The Squire's Quest

by Gerald Morris

  "And there, on the white horse, is my young brother, Cliges."

  The young man that Alexander had indicated smiled eagerly and leaped from his horse to bow before King Arthur. "I am ... happy to m-meeting you," he stammered. "And please, is Sir Lancelot here?"

  The counselor, Acoriondes, gave Cliges a stern look, which the youth ignored, but King Arthur only smiled. He was accustomed to young knights who had little interest in a mere king when they could be admiring his most famous champion.

  "Of course," the king said, indicating Lancelot at his left. "Sir Lancelot, allow me to introduce you to Prince Cligés."

  Cligés blinked at Lancelot with obvious surprise. Among the brightly clad courtiers who filled the court, Lancelot's simple clothes seemed almost shabby. Lancelot bowed gracefully. "It is an honor, O prince," he said. "But your name, Cligés—is it not French?"

  The prince nodded vehemently. "Yes! My Greek name is like it, but, moi, j'aime mieux the French. You are from childhood my hero, Sir Lancelot!" Then he knelt at Lancelot's feet.

  Acoriondes looked pained again: Cligés had shown greater reverence for the knight than for the king. But Alexander only grinned. "Cligés loves all things French. Indeed, we passed two weeks with the Count of Champagne on our way here, and we would still be there if Cligés could choose." He waved his arm at the rest of his retinue. "As for the rest, you will never remember all their names. Some are knights, and the rest are servants, which I bring to make our visit easy for you."

  Kai looked sourly at Alexander's huge retinue, more than a hundred and fifty persons in all, including at least twenty mounted knights and a dozen wagons. "Oh, ay, easy," he muttered. "The thing is, Your Majesty, we may not have enough guest rooms for all—"

  Alexander snapped his fingers. "I see there is a town outside the castle walls. Has it a ... a..."He glanced at Acoriondes. "A pandocheion?"

  "An inn, Your Highness."

  Arthur blinked. "Yes, of course. There are several inns there, but I could not permit—"

  "Good! I will buy two of them!" Alexander declared. "I bring my own furnishes so to do this! Acoriondes, see to it!"

  The grave courtier bowed, but before starting away he addressed King Arthur again. "Your Highness," he said, "I do not think you will change my master's mind in this. We are your guests, of course, and we will accept with gratitude what hospitality you offer. But it is not our intention to make ourselves unwelcome. We have brought all that we require to set up our own household outside your walls."

  Arthur pursed his lips, but evidently decided that it was best to submit with good grace. "Then you must allow me to host you and your knights at a dinner this very evening. Kai?"

  Kai nodded resignedly. "A state dinner. Naturally."

  Arthur's eyes wrinkled with amusement, and he added, "And perhaps in two days, a tournament in honor of our noble guests?"

  "A tournament, too," Kai repeated bleakly. "It needed but that."

  "Yes, that's what I thought," Arthur said, smiling impishly at his friend.

  "A tournament! I have heard of your tournaments!" exclaimed Alexander. Cligés looked so excited that Terence thought he might pass out.

  "Your Highness?" Terence said.

  "Yes, Terence?"

  "Perhaps I could accompany Sir Acoriondes and help him find suitable quarters in the town." Arthur nodded, and Terence turned to the tall dignitary. "I am Squire Terence, and I will be honored to serve you. Will you follow me, please?"

  It took no time at all to make the necessary arrangements. Terence led the imperial party to the main thoroughfare in the town, where two large stone inns stood beside each other, and Acoriondes nodded his approval. Terence hadn't been sure the innkeepers would be willing to sell their inns outright, but when Acoriondes dropped a huge bag of gold at each man's feet, as carelessly as if he were tossing seed to chickens, both agreed at once. Then the army of servants that Alexander had brought with him set about turning the inns into a suitable residence for their emperor. All the rough, sturdy English furniture was tossed into the streets and replaced with the finest of upholstered chairs and grand gilded beds and sumptuous carpets and embroidered drapes. The whole town gathered to gawk as the imperial wagons were unloaded, but Terence only watched until Acoriondes finished giving instructions and started back toward the castle gates on foot.

  Terence fell into step beside him but said nothing. Acoriondes had been aloof toward him, and Terence guessed that it was because he was a lowly squire. Neither spoke until they were back in the now empty main courtyard. Then Acoriondes turned to Terence. "Please, Squire Terence," he said austerely. "I would be grateful if you could tell me where I could find my master now?"

