The Knight With Two Swords

by Edward M. Erdelac

  He balked and turned away, but Dagonet took him by the arm.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I am not fit for this honor,” Balin whispered. “Look at the state of me.”

  “As the least in rank, I am the last to swear,” Dagonet said. “If you follow me, there will be no offense. You will be taken as the first of the petitions, but offer your vow. Either Arthur will hear it, or he will return you to the dungeon.”

  Balin shook his head.

  Dagonet gripped his shoulder. “Courage, man.”

  “I don’t even have my sword.”

  “Here,” Dagonet said, drawing his own and pushing it into Balin’s hands. “Take mine.”

  Balin bit his lip and slowly advanced to the throne with Dagonet as each of the knights swore their oath and adjourned to either side of the hall with their ladies. Balin, envied them their dignity. He saw Sir Bedivere, grim as a statue, standing alone, perhaps as uncomfortable in the midst of all this pomp and ceremony as he was. He saw Sir Ector and Sir Kay, closest to Arthur, and Sir Lucan, in velvet robes of state. None of them looked on him, their one-time companion. His eyes lingered on a beautiful girl in a green and gold dress, a thin, willowy damsel with skin like crushed strawberries in a pail of milk and hair like curling corn silk. She met his gaze and whispered something to the knight at her side. Chagrined, Balin saw it was Lanceor, and he caught his mocking grin before he looked away. He squeezed the hilt of Dagonet’s sword in his sweating fists.

  He strained to hear the knights’ oaths. Though the tenets were the same, in the end, each man swore by God or by Avalon, or by whichever pagan deity seemed to strike his fancy. Of these latter, he knew their promises were not binding, and even if he did not hear their names, he marked well their faces and blazons.

  The time came for Dagonet to take his knee, and Balin was left alone, feeling naked. He kept his head bowed as Dagonet sauntered up to the throne and did a short turn, smiling broadly, to the appreciative chuckles of the men and women of the court.

  “How now,” said Arthur. “Which knight has come last? Is it my worst, or my greatest?”

  “That remains to be seen, sire,” Dagonet called back. “What quality of a knight do you treasure most? If it be truth, then your highness, I am your greatest man. If it be strength at arms…” he scratched his head, rolling his eyes comically. “Well…”

  The hall rippled with laughter.

  “So I see.” Arthur smiled, leaning forward. “Have you come to swear your fealty upon an empty scabbard?”

  Dagonet stiffened and grabbed the scabbard hanging from his belt. He shook it, squeezed it in increments, and held it open with his two fingers, peering into it, then turned in circles looking left and right in an exaggerated pantomime that made the room resound with laughter.

  Then, he opened his eyes and mouth wide and held up one finger as though he’d remembered, and turned to Balin, snatching the sword from his hands in mock anger and shaking his fist. If any had wondered at the dirty, wild figure accompanying Dagonet before, they now dismissed him as some beggar Dagonet had taken along as a component of his joking.

  Dagonet turned back to Arthur, twirled the sword in his hand, and dropped it with a resounding crash on the marble. “Sorry, sorry!” he said, addressing the smiling men and women in turn. He snatched up the sword, then went to his knee and bowed his head.

  Even the King laughed. Balin did not. It was shameful to profane such a solemn ceremony with base humor.

  When the crowd’s hilarity showed no signs of dying down, Dagonet raised his head and glared at them. He raised his hand for silence, and the laughter gradually ceased. Then, he lowered his head once more.

  “Are you…?” Arthur began.

  Dagonet cut him off with a prolonged crack of flatulent wind that sounded like a ship’s canvas sail tearing slowly down the middle. He leaned sideways as it went on.

  The windows of the hall rattled with the boom of laughter, and several of the gathered knights doubled over. Even the prim ladies could not hide their unrestrained braying behind their hands. The line of petitioners waiting in the doorway guffawed also…all but two, who remained conspicuously prim.

  Balin’s face reddened.

  King Arthur held his face in his hands in an attempt to maintain dignity, then finally regained his composure and raised his hands for silence.

  “Now then, Sir Dagonet, are you quite ready?”

