The Ballad of Sir Dinadan

by Gerald Morris

  "No."

  Bedivere stared. "Well, haven't you ever felt even the least bit guilty about leaving the boy the way we did?"

  "Not the least bit."

  "Well, I have. Oh, I know it was the right thing to do, but I can't help thinking he might have been done years before this if we'd stayed with him. So you won't do it for Culloch?"

  "No."

  "How about for me? I don't want to go back there alone."

  Dinadan looked at Bedivere for a long time. Finally he sighed. "The problem with being friends with a silly ass is that sometimes you end up doing silly things with him."

  Bedivere smiled with sympathy. "Maybe it won't be so bad," he said hopefully.

  Of course the wedding was as bad as anyone could have imagined, and worse. It began with two weeks of nightly feasting, which to their immense gratification Bedivere and Dinadan missed. They arrived the day before the wedding, to be greeted by a gruff Isbaddadon and an excited Culloch. It didn't take long though to see that Culloch's excitement related not to the next day's wedding but to that evening's final feast. "Izzie is having all the men dress in black! Get it? As if it's a funeral instead of a wedding! Isn't that the funniest thing you've ever heard?" Then he laughed loudly and explained the joke to them all over again.

  Bedivere and Dinadan chose not to attend these revels. As a result, they were the only two clear-eyed males present at the wedding the next morning. Being alert had its drawbacks, though. When it was time for the wedding to begin, and still no one had seen Culloch, it was Dinadan and Bedivere who ended up rousting the groom out of bed, splashing him down with cold water, dressing him in the best clothes they could find for him, then supporting him during the ceremony itself, which began all of two hours after it had been scheduled. By that time, at the altar, Lady Olwen was ready to spit fire, and even Isbaddadon, hardly in better shape than Culloch, was looking angry.

  The priest intoned a long speech in words that sounded vaguely like Latin but weren't ("Pure gibberish," Bedivere said later. "Fellow probably couldn't say more than two Latin words to save his life"), then switched to English to ask if Culloch took this lady to be his wife. Culloch answered with a faint snore. He had fallen asleep on his feet, leaning against Dinadan and Bedivere.

  "You clodhead!" screamed Olwen. She drew back her left arm, made a very unladylike fist, and belted Culloch in the nose. "You drunken blot! You pig-faced, foul-smelling offal!"

  Culloch rocked backwards, and Dinadan and Bedivere had to brace themselves to hold him up. King Is-baddadon clutched his head with both hands. "Yes, my love," he said, "but do you need to yell?"

  "You, too!" Olwen shrieked. She tried to hit her father with the other fist, but that hand was holding a bouquet, and all she managed to do was shove a handful of flowers up the king's nose. With a squawk like a turkey pullet, Olwen threw down what was left of the bouquet and stomped away.

  Everyone was silent for a moment. Then the priest looked timidly at the king. "Well then, I suppose it's off?"

  Isbaddadon turned red. "Off? I should say not! My boy Culloch here has worked for three years and more for this! Am I Olwen's father or not? Am I king or not? On with the wedding!"

  Dinadan and Bedivere glanced at each other in astonishment, and the priest gasped. "But, without the bride—"

  "I'll answer for her!" the king declared. "Where were you? Oh, yes. 'Do you take this woman?' All right. She does!"

  "Oh ... ah ... well then, Culloch, do you ... um?"

  Culloch hiccuped and started to sag, so Isbaddadon stepped in for him, too. "He does!"

  "Well then, I—dear me, I've lost my place—oh, I pronounce you ... er ... man and wife."

  The assembled guests gave a half-hearted cheer that died quickly. Dinadan glanced at Bedivere again, then shrugged and gave Culloch a push toward Isbaddadon. "Go ahead, lad. Kiss the bride. You coming, Bedivere?"

  The two knights left Culloch in Isbaddadon's arms and strode firmly away. They didn't speak until they had saddled their horses and left Isbaddadon's castle behind them. Finally, Bedivere took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said, "Sorry I talked you into coming, Dinadan. That was appalling. I've never seen the like."

  "I was at a knighting ceremony a bit like that once," Dinadan replied. "Doesn't make it any less profane." After a moment he added, "On the bright side, the couple seems very well suited, don't you think?"