  Terence didn't have to answer. At that moment Acoriondes's own squire, the youth Bernard, came dashing from the central keep of the castle, calling out something to Acoriondes in agitated tones. Acorion-des closed his eyes wearily, asked several sharp questions, then followed Bernard back inside with a firm step. Bemused, Terence watched them go. After a moment he noticed Eileen approaching.

  "Did you see that?" Terence asked. Eileen nodded. "I wonder what's gotten that young fellow in such a stew."

  "Well," Eileen said, "I can't say for sure, since I don't speak Greek."

  "Is that what they speak? I wondered."

  "But if I had to guess," Eileen continued calmly, "I would say he was telling his master that Alexander, Emperor of Constantinople, has just asked Sarah to marry him."

  "What am I supposed to do?" Sarah demanded in exasperation. It was just before the state dinner for the visitors from Constantinople. Terence and Gawain had stopped by Eileen's chambers to escort her and Sarah.

  "By what Guinevere told me," Eileen said, "you handled it very well."

  "I put him offfor a while," Sarah said. "That's all."

  "What actually happened?" asked Gawain. "I've heard three different stories already, and none of them make sense."

  "It doesn't make sense!" Sarah said. "It was right after the little welcome ceremony in the courtyard. I'd gone off with Guinevere to her rooms, just to catch up, and a moment later King Arthur showed up with this Alexander. He wanted to introduce him to the queen, I suppose, but naturally he introduced us both. So then Alexander fawned over us both for a minute, telling us how beautiful we both are and rot like that, and then, out of the blue, he dropped on one knee and asked if I would be his empress."

  "What did you say?" Gawain asked, his eyes bright.

  "I said I'd just met him and that I could hardly marry a complete stranger. So he smiled and said he looked forward to getting to know me better."

  "How ... romantic," said Gawain unsteadily. He was trying to conceal his amusement, but he wasn't very good at it.

  "That's what Guinevere said," snorted Sarah. "She says it's the most beautiful thing she's ever heard, just like in the minstrel's love songs. And it is, too! It's exactly like that rubbish. What in the world would possess a man to propose to someone he met twenty seconds before?"

  "Does the emperor know anything about you?" asked Terence suddenly.

  "Obviously not," replied Gawain. "He proposed to her, didn't he?"

  "Shut up, Gawain," Sarah replied absently. "No, nothing really. Arthur just introduced me as his cousin Lady Sarah." She frowned. "Surely that's not it. Just wanting to marry into Arthur's family?"

  "I've no idea," Terence admitted. "I was just wondering."

  "Well, while you're wondering, why don't you wonder how I'm going to avoid this Alexander? Should I skip the dinner tonight?"

  "Afraid?" asked Gawain.

  "Yes."

  Gawain shook his head slowly. "Lancelot tells me how you once faced a fully armored knight in single combat," he pointed out.

  "Kid stuff," Sarah replied.

  Eileen, who had been waiting patiently by the door through all this, finally spoke. "Sarah, don't be foolish. You're making a great deal out of nothing. You will come to dinner tonight and will be polite to the emperor.
If he asks you again to marry him, you will answer. If you don't care for the idea, you will say no. Now come along. We're going to be late."

  Sarah and Gawain and Terence murmured, "Yes, ma'am," and followed.

  Though he watched Emperor Alexander closely during the dinner, Terence still could not tell what had prompted his marriage proposal. That he regarded King Arthur with great reverence was obvious, so it was possible that he had asked Sarah to marry him so as to form an alliance with his hero. On the other hand, his expression when he looked at Sarah was undeniably filled with admiration. Sarah, for her part, was quellingly polite, replying to all Alexander's comments tersely and with a cold correctness. No matter how earnestly the emperor begged her to call him Alexander, she continued to refer to him as Your Highness. But Alexander didn't seem at all discouraged.

  "Dearest Lady Sarah," Alexander said during the third course, "it is your maidenly reserve that is most admirable. I do not know anyone like you."

  Gawain's shoulders shook convulsively, and Terence guessed that his friend was remembering how Sarah had once beheaded an attacking knight. In a colorless voice, Sarah replied, "It is kind of you to say so, Your Highness."

  "My lord," said Acoriondes, "look at that coat of arms opposite you, with the twin lions. Is that not like the crest that you admired at Lady Maximilla's palace in Macedonia?"

