The Dragon, the Earl ,and the Troll

by Gordon R. Dickson

"Yes," said Jim, not looking directly at her. He had deliberately thrown in this piece of information to start preparing her for the fact that the child might pass out of her hands almost without warning. "In any case where a landed couple of rank are both dead and a child lives, that child becomes a ward of the King. He can assign that wardship to anyone he wants."

  "That drunken old man in London? He's just as likely to give young Robert to anyone!" The name of the baby had been discovered worked into his clothing with needle and thread.

  "He isn't drunk all the time," said Jim soothingly. "Besides, something like such a rich wardship will probably be really decided not by him, but by the people of influence around him—like Sir John Chandos."

  "And Sir John likes you," said Angie.

  "Yes. I think he does," said Jim. "But he's only one voice. More to the point is the fact the King's got a generally good opinion of me, because the affair at the Loathly Tower added to his reputation."

  He was speaking of the profusion of popular ballads which had celebrated Jim's rescue of Angie from the Dark Powers at the Loathly Tower—with the help of Brian, Aargh, the Welsh bowman Dafydd ap Hywel and Carolinus. The first balladeers to make up a song about it had invented a part in which Jim had gone to see the King first and asked his permission to attack the evil things in the Loathly Tower. Which permission, the King had then graciously given him. So that the general impression was that it had all been done on the King's initiative and command. The King had liked that.

  "That's true," said Angie, relaxing a little. Seeing which, Jim decided to risk giving her a little more bad news.

  "Actually, Sir Ralph Falon's sister is already here at the Earl's," he said.

  Angie became rigid in her chair again. She put down her glass of wine, still without tasting it.

  "Sister?"

  "Yes, Lady Agatha Falon. A younger sister of Sir Ralph. They were the only two children of the previous Baron. In fact, I think she's a half-sister. She was born to the former Baron's second wife—the wife before Mary Briten—but she still has a claim on the estate—"

  He tried to make the last of his message light in tone.

  "Of course," he said, "once Sir Ralph had a new young wife, and since a son of his is living, that rather cuts the sister out of the inheritance."

  "Does it?" said Angie grimly.

  "Yes," said Jim.

  "Well, that's only right," said Angie. "Little Robert should get it all. After all, he's the one who'll have to raise a force from his barony and lead it to battle for the King, once he's grown up, while she's probably never done a thing in her life!"

  Jim could not think of a woman he had met in this medieval world who had never done a thing in her life. They all seemed to be desperately active; as much as, if not more so, than the men. But his knowledge of Angie was enough to caution him against saying anything like that out loud right now. Besides, he still had one more bitter pill to pass on.

  "It's natural she'd take an interest," said Jim. "Whoever gains the wardship of young Robert will be collecting and managing the income from the Chene estates until Robert comes of age. And the Chene estates—well, you've heard about them—a Duke wouldn't be unhappy with the income from them. I don't know what wild reason made the Baron come to the Earl's Christmastide, here, with only eight armed retainers—particularly through country like that."

  "You mean," said Angie, ignoring the rest, "that this Agatha will be interested in the income from the Chene estates during the wardship—at least?"

  "The way things are at this point in history," said Jim, "I can't imagine her not being interested."

  Just at that moment there was a loud single knock on the door, followed by a pause and two rather timid little taps—as if the person knocking had suddenly remembered who was in the chambers to which he was asking admittance.

  "Yes?" said Jim, raising his voice.

  The door opened a crack and the lean, concerned face of Brian appeared.

  "Jim—Angela!" he greeted them. "Jim, Carolinus asked me to step up and persuade you to come down and join the other guests in the upper chamber of the main hall. Everyone is there right now."

  Jim got to his feet.

  "Yes, I'd better," he said to Angie. "It's all right for you to spend most of your time up here, Angie. But I'll be expected to mix with the rest."

  He went toward the door.

  "Hmm," said Angie absently, getting up in her turn and going toward the inner room. She gave him a small wave of her hand and passed thoughtfully out of sight behind the tapestry veiling the entrance.