  "Culloch and Isbad? Ay, they could have been made for each other."

  "At any rate, they deserve each other." Dinadan made a face. "Love! The whole business is insane."

  Bedivere glanced at Dinadan curiously. "Have you never met anyone you loved?"

  "Don't think so. And it's something I'd remember, isn't it?"

  "One would think," Bedivere said, his eyes still on Dinadan. "You know. I looked about the crowd at the wedding, but I never saw that lady we brought there that first day. What was her name?"

  "Brangienne," Dinadan replied. "She's not there anymore." He grinned. "That may be the only good thing about that farce back there. It'll make a great story to tell Brangienne."

  "Then you know where she is?"

  "Oh, yes. She's well away from that madhouse, in a secret place."

  Bedivere looked a question, but Dinadan avoided his eyes. He had already betrayed Brangienne's location by one careless comment, and he would not do it again. At length, Bedivere said, "You know, I had always thought that you and Brangienne were kindred souls."

  Dinadan laughed. "We are, a bit, but how you could tell that from our first meeting is a wonder. You remember how we quarreled. For years, I thought she hated me."

  "But she doesn't?"

  "Oh, no."

  "And you? How do you feel about her?"

  Slowly, Dinadan turned to look at Bedivere. "You mean ... you thought...? Oh no, Bedivere. There's been no talk of that sort of thing. No, really!"

  "I see. Then she loves someone else?"

  Dinadan almost laughed, remembering where Brangienne was. "No, I really don't think so," he replied.

  Bedivere raised his eyebrows. "But you've not ever considered marrying her?"

  "No, never."

  "And has she ever considered marrying you?"

  Dinadan blinked. "Now, how would I know that?"

  Bedivere's voice was gentle. "By asking yourself if she has ever shown any interest in anyone but you. By asking yourself if perhaps the reason she has never married anyone else is because she loves you. By asking yourself how you would feel if she married someone else."

  Dinadan's mind whirled, but he didn't speak.

  "You say," Bedivere continued, "that Brangienne is in hiding. Why is that?"

  "Oh," Dinadan replied, glad to have a question he could answer. "There is a powerful woman—never mind who it is—who won't rest until Brangienne's dead. The same one who sent those soldiers the time we first met her."

  "Ah, so you're hoping this woman will come to think that Brangienne has already died?"

  "No, not exactly. We just..." Dinadan trailed off. "But that's brilliant, Bedivere! All we have to do is convince her that Brangienne is dead, and she can have her life back! I don't know why I didn't think of that before! Thank you!"

  Bedivere grinned. "I take it you're leaving me now?"

  "Nothing personal, of course. It's just that now I know how to wrap this whole business up. You don't mind, do you?"

  "Not at all. But Dinadan? Think about what I said, won't you?"

  Dinadan nodded briefly—as if he could help thinking about it now that it had been spoken!—and wheeled his horse. He had to go one more time to Cornwall.

  XII A Song for a Lady

  When Dinadan got to Cornwall, he made a wide circle around Tintagel and rode straight to the "Love Grotto," coming at it from the opposite direction. The hideaway was so well concealed that it took a few hours to locate it again, but at last he looked over the edge of the cliffs into Tristram and Iseult's retreat.

  It was a mess. The furniture had
been smashed, the carpets torn to bits, and all had been burned. The candlesticks and plates had been pounded into metal lumps and left to char in the fire. The painted words "Love Grotto" had been smashed off of the rock with a hammer. Brangienne had been right. They had not remained hidden long.

  Dinadan climbed down the rocks and examined the room more closely. The fire was cold, and the ashes had been matted down by rain, from which Dinadan deduced that this had happened at least several days before. He found no bodies, though, or any other sign that the lovers had been destroyed along with their furnishings. He turned back to the wall to climb back to his horses and had taken his first step up when he heard a whisper of sound behind him. He started to turn, but he was too late. A powerful hand closed over his mouth, keeping him from making a noise. Strong arms pulled him back to the ground, and a sharp point pricked the skin just below his right ear.

  "Who are you?" came a hoarse whisper. Dinadan tried to answer, but the hand over his mouth muffled his voice. "What? Speak up!" the whisper demanded.