  “I am, my lord,” Dagonet said, head still bowed, as if nothing had happened, and he raised the hilt of his sword and swore, “I, Sir Dagonet of Caerleon, swear never to do murder, and always to flee…” he pretended to remember, the effect eliciting more laughter, “…treason and falsehood, by no means to be cruel, but to give mercy unto him that asketh mercy, and always to do ladies, damsels, and gentlewomen…succor. This I do swear by the living God, upon pain of forfeiture of my worship and lordship of the High King Arthur for evermore. Et cetera, et alii, et alibi.”

  King Arthur sighed almost in relief that the lengthy oath was concluded.

  “Rise, Sir Dagonet of Caerleon,” he intoned. “And now…”

  Dagonet held up his hand. “A moment, King Arthur,” Dagonet said. “I have a gift for you on this holy occasion.”

  “A gift?” Arthur smirked, putting his chin on his fist. “That is not our custom.”

  “Then may I institute the custom?” Dagonet announced.

  “Very well. What is your gift?”

  “I bring you a treasure I discovered buried beneath Castle Bedegraine.”

  “Such a treasure would rightfully belong to Leodegrance, as Bedegraine is within his lands.”

  “Ah, but this treasure you placed in Bedegraine yourself for safekeeping.”

  Arthur looked confused.

  Balin wished the floor would crack open beneath his feet. It seemed as though he was to be the butt of one of Dagonet’s jokes, nothing more. Yet he stood. What else could he do? He had faced death, a tide of bloodied steel, leveled lances and hurtling armored horses. That had been easier. He felt like a sinner naked at the foot of the cross.

  “If this is a riddle you have me puzzled, Sir Dagonet. Speak plain.”

  “I will let the treasure speak for itself,” said Dagonet. He turned to Balin and gestured for him to step forward.

  It was as though Balin’s feet were nailed to the floor, it took such an effort to approach those steps. Yet to find his voice, that was too much. He could not even look at Arthur.

  “Sir Dagonet, who is this man?”

  That cut him deeper than any reproach. He raised his eyes to Arthur.

  “It is I, my lord. Balin of Northumberland.”

  Arthur blinked, as if the name meant nothing to him, but as realization dawned across his face, he rose from his seat and towered over him.

  “Sir Balin,” Arthur said, murmuring his name as if it were not a fit word to be spoken aloud in the court.

  There was muttering among the gathered. Many had no idea who he was, and those who did, swiftly spread the account of his offense.

  “I pride myself on the sense of humor my fool has engendered in me,” said Arthur grimly, looking to Dagonet now. “But I must admit this jest has missed its mark.”

  “As well it should. It is no jest, your highness,” said Dagonet. “You asked if the worst or greatest of your knights had come last. Here he stands. At force of arms, at your side at the battle of Bedegraine, he was the greatest. No knight here who values truth as a true knight should, can say otherwise.”

  There were heated whispers again at that, and Balin glanced at the angry faces who didn’t know him. Lanceor’s scowled.

  Looking for any sympathetic face, Balin at last met the eyes of Sir Bedivere, whom he had bled at Aneblayse. Bedivere nodded to him in acknowledgement.

  It was enough. Tears brimmed hotly in his eyes.

  “And as to truth, he came to you red-handed with his offense, when there was no one to keep him from fleeing unseen into the woods
he knows so well,” said Dagonet. “No sire, the jest is your own. You have kept your greatest knight in a dungeon for a joke.” He laughed, but no one laughed with him. “But a good fool knows when his jest has run its course.”

  Arthur glared at Dagonet, and Balin was aghast at the implication, but the king’s face softened and he smiled.

  “Do you call your king a fool, Sir Dagonet?”

  “A good fool calls out the folly in every man, sire. The High King should expect nothing less from his own fool,” said Dagonet, bowing low.

  “Well said.”

  Arthur looked on Balin again.

  Balin wiped his eyes with his filthy sleeves. “Sire, may I speak?”

  “You may.”

  “In a moment of anger, I offended your Highness, who is more dear to me than my life. If I cannot serve you now as a knight, only grant me whatever duty is fit me. I beg you not to cast aside my loyalty entirely.”

  Arthur’s eyes shined. Whether he had been moved by Balin’s entreaty or by the memory of his murdered cousin, Balin didn’t know. He only knew that Arthur’s next words would save him or damn him.