  The upper chamber of the hall, when Jim and Brian reached it, was indeed crowded with gentlemen and ladies, other guests for this Christmastide gathering. All of them, like Jim, had gotten up at dawn for a necessary appearance at matins, the first church service of the day. After that, a good number of those Jim saw around him now would have probably done what Jim himself usually did, which was to slip back to their own rooms for some extra sleep. The coming midnight was the first hour of Christmas—the Vigil of Christmas—and he would have to put in an appearance at that, on top of making himself visible most of this day in public.

  Earlier, after this day's morning service, a number of the heartier, more energetic male guests had gone out for a boar hunt, and spent a cold morning careening through the woods with hounds, finding no boars. In spite of that they would nearly all be, as Brian said, in the hall's upper chamber now; almost every one of those invited here—though not every knight and his lady in Somerset had been invited, of course, Sir Hubert, Jim's cantankerous, close neighbor, was among those missing. But there were enough guests here at the moment to considerably crowd a room made out of the upper part of the long hall belonging to the Earl.

  It was, on a large scale, the fourteenth-century upper-class equivalent of a family, or rumpus, room. Along one wall was a table dormant; a table, that was, which was never taken down between meals, as most medieval tables were, but always stood furnished with food for the hungry elite. Like all respectable medieval tables, it was covered with a snowy white linen cloth.

  On that cloth at the moment were a number of dishes that conformed to the letter of the rules for fasting in Advent (the days before Christmas); in other words—no meat, eggs or dairy foods such as butter or cream. But there were a number of fresh fish dishes, ingeniously grilled, fried, baked and otherwise cooked—most of them with sauces in which a cream made of pulverized almonds had substituted for the cow's cream and butter that would otherwise have made the sauces palatable.

  There was, of course, no lack of wine, and there were such things as little pastry turnovers which avoided any of the forbidden foods, but contained tasty materials, probably often made with that same almond milk, rather than the usual milk or cream.

  As a result, the gentlemen and ladies present could take up a glass of wine and something to munch on, while circulating, talking, or perhaps glancing out the one good-sized—and actually glazed—window at the common men of the Earl's estate. A number of these were amusing themselves (if they had been working, it would have been sinful) by clearing the tilting ground of the fresh snow that had fallen overnight. So it was possible for their betters to stand, talk, eat and watch them work—always a pleasant sight to those doing such observing.

  Most of the other guests were people Jim had never met before. Carolinus, he saw, was busily in conversation with Sir John Chandos, and a large muscular, middle-aged man with straight, iron gray hair and a square face, perhaps in his late forties, and dressed in Benedictine black. He had been pointed out to Jim the day before as the Bishop of Bath and Wells. But he was a most unlikely-looking Bishop; giving the general appearance of someone who would rather be punching out sinners than comforting those who had repented.

  Jim and Brian gravitated to the table, and Brian supplied himself with a full glass of wine and a handful of the small turnovers. Jim took another glass of wine but only three of the small pastries. The noonday feast would be star
ting soon. They moved away from the table to let other people have access to the food.

  "You must not be tied down by this baby and Angela's care of him, James," Brian was beginning. "You—hah!"

  Brian's glance had gone past Jim's face, out over Jim's shoulder to something or someone behind him. It had also changed expression; unfortunately, to one that Jim had seen on his friend's face a number of times before—invariably when Brian was about to go into battle.

  Jim pivoted in time to see Brian marching over to confront a somewhat taller man of about his own age, and somewhat leaner, but in other ways not unlike him. This other was also a knight, for he wore a knight's sword belt—without sword, of course, as befitted a guest. His hair was black, his eyes hazel-colored, and he wore a definitely expensive, plum-colored cote-hardie over gray hose and neat black heelless dress shoes.

  "Hah!" said Brian again, stopping a long step from the other man.

  "Hah!" responded the other.

  The two ejaculations rose over the general mumble and clutter of conversation in the room. The talk of other people died, and glances began to direct themselves to Brian and the other knight; for very clearly the two "hah!"s had not been mere greetings, but something decidedly more loaded with meaning.