  "Yes. I don't know. Perhaps," Alexander replied without looking. "It is of no importance. Lady Sarah, I should like to show you the Aegean Sea. It is the bluest of seas, yet it is nothing before your eyes."

  "My eyes are green, Your Highness."

  "And yet to me they are the purest of opal, and more precious."

  "Emperor Alexander," said Guinevere, "tell Sarah what you were telling me earlier, about your castle in Athens."

  "My court is at Constantinopolis," Alexander began, "but my fathers came from Macedon and Achaia—in Greece—and so I have a summer palace at Athens, of pure white marble, like the pure white of your..." He hesitated, then asked Acoriondes a question in Greek.

  "Like the pure the white of your cheek," Acoriondes interpreted.

  "No, no, that is not what I meant," Alexander protested. "I know cheek."

  "It had better be what you meant, my lord," Acoriondes said woodenly. "My lord, I wonder which armor you shall choose to wear at the tournament in two days' time."

  "Ah, the tournament!" exclaimed Alexander. "It is in the songs of the troubadors that a knight must wear on his armor the ... I-do-not-know-the-word of his lady, is it not so?"

  "Token, Your Highness," Queen Guinevere supplied. "And, yes, it is often done so. A lady will give her knight a sleeve or a shawl to wear as a token in the jousting."

  "My lady Sarah, I beg you to give me your sleeve!" Alexander cried.

  "I am sorry to disappoint you, Your Highness, but I have need of all my sleeves."

  "You could give him a shawl," Guinevere suggested. "One of your lovely embroidered ones." She turned to Alexander and explained, "Sarah does the most beautiful needlework!"

  "She is a model woman, yes? To be so beautiful and also so talented!" Alexander replied.

  "It's because I was raised by a Jewish textile merchant," Sarah said bluntly.

  Alexander burst into laughter and renewed his entreaties for a scrap of cloth, but Sarah refused again.

  Then young Cligés, seated at Alexander's side, spoke up. "You must not press her, my brother. It would not be à la courtoise. She should give you the token secretly, and then all the court would try to guess whose token you wear. And your love must not be easy. You must suffer first."

  "I must suffer?" Alexander asked blankly. "Why?"

  "It is how it is done, my brother," Cligés explained firmly. "Si la dard est entrée par l'œil, pourquoi souffre le cœur dans la poitrine?"

  Terence spoke some French, but didn't catch this. Now a new voice joined the conversation. This was Sir Dinadan, seated at a nearby table. "O Emperor Alexander, didn't I hear you say you spent some time in Champagne?"

  "Yes, for many days we were there."

  "I thought I recognized that line," Dinadan commented.

  "You know the French song I was quoting?" Cligés asked, delighted. "Is it not of the finest?"

  Dinadan nodded agreeably. "Yes, indeed it is not," he replied.

  "That was from a song?" asked Guinevere. "What does it mean?"

  " 'If love enters through the eye, why does the heart suffer in the breast?'" Dinadan translated. Then he gave Acoriondes an impish glance and said, "Or should I say cheek?"

  The statesman said nothing. Cligés ignored them both, still looking earnestly at his brother. "Yes, that is what I mean. If you love, you must suffer first in the heart!"

  Sarah pushed her chair back from the table and rose. "I quite understand; I have a touch of indigestion myself." She turned to Arthur. "O king, forgive me, but I should like to lie down."

  "Of course," the king said, sympathy in his voice. "Alexander and Acoriondes, I wonder if you could tell me more about the empire. I suppose, since you have traveled so far, that you are at peace now?"

  For the rest of the evening, Arthur and Acoriondes talked about treaties and boundary disputes and the difficulties of governing distant territories. Alexander added little to this conversation. He looked disappointed and glanced often at the door through which Sarah had disappeared, to the interest and excitement of nearly everyone at dinner—especially Cligés.

  The first day of the tournament arrived, and it was all Terence and Eileen could do to get Sarah to attend the event. For a whole day Sarah had managed to avoid Alexander, and she didn't want to ruin it now. But when Eileen pointed out that since everyone else would be at the tournament, staying behind would make it easy for someone to find her alone, Sarah grudgingly agreed to go, on the condition that no one would touch any of her sleeves.

