The Princess, the Crone, and the Dung-Cart Knight

by Gerald Morris

  They rode steadily, covering the ground even more quickly than she and Piers had, and Sarah was pleased to realize that she was riding more easily. Her body seemed to have learned the rhythm of a trotting horse, and she found herself moving in time with the horse's motions instead of forever bracing herself against them. By afternoon, though, her already sore muscles were aching again, she was glad when Sir Gawain called a halt at a place where a stream ran beside the road. "We'll rest here a bit," he said. "Don't want to have spent horses when we finally catch up with our abductor."

  He dismounted and reached up to give Sarah a hand down, but Terence stayed in the saddle, looking across the meadow. "Who's this, milord?"

  Sarah followed his eyes and perceived a man in black, vaguely religious-looking robes riding a large gray horse across the meadow toward them and leading a second horse. Sir Gawain grunted. "That's Sir Griflet's peacocky gelding he's riding," he said.

  "Ay, milord," Terence said. "But that's not Sir Griflet."

  A moment later the black-robed man had joined them. "Well met, Sir Knight!" he exclaimed brightly in a thin, goatlike voice. He was smooth-cheeked—not like a man who has shaved off his whiskers but like one who has never grown any—and he wore his golden hair brushed back from his face and tied with a ribbon. He dismounted and bowed deeply, like a courtier, then stood and began making the sign of the cross at them all. Sarah scowled at him, but he smiled beatifically back at her and continued gesturing. "Pacifus cum pocus," he announced. "Peace be to you."

  "Thank you, friend," Sir Gawain said. He was hiding a smile, but not very well.

  "Friend indeed!" the man said, sweeping another courtly bow. "I am Adrian the Pardoner, and I have long been a friend of knights."

  "You appear to have met at least one knight. That gray horse belongs to Sir Griflet of King Arthur's court."

  "Belonged, you mean," Adrian said agreeably. "The good Sir Griflet gave me this horse not two days ago."

  "Gave it to you?" Sir Gawain asked. "How did that come about?"

  "Not five hours' journey from here is the home of the Millpond Knight, he who challenges all comers to a joust and, upon defeating them, throws them in a pond," Adrian said, cheerfully. "Sir Griflet was on his way there when we met, and I was able to give him some assistance toward his assured victory. In gratitude, he gave me his horse."

  "What sort of assistance?" Sir Gawain asked, curiously.

  Adrian smiled broadly. "I was hoping you would ask, because it may well be that I can render you the same assistance. You see, I am more than a mere pardoner. I not only have papal pardons here"—he patted the bags on the back of his spare horse—"but I also have certain extremely powerful holy relics."

  "Good Gog," Sir Gawain said, his lips curling in distaste.

  "Indeed, God is good to those who trust in his power. To Sir Griflet I gave a toe bone from Saint Christopher, guaranteed to protect him from being unhorsed in any joust!"

  "And in return he gave you his horse?" Terence asked mildly. Adrian smiled and nodded. "It ought to work, then," Terence said.

  "It always works," Adrian declared. He looked at Sir Gawain. "Would your worship be desirous of having such a charm as well? As it happens, I have more of Saint Christopher's toes."

  "No," Sir Gawain said shortly. "I prefer to protect myself from being unhorsed by scoundrels and cheats." He turned away from the pardoner and knelt at the side of the stream to drink.

  Sarah stared, aghast, at Adrian. Was this man truly selling magic charms and claiming that they were from God? Adrian caught her eye and smiled ingratiatingly at her. "How about you, my lady?"

  "No!" she snapped. "Why would I want some dead fellow's toe bones?"

  "Ah, of course you wouldn't. You don't joust. But I have many relics here with powers more suitable for ladies. How about a comb kissed by the tears of Saint Lucy?" He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "It will make your hair irresistible to men. They will hardly be able to stop from throwing themselves at your feet."

  "I don't want men at my feet!" Sarah exclaimed, revolted by the picture that Adrian had painted.

  "I can help you there, too, my lady," Adrian said eagerly. He reached into his horse's pack and produced a small stone. "This stone is from the holy shrine of Our Lady of Anglesey." He raised it reverently in the air, as if it were made of gold. Behind his back, Sir Gawain and Terence exchanged amused glances, but Adrian pressed on. "It is a virginity stone."

  Sarah stared at the pardoner, too shocked to speak.

  "As long as you carry this stone on your body, you are safe from the advances of any man. Such stones are very rare, and very powerful."