  “Take Sir Dagonet’s sword and make your oath, Sir Balin.”

  His heart swelled to bursting as Dagonet stepped toward him, and the tears coursed down his cheeks, but Balin hesitated.

  It didn’t seem correct to him to swear fealty on another knight’s sword, yet he didn’t know where his had gotten to. Perhaps this was a sign that his penance was not yet finished. The face of Culwych dead on his spear flashed in his mind, and he held up his hand. “No, sire. I will swear on my own sword or not at all.”

  “Don’t begrudge a fool’s sword, Sir Balin,” Dagonet whispered.

  He fell to both knees, like a supplicant, and touched his head to the floor. “Nor will I spend any more of your precious time while I find where mine has been laid. I ask again, grant me some lesser duty. Let me earn the right to swear by a sword to you.”

  Arthur looked deep in thought as he sat back down. “Very well, Sir Balin. This day, as penance, serve the knights of my hall. Give them food and drink and whatever they ask. In that way, you serve me.”

  It was a humble task, humiliating even, but Balin welcomed it.

  “Thank you, sire,” he murmured into the cool floor.

  Sir Dagonet helped him to his feet and led him aside.

  “I owe you thanks, too, sir,” said Balin, grasping his hand. “I mistook you greatly. I do not know how I can ever repay your kindness.”

  “No, Sir Balin, you have seen me for what I am from the start,” he said, smiling thinly. “Now be off to the kitchen and bring me a goblet of wine, and we shall be settled.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Sir Lucan directed Balin to the chief steward, a balding old man named Granger, who led him on a whirlwind tour of the bustling great kitchen. This cacophonous chamber of clinking crocks and hissing gravies went unheard in the serene chamber of the throne. Its sweaty denizens were as unaware of the weighty pronouncements outside as the king himself was of its many petty dramas, its spills and burns and undercookings, all of which secured the red-faced, trembling wrath of the screaming head chef, a man so gaunt that it seemed impossible to Balin that he had any practical experience with food himself. The place was a maelstrom, as loud and confusing as any battle, and Balin felt anxious passing through the bustling servants. They moved with such alacrity through such chaos that he worried he had volunteered himself for a duty which he lacked the coordination to perform.

  Granger took Balin to a station where a harried looking dwarf called Barnock thrust a platter of wine goblets at him, not even looking up at him.

  “Take these to Sir Lanceor and Princess Colombe, then come back for more.”

  He waddled off to a barrel tap to fill more empty cups.

  Balin rankled at this first duty, serving a cad like Lanceor, but said nothing. It was a fitting penance. He carried the tray carefully through the kitchen back into the throne room, excusing himself to the milling people and guarding his charge from a spilling.

  The petitions had begun. An elder knight with a rich marten fur cloak draped over his dented, spiked armor stood before the king. He had a cruel, hard countenance, and the brushy white eyebrow over his right eye was cleft by a scar that ran like a river from his snowy scalp. His close-trimmed white beard was partially obscured by the sweep of his bevor. Mud covered his greaves and spurs, as though he had just ridden here.

  “King Arthur, I am a messenger from the court of King Rience of Snowdonia and Norgales,” he rumbled.

  Balin stopped still and looked. Rience. The strongest of the rebel kings.

  Arthur knew him, too, and straightened in his high seat.

  “King Rience. We’ve not heard from him in two years. What message do you bring?”

  “Only this,” said the ambassador with an orgulous air, putting one muddy foot on the bottom step of the dais with a heavy clank. “My Master attests that of King Arthur’s enemies, Aguysans, including the captain of his Hundred Knights, Sir Morganore, are no more, and that King Cradelment of North Wales and Idres of Cornwall also have fallen to his sword.”

  That was good news. Was it possible Rience had at last recognized the authority of the High King, and had sent this knight to tell of his accomplishments, to treat for reconcilement?

  “Brandegoris of Stranggore,” the knight went on, “Clarivaunce of Northumberland, Nentres, Carados, Pinel, Eustace of Cambenet, and Lot of Orkney have all yielded their crowns and their beards.”

