“A boon, Sir Knight,” she said in a harsh, croaking voice. “I crave a boon!”
“I am not a knight,” said Brian. “I am only a squire. But if it lies within my power to grant what you wish, I shall.”
“Do you pledge me your word on that?”
“I have said so, madam. Knight or squire, I keep my promises.”
“Then I would go with you on your quest.”
“What? How do you know that we are on a quest?”
“I know many things that are hidden from others,” she said, grinning. “As you will discover.”
“But …” Brian turned to Tertius who had ridden up beside him and was studying the old woman. “What shall we do?”
“In the first place, foolishly or not, you gave your word. And in the second place, it’s not uncommon for a helper to appear at the beginning of a quest.”
“A helper?”
“You’ll find them all through folklore.” Then, as Brian looked at the old crone again, “I should not have to tell you that all that is white is not milk nor all that is dark, evil.”
“That may be so,” said Brian. “But we’re not going maying or on a pilgrimage where we can sleep soft in inns. Our way will be long and hard.”
“It could well be longer and harder without her.”
“I was not thinking of us, but of her.”
“Her age? Old oak is tougher than green. I doubt that she’ll prove a burden. If she does, we can always find some place to leave her.”
Still Brian hesitated. Then, “Very well, madam,” he said. “You may come with us.”
Her eyes gleamed. “Since it’s not my custom to thank any man for anything,” she said, “I will not thank you. But you should thank your friend. For it would have gone ill with you if you had refused me.”
Putting her fingers to her lips, she whistled shrilly and a great, rawboned, sulphur-yellow mare came cantering out of the murk. Seizing the reins, the crone swung up into the saddle more like a young girl than an old woman. “I am Brian of Caercorbin, madam. And this …”
“I know your names, your quest, everything about you,” she said.
“But we know nothing about you. What shall we call you?”
“Maudite,” she said.
“But doesn’t that mean …?” He looked at Tertius, who nodded.
“Yes. Accursed, wretched, ill-favored.”
“I shall never call you that,” said Brian firmly. “I shall call you Maude.”
“My, but our skin is thin,” she said mockingly. “Call me what you like.”
She fell in beside him as he touched Gaillard with his heels, and they rode in silence till they reached the ford. The mist was even thicker there, lying in eddying coils on the river’s face. It was so thick that they could not see the further bank, but over the soft rush and murmur of the water they could hear the clank of metal as the Black Knight’s men-at-arms walked back and forth on patrol.
Tertius and Maude started forward, but Brian said, “Wait,” and, as they looked at him, surprised, “we cannot cross here.”
“You need not fear the Black Knight,” said Maude. “He keeps to his eyrie and only flies at noble game. While his guards will question us and may charge us toll, they will not turn us back.”
“That is why I will not cross here,” said Brian. “If I could win my way through by force of arms, I would. But I will not pay toll to anyone or ask any man’s leave to go where I choose.”
“Hoity-toity,” said Maude. “Not just thin-skinned, but high and mighty, too. Then your quest is over before it’s begun. For there is no other ford, no other way through the forest.”
“But there is,” said a voice behind them. They turned. There on the bank, shrouded in mist, stood a tall figure. Even if he had not been leaning on a bow, they would have known him.
“You remind me,” said Brian, “of the great Boar of Arvon who could not be found when he was hunted, but only appeared when he was not expected.”
“He lived longer that way,” said Hugh, “and I hope to do so also.” Then, looking curiously at Maude, “I see you have a new companion.”
“Yes,” said Brian. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you. We went north to the shooting match after all.”
“And won the silver arrow?”
“Of course. The men of the marches may use bows, but there’s naught like the greenwood to sharpen your eye. We were on our way home when we heard about your joust with the Black Knight. And about your quest.”
“But it was only yesterday that we decided on it.”
“Which is why I waited. I knew you would not be long in starting. And I thought you might not like to use the Black Knight’s ford or take his road through the forest.”
