The Ballad of Sir Dinadan

by Gerald Morris

  "Oh, he can walk well now," Lady Miriam said. "But he can't ride a horse. You see, the wound he received was in a most embarrassing place." She permitted herself a very small titter. "You won't tell him I told you, will you? He's very sensitive about it."

  "No, no, of course not," Dinadan said, pleased to have a private joke with Lady Miriam.

  "I don't know what we'll do, though," Lady Miriam said. "Just this morning we received word that Sir Edmund is mustering his knights for an attack on our camp." Lady Miriam put her arms around Dinadan and held him close. "I fear that he wishes to make me his own, and I'd rather die! Look, Dinadan!" Lady Miriam leaned away and pointed to her chest, where a jeweled dagger hung from a thin chain, almost hidden behind the low neckline of her gown. "If he should win, then I will plunge this dagger into my heart before giving in to such a tyrant!"

  Dinadan tore his eyes away from the dagger and rose abruptly. "I will go see this Sir Edmund at once!" he declared.

  Lady Miriam's eyes glistened with grateful tears. "I knew you would be the one," she said, laying one hand on his arm. "But be careful, my dear. I want you to come back to me whole. You must not take any chances. Give him no chance to speak, but attack him on sight. It is what he would do to you, after all."

  Dinadan nodded, his throat tight, and he managed to stumble to his horses without actually falling down. It would have been grander if he had already been in armor and could have just leaped into the saddle and ridden off, but things don't always work out as you wish. Half an hour later, mounted and clad in the armor that had never really fit him as it was supposed to, Dinadan lifted one hand in what was supposed to be a casual, nonchalant, unworried gesture of parting, but his hand accidentally knocked his own horse's head, making the horse arch its back and forcing Dinadan to grab quickly for the reins to keep control. He tried to ride away with dignity, but he was fairly certain that he failed.

  Out of sight (and smell) of the entrancing Lady Miriam, Dinadan's head cleared, and he was able to acknowledge that perhaps he had acted rashly. Lady Miriam had assured him that the evil Sir Edmund was not as a good a knight as the knights that were with him, but Dinadan had no doubt that Sir Edmund was still more competent than he was himself. It seemed likely that Dinadan's only chance of winning the battle to which he had pledged himself would be to take Lady Miriam's advice and attack on sight. It was hardly very knightly, however. If he were telling a courtly tale about a knight who had acted so, he would call that knight a rank coward.

  He was still pondering his best course of action as he rode over the slight ridge of hills and came right up to two men chatting in the front yard of a small farm. One of the men was clearly the farmer, and the other was a gentleman, simply dressed but unquestionably of the aristocracy. The gentleman raised an open hand in greeting and smiled at the approaching Dinadan. "Hello, friend. Well met today!"

  "Hello," Dinadan said, returning the greeting.

  "Hast come far?"

  "I've been riding since midnight," Dinadan admitted.

  "Why, then you must come stay with me in my home. I should be glad of the company, and if you've a tale to tell, glad of that as well."

  It was quite the nicest invitation Dinadan had ever received—to be greeted as an equal by a total stranger—but he replied, "I wish I could, friend. I'm looking for someone right now, though, a villain who has taken lands that are not his."

  The man's brow furrowed. "Ay, I think I know who you mean. If you're looking for that crowd, then I'll surely do what I can to help you. Hang on a bit, let me finish here." Dinadan pulled up his horse and waited while the gentleman, evidently the farmer's landlord, discussed some farm business with his tenant. Then the man mounted his horse, a clean-limbed gray gelding, and rode up beside Dinadan. "We've had no trouble in this area since my grandfather's day, but it does look as if we're in for it a bit. These people came from nowhere with a motley band of mercenaries and settled in. The neighbors and I have been wondering what they were up to, and all we can figure is that they plan to take one of the local landholdings."

  "I thought they had already taken one estate already," Dinadan said.

  The gentleman glanced at him sharply. "Not that I've heard of," he said. "Did you hear the name of the estate?"

  "Gracemoor," Dinadan said.

  The man's face relaxed. "Nay, Gracemoor's still safe, as you'll see for yourself in a minute. That's my home."

  Dinadan swallowed. "Are you—? What is your name?"

  "I'm Sir Edmund Grace of Gracemoor." Dinadan stared, bemused, at the pleasant face beside him. "And there," Sir Edmund said, "is Gracemoor itself."