  Still Sarah could not make a sound, her face frozen in an expression of disgust.

  "Ah, I see what you are thinking, though. Perhaps it is too powerful, no? One does not always want the Blessed Virgin watching over, does one? That is why I also have this." From the bag the pardoner produced a small square of black material. "Put the stone in this sack, and it is rendered blind and powerless until you are ready for it to come out again! Take it out, and you have your purity again, and no one the wiser!"

  "You're mad," Sarah said softly.

  "Indeed, I think so," Adrian said, still smiling ingratiatingly at her. "I would have to be mad to part with such a relic, so much trouble and expense I went through to get it, but there, we do not live only for ourselves, and as soon as I saw you, I knew that for such a beauty as you I would make even this sacrifice. I seek no profit; all I would ask is that you restore to me the amount that I spent to obtain this miraculous stone."

  Sarah wondered what Mordecai would say to this cheerful huckster of holiness, what condemnations he would utter, but she could think of nothing to say. Looking past the pardoner at Sir Gawain, she said, "I'm ready to go again."

  "I understand perfectly," he replied. His eyes held an approving look as they met Sarah's. "But come get a drink of water first while I refill our water bags."

  Sarah shouldered past Adrian without looking at him, drank, and then let Sir Gawain help her back into her saddle. A minute later they were on their way, but to her dismay the pardoner rode with them. At least he seemed to have given up on Sarah and was trotting alongside Sir Gawain.

  "I have to tell you how much respect I have for you great knights," he was saying. "Indeed, I feel sure that I should never have the courage to face death every day as you do. Have you thought, for instance, what would happen to you if—God forbid—you should be killed in battle?" Sir Gawain glanced at Adrian briefly, but he did not reply. "Why, you would die unconfessed!" Adrian said earnestly. He reached out his right hand and gripped Sir Gawain's left forearm in a gesture of concern. "This is why I do what I do," the pardoner said. "It is how I can help people like you. Look here." From a hidden pocket in his cloak he produced a roll of parchment. Untying it swiftly, he unrolled it and held it over for Sir Gawain to see.

  "See this? This is the seal of the pope himself." Adrian crossed himself, bowed his head, and murmured, "Pontius pilatus buttificus." Looking up, Adrian continued. "This is a pardon for all your sins, up to the date that I write on it. But I see what you're thinking. You're wondering about all the sins you commit after the date on the pardon, aren't you?"

  "Not exactly," Sir Gawain said, his voice almost a growl.

  "That's why, for you alone, I will write simply the words 'this day' in the space for the date, and that way you will always be current." Sir Gawain ignored him, and Adrian said, "If you won't do it for yourself, do it for your loved ones. Think what agonies of grief you can relieve for them! If it should happen that—God forbid—you were killed, they would know at once that you are in eternal bliss!" His voice became suddenly very somber. "I don't like to think about where you might be if—God forbid—you should die without buying this pardon today. Sir Griflet bought one before going to meet the Millpond Knight."

  Sir Gawain turned his head in amazement and said, "You sold Griflet a charm to protect him from harm, didn't yo
u?"

  "Yes, of course, the toe bone—"

  "And you sold him a pardon to protect him if the charm didn't work, too?"

  Adrian seemed suddenly to realize the inconsistency of this, and he drew himself up haughtily. "Sir Griflet is a man of great faith," he said. Then, putting on his earnest face, he reached out and grasped Sir Gawain's forearm again. "As I know you are also, my friend."

  Sir Gawain reached behind him on his saddle with his right hand and drew a small black-handled dagger from a sheath. "You may have faith in this, sirrah. If you put your hand on my arm again, I will cut off your fingers and provide you with five more holy relics."

  "Guaranteed to protect the faithful from frauds," Terence added from Sir Gawain's other side.

  Adrian snatched his hand away and fell into silence. Glancing over his shoulder at Sarah, who had dropped behind slightly, he slowed down, evidently planning to ride beside her for a while, but Sarah touched her mare with her heel and rode up between Sir Gawain and Terence. The pardoner trailed along behind them, muttering to himself glumly but evidently intending to stay with them despite their lack of faith.

  Adrian was nothing if not persistent. That night they made camp in a wooded area that provided shelter from the wind and hid their fire. Adrian made camp beside them—not exactly with them, but not really apart, either—and after eating dinner he slipped up to where Sarah leaned against a tree in the dark.

  "Good evening, my lady," he said in a quiet voice, glancing over his shoulder at Sir Gawain as he sat beside her.