“There are other ways, then?”
“One other. It is difficult and dangerous, in some ways more dangerous than facing the Black Knight himself, but …”
“Will you show it to us?”
Hugh glanced at him, the sky, then studied the ford. “I have never tried it by daylight. And never with horses. But with this mist for cover … yes, I’ll show it to you. This way.”
He led them upstream, keeping to the river’s edge. The bank to their left became higher and steeper until they were moving in single file at the foot of a cliff. From walks on the cliff when his shoulder was mending, Brian knew that the cliffs on the other side were even higher and steeper, which was why the ford was the only crossing. Coming to a huge rock that jutted out into the river, Hugh halted.
“It will be a wet passage,” he said.
“If you do not mind, we do not,” said Brian.
“Since when did a forest man mind the wet?” said Hugh and, holding his bow above his head, he walked out into the stream, feeling his way carefully. Brian followed him, leading the pack mule, with Maude and Tertius coming behind. The water became deeper, up to Hugh’s armpits and, when they were clear of the rock, the full force of the current hit them. But they pressed on across. Once the mule stumbled and would have been swept downstream had not Brian, wincing at the strain on his newly healed shoulder, held him by the reins. The mule regained his footing, and they went on. At last the river became shallower, and a few minutes later they were on a shelving bank under the cliffs on the far side.
Now Hugh turned right, going downstream to where a copse of willows and alders grew at the water’s edge. He worked his way through them, going in toward the cliff and, when Brian and the others followed him, they found that the trees had masked a narrow cleft or fault in the cliff. Signaling them to dismount, Hugh took the mule’s reins and went before them over the talus of loose stones and into the cleft. They followed, leading their horses. The cleft was so narrow that they had to go in single file. It would have been dark there even in full daylight, for small trees grew in crevices in the rock walls, shadowing the cleft; and in the mist they had to feel their way. Moisture dripped on them from above and, when Tertius’s palfrey stumbled on the wet stones, Hugh frowned back at him. Then the bottom of the cleft began rising and, a short while later, they were on level ground in the midst of the forest.
Putting his finger to his lips, Hugh pointed to the right. There on a knoll—massive, sombre, and brooding—was a keep, and Brian knew that this must be the stronghold of the Black Knight. The stones in the lower courses of the walls were huge, cyclopean, and looked as if they had been worked into place—by what art he could not imagine—in time long past. The upper part of the walls, though covered with ivy, were newer; and it was clear that this was an ancient, ruined fortress, which the Black Knight had seized for his own and rebuilt until it was impregnable.
They were in the rear of the keep, for there was no sign of an entrance. But even there guards were on watch for, hearing the clink of mail, Brian looked up and saw a man-at-arms walking the battlement and scanning the forest below. He disappeared behind the tower and Hugh led them on, away from the keep and the road it guarded and deeper into th
e forest.
When they were well away, Hugh gestured to them to mount, gave the mule’s reins to Brian and began to go more quickly, jogging ahead of them in a tireless woodsman’s trot. The mist had begun to thin but, though it was midmorning, it was still dim. The great forest trees grew so thickly that the sunlight could not find its way through their leaves. Finally Hugh stopped.
“I will leave you now,” he said. “The Black Knight’s men do not come to this part of the forest so you are safe from them and him. As for the other danger I spoke of …”
“I know about that,” said Maude, “and I will deal with it.”
“You know?” said Hugh, looking at her sharply. “How do you know?” And when she did not answer, but only smiled a small, enigmatic smile, he shook his head. “If you knew that, then you must also have known of the hidden way here.”
“Perhaps.”
“Then why did you say that there was no other ford, no other way through the forest?”
She shrugged, still smiling secretly but saying nothing. Hugh continued to study her with growing distaste and uneasiness.