  It had to be Tristram. With an effort, Dinadan opened his mouth enough that he could nip the hand with his teeth. The hand jerked away for a second, and Dinadan said quickly, "I can't answer if you cover my mouth!"

  "Oh." The arms relaxed and let Dinadan turn around, but the sharp point stayed at his throat. It was Tristram, all right, wielding a sharpened stick as a weapon. He wore about a weeks' worth of beard, and his eyes were as mad as they had ever been.

  "It's me. Dinadan."

  "Do I know you?" Tristram asked suspiciously.

  "You never have," Dinadan replied. "But I know you all the same. What happened here? Was it Mark's soldiers? Where's Iseult?"

  Tristram tensed and grasped his stick with both hands. "How do you know about Iseult and me? For I've spoken to no one. I've taken a vow of—"

  Dinadan slapped away the sharp stick and snapped angrily at his brother. "Shut up! Do you hear me? Shut up, I say! Enough of this nonsense about a vow of silence. You flickerwick! Everyone in England knows that you and Iseult are having an affair, and do you know something? No one cares! The two of you are excessively boring, and no one is interested anymore except King Mark himself, and that's because he's as stupid as you are. Now put down that stick at once!"

  Tristram let go of his stick, and for a moment his eyes seemed less glazed. "Dinadan?"

  "Yes, Dinadan. Your brother."

  "My brother?"

  "Yes, you ass. Now answer my question. What happened here?"

  Tristram sat down amid the rubble and began to sob. Dinadan sat, too, and let him cry for a while, then asked again. Finally, Tristram was able to tell him what he knew. Tristram had been out hunting—they had run out of food, as Brangienne had predicted—when King Mark's soldiers came and took Iseult. Tristram had heard the screams and had run to help, but by the time he arrived they were already galloping away on horses. The next day, King Mark had come back to the place himself, with all his soldiers, and they had methodically destroyed everything they could find. Tristram had watched them begin from a hiding place in the rocks, but had slipped away almost at once, hoping to rescue Iseult from Tintagel while the soldiers were busy.

  "But it was no use," Tristram said. "Mark has her locked up in the highest tower room, and she is never permitted to leave it. I found a way to climb over the outer walls of the castle, but I couldn't climb the tower to her. Finally, she sent me away before Mark could return. I've been living in the woods ever since. Can you help me, Dinadan?"

  Dinadan shook his head. "Not if you mean help you free Iseult. But I have some food with my horses. Come on, I'll give you something to eat."

  They left the ruined grotto and climbed together back to the clearing where Dinadan's horses were. They made camp and ate together, and then Tristram rolled over and began sleeping fitfully. Dinadan watched him across the fire and wondered what to do. Once again, he was caught up in someone else's troubles. He had come intending to tell Iseult, with a great show of solicitude, that her beloved former lady-in-waiting Brangienne had died, so that Iseult would put her out of her mind, but now that hardly seemed worth doing. Iseult had problems of her own. Nevertheless, by trying to help one person, Dinadan had ended up embroiled in the ridiculous affairs of others. It was the story of his life.

  He went to sleep that night still unsure about what to do next. He couldn't leave Tristram alone and mad in the forest and just ride away, but he could see no way to resolve Tristram's and Iseult's problems either. So it was with considerable relief that he awoke the next morning and discovered that Tristram had left him during the night. Dinadan smiled. There was nothing in his code of honor against allowing Tristram to leave him. Dinadan saddled his horses and gathered his gear, and then saw something that ruined his mood entirely. Thomas's lyre was missing.

  Half an hour later, Dinadan rode up to the main gate of Tintagel Castle. Two guards with wicked-looking halberds—eight-foot long battleaxes with sharp points at the ends—stood there watching his approach. "Halt and state your business!" one said.

  "He's all right," replied the other guard. "He's the minstrel fellow who took away the other chap's lyre. Remember?"

  The first guard nodded, but he said, "We 'ave our orders, anyway. We're to send for the king as soon as anyone comes to the gate. You! Minstrel! You stay here while I fetch King Mark."

  As soon as the first guard had left, Dinadan turned to the one who had recognized him. "It's been busy about here, hasn't it?"

  "You've heard, then?"

  "Yes. The minstrel Tramtris ran away with Queen Iseult, didn't he?"