  "Sir Harimore!" snapped Brian. "I see you well?"

  Sir Harimore had a small, carefully trimmed mustache on his upper lip. Outside of that, he was clean shaven. The mustache had little in the way of ends that could be twirled; but Sir Harimore reached up to twirl one of them now.

  "Eminently well, Sir Brian," he snapped back. "And you, sir?"

  "Thanks be to God I could not be in greater health!" said Brian.

  "Hah!" said Sir Harimore, twirling his mustache.

  "Hah!" replied Brian.

  There was a moment of tense silence.

  "I will see you then, here, in the days to come?" said Sir Harimore.

  "Sir, you will!" said Brian.

  "I shall look forward to it!"

  "And I, also!"

  With this last word, both Brian and Sir Harimore seemed to become aware that a complete silence had fallen on the gathering around them. They bowed to each other somewhat stiffly, Sir Harimore turned back to the two women and one man he had been talking to, and Brian returned to Jim. The general talk of the room welled up again around them.

  "Who was that?" asked Jim, in a low voice under the cover of the general noise of the room.

  "Sir Harimore Kilinsworth!" said Brian. His blue eyes were still looking as fierce as Jim had ever seen them.

  This information told Jim nothing.

  "I don't know him," said Jim. "Who is he? What—"

  He could not think of how to phrase politely the question he wanted to ask, which was why the very sight of the man had immediately set Sir Brian off in a way Jim had seldom seen him react before. Brian took a gulp from his glass, as abruptly as if he had intended to snap the lip of the glass off in his teeth.

  "What I mean, is…" Jim was beginning awkwardly, when Brian broke in.

  "Sir Harimore Kilinsworth," said Brian, "an excellent swordsman. I have seldom seen the like. He is as well with other small arms too; but he handles the lance in a way most praiseworthy… I cannot bear the fellow!"

  "You can't?" said Jim. "But why? What's wrong with him?"

  "Why, he has these skills; but one might say he overprides himself on them. He has an attitude that sticks in my teeth. We almost had it out at that inn I told you of—particularly after what he said to me concerning Geronde."

  "He said something concerning Geronde?" said Jim. This must have been a part of the story Brian had not been able to finish at Malencontri. Jim had not been here three years without coming to understand the extreme touchiness of people like Brian, where certain words and phrases were concerned. "What did he say?"

  "I don't remember his exact words," said Brian, "but the burden of them was all too clear—as he intended it to be. The fellow as good as accused me of troth-breaking."

  "Troth-breaking?"

  "Yes, yes," said Brian, keeping his own voice down, but showing a touch of irritation. "The troth I pledged to Geronde, of course. A most foul insinuation. Surely a man can glance for a moment at the fine figure of another woman, even though he is betrothed? We are all Adam's sons, I think?"

  Jim was about to ask what Adam had to do with it, let alone any sons of his, when he felt his sleeve plucked; and turning, saw Carolinus standing beside him.

  "I want—" Carolinus was beginning—

  But just then, the floor quivered, the walls quivered, and a tremor like a small earthquake shook everything about them.

  Chapter 6

  "Beelzebub's daughters!" snapped Carolinus, his voice unheard among the general babble of excitement that had arisen around them, but which was already beginning to calm. "He's to stop that immediately! That's just what I was coming to tell you—no castle-shaking this week or next! You go down and tell him so, now!"

  Jim had not known that Beelzebub had ever had any daughters. But, of course, he found himself thinking crazily, if Adam had had sons—which he had—it probably was perfectly reasonable that Beelzebub had had daughters. However, who was "he"?

  "Who's he? asked Jim.

  "The giant in this castle!" said Carolinus, prudently lowering his voice now that the general level of conversation had dropped once more. Other people were assuring first-time guests that it was "only the giant in the castle."

  "—He's not actually a giant," Carolinus went on, "but that's not the point. You go down, Jim; and Brian, you'd best go with him—just to make sure he finds his way down and up again all right!"