“For myself, I would not journey with you for a capful of bezants,” he said. “Still, since the devil cares for his own, one might do worse than have you for a guide in these parts.” Then, turning and starting back the way he had come, he murmured, “Fare you well, Brian.”
“Wait, Hugh,” called Brian. “I have not thanked you yet.”
“The best thanks you can give him,” said Maude, “is to let him go.”
“Why?” asked Brian. “And what is this danger he talked of?”
“It would be better if you never knew,” she said. “But since the moon is almost full, I do not think you will be so fortunate.”
Urging her mare forward, she brushed past him and began leading the way. Brian exchanged looks with Tertius, then they rode after her.
All day they rode through the forest, sometimes through open glades, sometimes along narrow tracks. They stopped only once at a mossy spring to rest, water their horses and eat some bread and cheese. While they were eating, Brian looked up at the sun and said, “We are riding east.”
“Which way would you go?” asked Maude.
“I don’t know since I don’t know where I will find what I am seeking.”
“Then it does not matter whether we ride north, east, or south.” Her hood was pulled forward, shadowing her face. “But when—or if—you do find what you are seeking, what then?”
“What do you mean?”
“You have been promised a reward if you find the Knight with the Red Shield and bring him back to Meliot. But if you do, and if he overthrows the Black Knight, will he not wish to be rewarded too? And will not his reward be the one you want for yourself, the fair white hand of the Princess Alys?”
For a moment Brian stared at her and, seeing the shock in his eyes, she threw back her head and laughed shrilly.
“Stop that!” said Brian angrily.
“Forgive me, noble master,” she said, bowing low. “I forgot about your thin skin. I should not have laughed. More important, I should not have told you something you did not want to hear, something you should have thought of yourself.”
“I did not think of it for a reason you would not understand. Because I want no reward!”
“No? Then the more fool you!” Rising, she whistled to her mare and mounted as lightly as she had before. “Do we continue eastward?”
“You said it did not matter which way we went.”
“Then we will go where Gracielle takes us.” And, without waiting for them or looking back, she gave the mare her head and set off again.
“I begin to think that Hugh was right,” said Brian, mounting also. “And now we know why she is called Maudite.”
“Which you said you would never call her,” said Tertius. “She asked to come with us, but she never pretended to have a honeyed tongue.”
“So far it has been more like an adder’s,” muttered Brian. “Why did she want to come? What is her errand?”
“If she is a helper, it is to help us.”
“And if she’s not?”
“Ask her if you like. I doubt if she’ll tell you, but in time perhaps we’ll find out.”
They rode on through the afternoon, past huge fallen trees and tangles of briars, circling marshy places and fording streams. It was a silent ride for they spoke but little and the rotting mold underfoot muffled the sound of the horses’ hoofs.
As the sun sank in the west, they came to an open place near a reed-fringed pool. A stream ran through the glade into the pool and, when Maude turned and looked inquiringly at Brian and Tertius, they nodded. After they had unsaddled the horses and the mule, watered them and set them to grazing, Brian took his bow and went down to the pool. He found a flock of wild ducks feeding there and shot two before they flew off in alarm. Pleased with himself, he went back to the glade. But when Maude saw the ducks, she said, “I am not one of your queasy-stomached, finicky eaters, but I am not overly fond of raw meat.”
“You’re right,” said Brian, disconcerted. “We have no fire.” But remembering Tertius’s burning glass, he asked, “Couldn’t you …?”
“No,” said Tertius. “The sun is too low.”
“I have fire,” said Maude. “But this is not the time or the place for one.”
“Why?” asked Brian.
“Because it’s too dangerous,” she said shortly. “Still, there are dangers in not having one, too. Perhaps we could risk it.”