  "Huh! 'Tramtris' indeed. Sir Tristram is who it was, as everyone figured out when he took off with the queen. She's back, now."

  "And what about Tristram?" Dinadan asked casually. "Have you seen him?"

  The guard barked with laughter. "Not likely, is it? He'd have to be mad to show his face around here again."

  "True," Dinadan said. "Very true."

  King Mark must have been nearby, because at that moment he and the first guard appeared. "What do you want, sirrah?" Mark demanded.

  Dinadan decided to be blunt and honest. "Same thing as last time," he said. "Tristram stole my lyre again, and I've come to get it back."

  "Well, he's not here," Mark said.

  "He will be," Dinadan replied. "And he doesn't need the gate. He's found a way over the wall."

  Mark laughed and repeated what the guard had just said. "He'd have to be mad."

  "He is," Dinadan said calmly. "May I come in and wait for him?"

  "No!" Mark snapped. "No one comes in! Maybe you're after my wife, too? Eh? What do you say to that?"

  Dinadan looked into Mark's eyes and saw in them as much madness as he had ever seen in Tristram's. "I couldn't begin to say—" he began. But he got no further. From across the courtyard, from the base of the tallest tower of the castle, came the unmistakable sound of a lyre.

  Mark's eyes widened, and he made a strangled sound in his throat as they all looked across the yard. There was Tristram, his back to the gate, blithely strumming on Thomas the Rhymer's lyre. Mark growled, like a wounded dog, and grabbed one of the guards' halberds.

  "No!" Dinadan shouted. He reached out to grab Mark, but the closed gate was between them. Mark pointed the halberd at Tristram's back and began running. Dinadan shouted urgently, "Stop, Mark! Tristram! Turn around!"

  At the topmost window of the tower, Iseult appeared. She saw Tristram, then saw Mark charging him. She screamed and leaned out the window. "Stop! No! My love!"

  The halberd took Tristram square in the center of the back. He made no noise, but simply sprawled forward, apparently dead before he hit the paving stones. Iseult screamed again and clutched at the air, and then her scream of grief changed to one of fear as she overbalanced and fell. She landed with a thump at King Mark's feet, and then all was quiet. Mark stared at Tristram's body, then at Iseult's, and then he fell forward in a faint.

  Dinadan and the guards
stared, unmoving, at the little heap of bodies across the court. At last the friendly guard said, "Would you like me to fetch your lyre for you, sir?"

  Dinadan shook his head. "Bury it with Tristram," he said. Then he turned and rode away.

  Mother Priscilla greeted Dinadan with a warm smile. "I knew you would return," she said, "but I did not think it would be so soon."

  "I didn't plan to be back so soon myself," Dinadan replied. "But I've something to tell Brangienne that's rather important,"

  Mother Priscilla nodded. "I will send for her at once. Come out to the garden. Would you care for a glass of our own blackberry wine while you wait?"

  Dinadan accepted the wine and went to the convent garden, where he sat on a rough wooden bench. A minute later, Brangienne appeared, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. "Dinadan! What brings you back so soon?"

  "Several things," he replied. "It's been a busy fortnight since I was here last."

  "Why? What's happened?"

  Dinadan licked his lips and hesitated. "Why don't you go first? Tell me about your life here. Last time all we did was talk about my affairs."

  Brangienne looked acutely at Dinadan's face, but she said, "Very well," and began to tell Dinadan about life at the convent. She described the very ordinary routine, the hours of solitude, the hours of working alongside all her friends there, and the sense of peace that had grown inside her. "Perhaps you had not noticed," she said, "but I was not always very peaceful before I came here."

  "Really?" Dinadan said politely.

  "I was angry at everyone, I think. Knights, ladies, kings, lovers, men, women—have I left anyone out?"

  "No, that should cover it. But you aren't angry now?"

  Brangienne's lips quivered. "Not ... not usually. There are a few of the sisters who are, shall we say, irritants. They are good hearted enough, just not extremely clever, and sometimes I do need to say an extra prayer for patience. But no, I don't live with anger anymore."

  "That's good," Dinadan said, for lack of anything else to say.

  "Now, suppose we get on with what you came here for. What has happened that sent you back her to see me so soon?"