  Dinadan followed his eyes and saw a neat stone manor—too large to call a house and not large enough to call a castle—at the edge of a quiet river. "Your home?" Dinadan asked weakly.

  "And my father's and his father's before him, given to my grandfather by old King Constantine himself, Arthur's grandfather."

  Dinadan's mind buzzed with confusion. They rode into the open gates of the manor, gave their horses to an elderly groom, then walked into the entrance hall. Over a huge fireplace was a painting of a gray-haired man with a glowering frown. "That's my grandfather there," Sir Edmund said. "Old Doom and Gloom, I used to call him when I was young." Sir Edmund walked through an open door into a comfortable parlor, and Dinadan took another look at the painting. Except for the difference in their expressions, the old man in the portrait bore a marked resemblance to Sir Edmund.

  Dinadan followed Sir Edmund into the parlor but did not take a seat. When you were in full armor, it was sometimes hard to get out of a comfortable chair. "Tell me about these people who have moved into the neighborhood," he asked his host.

  "We don't know much," Sir Edmund replied. "They came from the northeast, armed to the teeth, and took up residence in my north meadow. I'm not using it, so I didn't object. One of them, a tall knight with a black beard and a long, pointy nose, has been down to the village asking questions—mostly asking who the largest landowner in the area is."

  "And who is?" Dinadan asked. He had had no trouble recognizing Sir Annui from Sir Edmund's description.

  "I am. But I hardly think they'd dare to steal land from a knight, not now that King Arthur's on the throne and we have someone who will enforce the laws."

  Dinadan pursed his lips. "If they did—I mean, if they were to attack here at Gracemoor—could you defend it? How many knights do you have?"

  Sir Edmund laughed easily. "Knights? I don't have any knights. I told you, this has been such a peaceable county for so long, we haven't kept any at all." He glanced at Dinadan, and his laugh died. "You're not serious, are you?"

  "I am," Dinadan said, with sudden resolution. It had all become clear to him. Sir Annui was trying to steal this land and had deceived Lady Miriam in the process. He probably wanted her along to give his intended theft some legitimacy. He was utterly contemptible—first to want to take Sir Edmund's land and second to use such a frail beauty as Lady Miriam for his own dark purposes. "Look here, Sir Edmund, that knight is after your land. See if you can get some of your neighbors together to meet you here, then close your gates and wait. I don't think they can have more than twenty or so men, and as you said, they're not knights, just hired infantry. But don't go anywhere alone if you can help it. He wants you dead."

  Sir Edmund nodded. "And what will you do?"

  "I may be able to stop the whole thing. I need to talk to someone in their camp." If he could just talk privately to Lady Miriam and tell her what was going on, she might know some way to put an end to Sir Annui's plans. Nodding decisively to Sir Edmund, Dinadan turned on his heel and went back to his horse.

  As he rode back over the hill toward Lady Miriam's camp, Dinadan made his plans. He would return by a different route and approach through the woods behind the camp. Leaving his horse in the woods, he would enter the camp on foot and steal up to Lady Miriam's tent from the rear. If all went well, he would find her alone and would be able to speak to h
er before Sir Annui knew he had returned.

  The plan almost worked. Dinadan managed to approach the camp and conceal his horse in the forest unseen. As he crept up to Lady Miriam's tent, though, he heard a murmur of voices from within. Miriam was not alone. Dinadan moved as quietly as he could in armor until he stood right behind the tent, from which position he could clearly hear Sir Annui's voice.

  "How much longer must we await your ridiculous champion?" the knight asked. "You don't really believe that stupid child could actually kill Sir Edmund, do you?" Dinadan bristled. He put one hand on his sword and considered charging Sir Annui at once.

  "Probably not," came Lady Miriam's voice, and she laughed. "But what have we lost by sending him out?" Dinadan froze, his mind reeling. "If he does, by some miracle, kill Sir Edmund, then we can step in as noble avengers and kill the boy. Sir Edmund's land will be available, and no one thinks the worse of us. And, if the child is killed, all it's cost us is a day of waiting. Your problem, dear Annui, is that your mind isn't subtle enough. You just do what I say, and you'll see who's right."

  Dinadan's breast felt hard and heavy. Sir Annui had not been using Lady Miriam for his own ends. If anything, Dinadan realized, it was the other way around.