  So Clarivaunce had surrendered Northumberland to Rience. He wondered how many knights he had known had perished, or if Clarivaunce had even put up a fight.

  “Their beards?” Arthur repeated.

  “Aye,” said the knight, without a hint of deference. “It is King Rience’s pleasure to trim his mantle with the beards of his defeated foes.”

  Three knights rose at the mention of Lot. Balin had seen one of them give his oath earlier to Avalon and knew him to be Gawaine, the eldest of the king of Orkney’s sons, a black-eyed brute whose flesh was marred by the blue woads of the pagans. The other two then were his younger brothers, Agravaine and Gaheris.

  The old knight went on, unconcerned. “As to your servant kings, Pellinore and Pellam are little more than soft-bellied monks, and Uriens and Leodegrance are bare-faced weaklings. Your own beard is but half grown but will likely complete the trim when my lord comes marching across your kingdom to collect it.”

  Many stepped forward with strangled oaths at the affront to Arthur. Even the hall guards leveled their halberds and glowered.

  Rience’s knight appeared unconcerned, however, and kept his eyes affixed to the king’s.

  “King Rience sends word that if one of your servants will provide a mirror and razor, you might avoid the fire to come by sending your whiskers home with me.”

  Balin nearly flung his tray at the head of the old knight and charged him. He looked to Arthur and was grieved to see the young king’s fingers clench at the arms of his throne. His right hand crept toward the pommel of Excalibur, and Balin inwardly urged him to answer the insult with that sharpest of blades.

  Gawaine could not be silent. “Sire, let me send this old villain’s head back to Rience in answer!”

  Arthur’s hands relaxed, and he sat back. “No, Sir Gawaine. Be still.” To the knight, he said, “It is well for you that you come speaking another man’s words.”

  The old knight gave no reply.

  “You have delivered your message,” Arthur continued evenly. “Now you will take back my reply. If ever King Rience comes into this hall, it shall be on his knees, else his own beard and the head it dangles from shall be forfeit.”

  The knight raised his eyebrows.

  “If you hold that sword as well as you hold your temper,” he said, “perhaps there will be a contest after all.”

  He turned to leave.

  “What is your name, sir knight?” Arthur called after him.<
br />
  “Segurant The Brown,” said the knight, pausing to look back.

  “The Knight of the Dragon!” someone exclaimed.

  The dragonslayer. Greatest of Uther’s Table. Had he been a squire again, seeing Segurant The Brown in the flesh would have sent Balin’s mind wheeling. The scar over his eye must be his mark of courage. In the barbaric days of Uther, the king had permitted no knight to sit at his table who did not bear some mark or battle wound on his face. But why did this renowned champion who had served Arthur’s own father treat him with such disrespect?

  “You served my father,” Arthur echoed.

  “I served the High King Uther Pendragon,” Segurant affirmed.

  “Why do you dishonor his memory by fighting for a barbarian like Rience?” Arthur asked.

  “Mark you, King Arthur,” said Segurant. “Uther served the Lady of The Lake, and we rode beneath his dragon banner, not the cross. No true son of his would kneel before the crucified god.”

  “I am of a mind that every god is God,” Arthur answered.

  “That is why you will remain forever beardless,” Segurant said and walked out of the hall.

  The guards crossed their polearms to prevent his exit and he stopped.

  Arthur shook his head. “Let him go.”

  They put up their halberds and Segurant departed. The court listened to the rattle and clank of his harness and sword until it diminished.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A hand gripped Balin’s elbow and he turned to see the scowling, clean shaven face of Sir Lanceor inches from his nose.

  “Well?” He hissed. “Do you begin your penance by leaving a prince and his lady thirsting, you ungracious ragamuffin?”

  Balin blinked and looking past Lanceor saw Princess Colombe waiting. She averted her eyes, and her cheeks colored, but he could not tell if she was embarrassed by his staring or by her lover’s boorish behavior.

  Balin could find no words. He was still too furious at the insult to Arthur and yet confused by his admiration for Segurant’s reputation to formulate any sincere apology. He feared if he spoke he might say something untoward. He carried the tray over and mutely offered it first to Princess Colombe, who curtsied as she took it, and next to Lanceor, who glared at him over the rim of the cup as he promptly tipped it back.