Going to one of her saddlebags, she took out a small earthenware pot and, when Brian and Tertius had gathered twigs and tinder, she shook out some embers and blew them into flame. They built a fire and roasted the ducks on spits of green wood. It was dark when they had finished eating, and Brian and Tertius wrapped themselves in their cloaks and stretched out on the fine grass of the glade. Maude, however, sat huddled on the far side of the fire, still and apparently listening to the forest sounds: the faint snap of a twig as a boar or other animal circled the clearing, the distant hoot of a hunting owl. As the fire died down, its faint glow worked a kindly magic on Maude. She had thrown back the hood that had shadowed her face during the day and, with the half-dark hiding her gray hair, wrinkles and bloodshot eyes, she did not seem as aged as she had, and it could also be seen that once she had been more than comely.
Looking at her, Brian marveled that after their long ride that day, one of her years should seem no more weary than he was himself. And he wondered again at her mission, why she had asked to come with them, and also what the danger was that both she and Hugh had talked of. And wondering, he fell asleep.
A scream woke him. He opened his eyes, not sure that he hadn’t dreamed or imagined it until he saw Maude standing tensely by the embers of the fire. It came again, thin and high and so distant that he could not tell whether it was human or not. That time it was followed by the far-off breaking of branches as something crashed through the underbrush. Then came shrieks, ululating cries and a howling as if a pack of frenzied hounds were hot on the trail of their quarry.
Brian was on his feet, as was Tertius.
“Quickly!” said Maude, trampling on what remained of the fire. “Help me with this!”
They joined her in stamping out the last of the coals and remained close together in the darkness.
“What is it?” whispered Brian. “What …?”
She silenced him as the crashing in the underbrush drew nearer. The scream sounded again, not more than a hundred yards from the clearing, and Brian sensed rather than saw that Maude had moved away and was standing between them and whatever it was that ranged the forest. Then, panting, screeching, howling, the eerie and invisible hunters swept by in close pursuit. They stood where they were until the last faint cry died away in the distance.
“Go back to sleep,” said Maude. “The danger is past. For tonight at least.”
Brian took his hand from his sword.
“But what …?” he be
gan.
“I said go to sleep!” said Maude.
Meekly, Brian and Tertius returned to their places, wrapped themselves in their cloaks and stretched out again. Sometime later Brian stirred and opened his eyes. The moon, almost full, had risen, and by its pale light he saw that Maude was where she had been before, huddled on the far side of the trampled embers, keeping a lonely vigil. At this, the last of the anger he had felt toward her left him and, reassured, he closed his eyes again and slept soundly.
CHAPTER NINE
When brian woke the next morning, Maude was already up, raking over the ashes of the fire for embers, which she put in her earthenware pot with twigs, moss and tinder to keep them smoldering. She said nothing about what had happened the night before and neither did Brian nor Tertius. They ate some bread to break their fast and then set off, riding east through the forest. That night again, just before the moon rose, they heard the screeching and the howls as the spectral hunt went by near them in the darkness; and they heard it yet again the night following.
Late on the afternoon of the next day, the third of their journey, the forest became less dense, the undergrowth thinner, and the soil drier and more sandy. Once more they camped by a small stream, built a fire and ate some of the provisions they had brought with them. When darkness closed in and Brian and Tertius wrapped themselves in their cloaks, Maude sat as before on the far side of the fire. But on this night it seemed to Brian that she was more restless than uneasy. Several times she rose and went to the edge of the trees as if listening for something. Watching her and wondering about the many things he had wondered about before, he fell asleep.
This time it was not the wild sounds of the hunt, but music that woke him: music so faint and distant that, as with the scream on their first night in the forest, he was not sure that he had truly heard it. He sat up. The moon, full now, was just rising above the treetops, and by its pale light he saw Maude standing near the edge of the clearing, listening. Then it came again: a thin, clear piping, a tinkling as of cymbals and a soft, sweet chanting.
Glancing at Tertius, Brian saw that he was awake and listening also. They both rose, went toward Maude. But by the time they reached the place where she had been standing, she was gone, walking in the direction from which the music was coming. They hurried after her, and when she heard their footsteps, she paused, waiting for them.
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