  "I see one flaw in your plan," Sir Annui replied drily. "What if this child realizes he's been duped by a pretty face and decides to just ride on."

  "I'm not worried," Lady Miriam said. "And if you had seen his silly little besotted face, you wouldn't be either. That boy is one of those ridiculous males who'll spend his whole life falling in love, slave to every woman he meets, despised by every woman who meets him. If he can crawl, he'll come back to grovel at my feet again."

  "And if he does?"

  "Why then, you'll kill him, of course. I've no use for him."

  Dinadan swallowed. For several seconds he wondered what he should do. He considered turning around and riding away, perhaps to join Sir Edmund in defense of Gracemoor. But he could not see how to get away without being seen, and besides, he didn't want to leave his mare and his rebec. On a sudden impulse, he walked around to the front of Lady Miriam's tent and entered. "I have returned!" he declared grandly.

  "Oh, my dear!" Lady Miriam cried, her eyes glowing, "I was so worried! Have you been injured?"

  "No, my lady. I am stronger now than I've ever been."

  "And what of Sir Edmund?" Sir Annui asked ironically. "Is he stronger than ever, too?"

  Dinadan smiled, as an idea came to him. "It was a fight that long shall be retold," he said, lapsing almost unconsciously into the learned cadences of a troubadour. "He smote the trees, and acorns showered forth; the earth and rocks and still I stood my ground. Fleet-footed Edmund, his strength like ten men's might, drew out his sword to cleave me to the heart—"

  "How did he smite the deuced trees if he hadn't drawn his sword yet, child?" Sir Annui asked.

  Dinadan ignored him. "But faster e'en than he, I gripped my blade!" And then Dinadan, with a dramatic flourish, drew his sword. He meant to place the point at Sir Annui's throat, taking him off guard. After that, the plan was a bit hazier. He had a vague idea of forcing Sir Annui to admit his villainy and promise to return to whatever land he had come from. As it turned out, though, when he drew his sword, it knocked over the one lamp that illuminated the dim interior, and they were plunged into darkness. Dinadan saw a movement and heard the unmistakable sound of a sword being unsheathed. Blindly, he raised his own sword in an instinctive defensive movement.

  He never completed the motion. His sword stopped sharply, caught on something, before he could get it fully raised. Panicked, Dinadan jerked on the sword, and it came free. There was no sound. As Dinadan's eyes grew gradually accustomed to the gloom, he could make out the very distinctive figure of Lady Miriam, but he saw no sign of Sir Annui. Lady Miriam stooped, picked up the fallen lamp, and blew gently on the still glowing wick. It caught, and in the growing light, Dinadan saw the knight's form at his feet. It seemed that the thing that his sword had caught on had been Sir Annui's throat. He was unquestionably dead.

  Lady Miriam looked calmly at her dead co-conspirator for a moment, then lifted liquid eyes to Dinadan. "Oh, thank you, my love!" she said breathlessly. "I cannot tell you how that hateful man has tyrannized me and threatened me—with a fate worse than death! But now you've rescued me, and I am yours."

  She stepped close, her hand fluttering to her breast in a very feminine motion. Dinadan saw the light flash on the blade of a tiny dagger, and he lurched backwards. Lady Miriam, her expression suddenly hard and cruel, leaped after him, but her foot caught on Sir Annui's body, and she fell face down. Dinadan backed away, out of reach of the dagger, but she didn't move. She gave a low moan, but still Dinadan stayed well clear. After a long time, reflecting that the armor on his legs ought to give him some protection, Dinadan stepped close enough to turn her over with his foot. She had fallen on her own dagger, which still protruded from her breast. Blood was already pooled on the ground where she had lain. Dinadan pulled the dagger out and threw it aside, looking curiously at the lovely face at his feet.

  Her eyelids flickered, and her lips moved. Dinadan realized that she was trying to say something, and stirred by respect for her sex, or perhaps just for someone who was dying, he leaned close to catch her last words.

  "Oh ... bugger it," she said. Then she died.

  Dinadan told the guards that Lady Miriam and Sir Annui were in counsel and, saddling his mare, left the camp. Once he was away, he took up his rebec and strummed it gently. Sir Edmund had invited him to tell a tale at Gracemoor, and now he had a good one.

