise, the odors, and the light of the inn. Before him were the solid blackness of the trees and overhead a thickly overcast sky, through which the faint gleam of an obscured moon came milkily now and then, low in the western quarter of the heavens. The moon would be down, soon, and there would be no light at all.
He might well be dead at the end of this day that would soon be dawning. The thought brought with it no particular fear but an increase in the feeling of melancholy. If he could be cut, as he had been in the brawl at the village, he could be seriously wounded or killed. In which case he would die here, at some impossible remove from everything he had ever identified with. Nobody would even know of his death. Even Angie, assuming she survived the Loathly Tower and the Dark Powers which Carolinus had talked about, would probably never know what had happened to him. He might not even be missed…
He was sinking steadily deeper into a sort of luxurious self-pity, when he realized that he was no longer sitting on the ground. He was, instead, lying down on it, about to turn over on his back, spread his wings and roll back and forth on the rough, sandy soil. Echoing in his mind, just in time to stop him, came the remembered words of Danielle: "Don't roll in the dirt, Sir James!"
He had wondered at the time why she should think he would ever want to roll in the dirt. Now he understood. Thinking about his cuts had reminded his subconscious of them. The day after he had gotten them, they had smarted like small shaving cuts; but he had come to ignore them and they had passed out of mind. Now, however, he realized that they were healing; and, in the process of doing so, they had developed a new sensation: they itched.
A good scrub against the hard earth would be a satisfying way of scratching those itches. Of course, it would also not only reopen the cuts, but get dirt and infectious materials ground into them.
The Dragon and The George Page 16