  "Yes, Mage," said Brian.

  Carolinus turned, and went back to rejoin Chandos and the Bishop of Bath and Wells. Jim felt his sleeve plucked again. But this time it was the opposite sleeve, and it was Brian doing the plucking. Brian made a motion with his head toward the passage outside the upper room of the hall, and Jim followed him out without a word. Once outside, Brian turned and led the way toward the main staircase of the tower that anchored one end of the main hall.

  "What's all this about a giant in the castle?" Jim asked; for the hall itself at the moment was deserted and there was no one to overhear him.

  "Oh, there's always been a giant in the Duke's castle," said Brian. "Everyone knows that."

  "And why do you call him Duke, now?" said Jim. "I remember you called him Duke the first time I heard you mention these Christmastide gatherings of his. I went around calling him a Duke myself for some time before I found out everybody else seemed to call him an Earl. Which is he?"

  "Oh, he's an Earl," said Brian. He glanced over his shoulder at the empty corridor behind them for a moment, and lowered his voice slightly. "It's just he thinks he ought to be a Duke. His family, you see, goes back to ancient Roman times, here. His oldest ancestor was a Duke—or a Dux, I believe people called it then. Anyway, he longs to be called a Duke, and those of us who know him well sometimes call him that in privy talk—just between ourselves, you understand. It would never do to call him Duke in public. But it's one of the reasons, see you, behind his invitation to the Prince this Christmas. He'd like to be made an actual Duke one day; and that day may come when our young Prince will be King and make him so—if Edward ends by liking these twelve days and the Earl, himself."

  They passed the floor below, and the wide entrance to the main floor of the Great Hall, where servitors were busy setting up table tops on their trestles for the banquet, and spreading the fine, fresh-washed linen tablecloths carefully over them.

  "At the same time," Brian went on, "from the Prince's point of view, the more great lords he has for his friends, the stronger position he's in when it comes to a matter of succeeding his father. No man can tell from where some other claimant to the throne might appear—a distant cousin, or such like. The best way to guard against such a hap is to make sure the strength of the Kingdom is mainly on the Prince's side. So his advisors, like Sir John C
handos, will have told him. So there are wheels within wheels, you see."

  "I do, indeed," said Jim.

  They had now passed the floor underneath, which was where the necessary horses that the Duke and his immediate retinue rode were commonly stabled; and into which they were brought if the castle should be under hot attack and its defenders pulled back into this tower for a last defense. Daylight did not reach far in here, and the lighting provided by wall-mounted bundles of rushes had worsened as they descended. Jim was completely baffled as to why they might find any kind of giant in the stables—but his bafflement was only increased when Brian led him a short way down the stable to a farther flight of stairs that went down even deeper.

  "Hup! Hey! Ho! Just a moment there! Where do you think you're going?"

  Jim and Brian turned before they had put foot on the first step down this new stairway, to find themselves confronted in the dim light by a somewhat short, rotund man with a bristling gray-white mustache, a small, pointed gray-white beard on the chin of a round face, and fierce blue pop eyes under pure white eyebrows. His hair, too, was pure white. A sword belt and heavy sword hung from around the waist of his deeply red, rich wool robe. Right behind him were two tall men-at-arms, both with swords unsheathed and in their hands.

  "My Lord!" said Brian, as he made out the face squinting at him in the gloom. "I think you are acquainted with Sir James, Baron of Malencontri et Riveroak, and an apprentice—"

  "Apprentice?" exploded the white-haired man, drowning Brian's last words. His white eyebrows had shot up on his forehead; but Brian had already turned to Jim.

  "Sir James," he went on, "you have met your host and our Earl, Sir Hugo Siwardus, my Lord Somerset."

  "Apprentice?" the Earl was barking at Brian. Jim had a very sure idea why he was reacting this way. Any apprentice would be a common person; and one such among his guests, whether he was called a knight or not…

  "An apprentice in magic, to Mage Carolinus, my Lord," said Brian.

  The Earl's eyebrows dropped to half-mast at the name of Carolinus, and there was a pause.