  II The Noble Tale of Sir Dinadan

  Dinadan rolled over, stretched, rubbed his eyes, and sat up in the grass. The warm sun that had been so pleasant at noon, after a satisfying lunch, had grown a bit too hot and had awakened him from his nap. Dinadan drank from his water bag, then picked up the rebec, ran the bow pensively over the strings, and sang.

  "Then saw the maiden how her lover fell,

  With mortal wound by Dinadan's sharp sword,

  And, swooning nearly, crumpled by his side.

  Then Miriam prayed unto the gracious Lord

  "To take her soul from her in that same breath.

  Then from a chain she bared a cruel knife

  Held it before her virginal, pure breast

  And with a mighty plunge closed off her life..."

  "No, deuce it," Dinadan muttered. "Not 'closed off.'"

  It was the hardest part of his new poem, the dramatic death of the beautiful Lady Miriam, who, upon seeing her dastardly lover Sir Annui die at the hands of the noble Sir Dinadan, took her own life rather than continue without her true love. It wasn't exactly what had happened, of course, but a tragic suicide made a much more satisfying conclusion to "The Noble Tale of Sir Dinadan" than Lady Miriam's tripping over Sir Annui's corpse and falling on her own blade. Of course, it had not been easy to rewrite the facts to make Lady Miriam a tragic heroine. Dinadan could not think of Lady Miriam without shame and anger. But a tragic heroine made for a better story, so Dinadan had memorialized his enemy as a beautiful victim of love, and for his own relief and amusement had written a spiteful poem about women in general.

  The "Noble Tale" had been well received when he sang it to Sir Edmund Grace and his neighbors, even though the poem was then still in very rough form. He had worked on it off and on for the two weeks he had stayed at Gracemoor, and polished the language considerably, but there were still parts that needed work.

  He set aside the rebec and loaded his gear onto the horses, being careful to disguise his armor with a thick blanket. It was less complicated to be a wandering gentleman than a questing knight, who might be expected to fight someone. Since leaving Sir Edmund, he had been having a splendid time traveling incognito. He had ridden alone through the forest, singing to himself, had kept company for a while with a troupe of actors, had eaten simple meals with peasant families, and had carefully avoided every female he could.

>   When he finished loading, Dinadan mounted and rode off. Before long, he came upon a well-beaten road, upon which a line of carts and oxen and country people with bundles marched. Interested, Dinadan rode alongside a thick-set farmer who had a basket of chickens on his shoulder. "Here now, fellow, what's to do?"

  The farmer looked up at him, a bit apprehensively, but when he had looked into Dinadan's face, his own expression relaxed. "Market day in T'village."

  Dinadan smiled widely. "Market day! Sounds fun! What do you do?"

  The farmer now gazed at Dinadan with amazement. "'Aven't you been to a market day? I did think you was a minstrel, what with your tune-box there. You ain't a knight, are you?"

  Dinadan laughed easily. "Do I look like a knight?"

  "Nay. I thought you might be, at first, when I seed you with them two flash 'orses, but then I looked at you and knew you wasn't. Too friendly like. But then, ain't you a minstrel?"

  Dinadan hesitated, then said, "Yes, I am, but I'm only starting out. I've never been to a market day. What should I do?"

  The man seemed to accept this explanation and was happy to describe the event at length, especially after Dinadan told him to heave the basket of chickens onto his spare horse and gave him a drink from his water bag. The farmer recommended that Dinadan take a place near an alehouse and begin singing. "That's where we all go after we sell our wares," the man said confidingly. "And when we gets there, we all 'as a bit of coin. I've tossed a few coppers to minstrels myself, but only if they suit me, mind you. A bad minstrel starves even faster than a bad farmer."

  Dinadan actually had plenty of money, having taken from his home everything of value that he could easily carry, but he was struck with a sudden desire to see if he was a good enough minstrel to make his own way in the world. It was a challenge, the first he had ever cared enough about to accept.

  They rode into the village, which seemed not to have a name but to be called universally just "T'village," and Dinadan located the alehouse at once. It was a large building on the square where a man in bright clothing was already playing a rebec and telling a tale. Disappointed that he had been beaten to the best spot, but nevertheless intensely interested, Dinadan tied his horses to a tree at the far edge of the square and took his own rebec over to the alehouse to listen.