  Once there, it seemed as if Sarah had been worrying about nothing, because there was no Alexander to be found. Cligés and several of the Greek knights did well in the individual jousting, but Alexander did not appear. Just before the lists were closed, though, an unknown knight in black armor appeared from nowhere. He did not speak, but with gestures indicated his wish to compete. Arthur waved his permission.

  "Golly," said Kai, seated beside Arthur in the stands. "I wonder who this could be."

  Terence grinned and strolled away, finding himself before long standing near Dinadan, who never competed in tournaments. Dinadan met Terence's eye and grinned. "A mystery knight in black armor," he said with an expressive sigh. "And if he wins, what do you want to bet that he gives the prize to Lady Sarah?"

  "It's hard to imagine who he thinks he's fooling," Terence admitted.

  "It's not about fooling people," Dinadan said. "It's about playing the part."

  "What part do you mean?" Terence asked.

  "Remember that French love song that young Cligés was quoting the other night?" Dinadan asked. Terence nodded. "Well, it's one of a new sort of knightly song they're singing on the continent—not about adventures but courtly love."

  "What do you mean, 'courtly love'?" Terence asked. "Is that a special sort?"

  "Lord, yes," Dinadan said. "Courtly lovers are all the most frightful asses."

  "Nothing special about that," Terence pointed out. "I'd think that was normal for lovers."

  "But courtly lovers," Dinadan explained loftily, "are noble and tragic asses. Usually there's a knight who's desperately stuck on some other man's wife—"

  "Ah, I see," Terence interrupted. "That German minstrel's song about Tristram and Iseult the other evening."

  "One of their favorite tales," Dinadan agreed. "And one thing the courtly lover does in just about every tale is dress up in someone else's armor, so as to win a tournament for his beloved without betraying their secret love."

  "Ah," Terence said.

  "Ah indeed," replied Dinadan, nodding. "If, as he said, Alexander spent weeks in Champagne listening to this nonsense, then he has some
very odd ideas about how things are done at court." Dinadan gave Terence a measured look, then added, "You might mention this to Sarah, in fact, because if she's really not interested in Alexander, she's doing the wrong thing."

  "What do you mean?"

  "In courtly love, the lady is supposed to act disdainful and to heap scorn on her lover in public. It's part of the game. Plus it gives him a chance to be abused by her, which is seen as a good thing."

  "Why, for heaven's sake?"

  "Don't ask me. I don't sing this trash. But whatever the reason, there it is. The lady nearly always treats the knight like a dog that's been rolling in something smelly."

  "So what should Sarah do instead?"

  Dinadan pursed his lips thoughtfully. "She might leave the country," he suggested.

  Terence sighed. "I'll tell her," he said as he walked on. Behind him he heard the clash of arms, but he couldn't muster any interest in whether Alexander had just won his first joust, so he kept walking. As he left the tournament encampment in the fields west of the city, he saw a knight riding toward him from the castle. Terence didn't recognize the armor, and when the knight drew close, he saw that he didn't recognize the knight's face either.

  "May I help you?" Terence asked.

  The knight, a young man with fair hair, smiled at him. "I hope so, O squire. I am looking for King Arthur. At the castle they told me he was at this tournament."

  "Are you a messenger?"

  "Nothing so important, I'm afraid," the knight said. A strange chill began to creep over Terence, like nothing he had ever felt. He glanced about but saw nothing threatening. Then he looked back at the young knight with the ready smile, who said, "I'm just a wandering knight who thought I might try whether King Arthur would have me at his court."

  "I'll take you to him," Terence offered. "What may I say your name is?"

  "I'm called Mordred."

  The Secret Prince

  Terence heard the sound of children's shouts at least five minutes before he rode out of the trees and saw the hermitage. Reining in his horse at the edge of the yard, he surveyed the scene before him. He had known many holy retreats before—indeed, he had been raised in one—but he had never seen one quite so busy or noisy. At the far side of the clearing, near a bubbling spring, six or seven children were alternately working and arguing as they constructed a play fort of fallen branches. Beside the tiny hut, two older children, one boy and one girl, worked with axes, cutting wood for the woodpile. Another group of children, of varying ages, sat in the bare yard, writing letters and pronouncing them aloud while a girl of about fifteen watched and listened. And on a wooden stool in a sunny spot by the front door, clad in the full brown robe of a religious man, sat the hermit himself, looking hardly older than the youths around him.