  "Go away," Sarah said.

  Adrian nodded. "I understand completely," he said. "You don't trust me."

  "That's right."

  "And why should a young woman like you trust any strange man?" he said. "Young as you are, I'm sure you've heard many a lie from men. Why, how could it be otherwise, when you are so beautiful?"

  No one except Sarah's mother had ever called her beautiful, but even if Sarah had believed the compliment, she would not have understood why being beautiful should cause men to lie to her. She started to point this out, but Adrian was still talking.

  "But will those men, so full of untruth themselves, believe you? Of course not. Ladies of such beauty as you are never believed!"

  This made no sense. "I'm no beauty, but even if I were, what would that have to do with people believing me?" Sarah demanded.

  "Not all people, but the lucky man you marry. You see, the man who has a precious pearl is all the more jealous of his prize," Adrian said smoothly. Sarah had a feeling he had given this particular speech before. "What man, if he should marry a woman of such surpassing beauty as you, could help but feel jealous and always be suspicious?"

  "Why would a man marry a lady if he didn't trust her?"

  Adrian looked as if he didn't understand the question. "Eh?"

  "It seems foolish to me," Sarah said shortly, "but as I don't intend to marry, it won't matter."

  "I understand your feelings entirely!" Adrian replied, smiling unpleasantly. "Why should you confine yourself to one man all your life? 'Twould hardly be fair to the rest of mankind, to deny such beauty to them!"

  "That's not what I—"

  "That's why I brought this with me," Adrian said, plunging his hand into a bag he had brought and producing a small bone with a bit of silvery metal fastened to one end. "This is a shoulder bone from Saint Anselm, who never spoke aught but truth. Just put this in a man's soup, and he cannot help but believe every word you tell him. So you may marry after all, and yet still be as free as you wish. If your husband asks prying questions, just serve him this soup and tell him what you will. He will believe you."

  Sarah was silent for a moment, thinking about this. "So you're saying that I could lie all I want, but he would always believe me."

  "If you use this bone, yes," Adrian said eagerly. "And for one such as you, I will reduce my price from—"

  "How is it that a bone from a saint who never told a lie can be used to make lying easier?"

  "Eh? What's that?"

  "Go away from me," Sarah said.

  "If you don't care for the bone, then what do you want? What is it that you need? Trust me, I have something for everyone. What is your deepest desire?"

  "It doesn't matter," Sarah said, matter-of-factly. "I don't have any money." Adrian stared at her in disbelief. "Really," Sarah assured him. "Not a groat to my name. Look." Standing, she showed the pardoner the pockets of her cloak.

  "What's that?" Adrian demanded suddenly.

  Glancing down, Sarah saw her mother's crystal bottle in her pocket. She closed her pocket at once and said, "Nothing. Just a bottle."

  "That was genuine crystal, that was!" Adrian exclaimed eagerly. At once, though, his expression of interest disappeared, and he added, "Probably a fraud, though."

  "Well, you would know," Sarah said.

  "However, it looked as if it's a fair imitation, and although I would surely lose in the bargain, I would be willing to exchange this valuable bone for that little trifle."

  "What would you want with this bottle?" Sarah asked.

  "I might be able to sell it for some pennies to some lady somewhere."

  "And tell her it's a magic potion to make her beautiful or something, I suppose," Sarah said with a sneer. A flicker in the pardoner's eyes confirmed her guess, and she leaned close. "Actually, it contains a poison that kills liars. Bring me some food and I'll let you try it."

  The pardoner glared at her. "There's no cause to insult me."

  "Just go away," Sarah snapped, wrapping up in her cloak and lying down, her face turned away from the pardoner.

  It seemed but a moment later when she awoke, but as the fire was down to a few glowing coals, it must have been hours later. She lay still, wondering what had disturbed her. Then a hand touched her shoulder and shook her gently. Sarah scrambled to her feet, her sword in her hand, though she did not remember reaching for it, and a voice said, "Quietly, my princess! Tsk, tsk. You'd wake an army, with all your crashing about. Come with me into the trees." It was the crone, the one who had taken her to Belrepeire.

  Sarah didn't hesitate, but followed the old woman into the shadows beyond their camp. "That's a good girl," the crone said. "Still, it's lucky I made sure the others stayed asleep."

  "What? What did you do?"

  "Nothing harmful, I assure you. I just sprinkled a bit of sleep dust over them before I woke you."

  Sarah felt a chill in her breast. "I thought you said it was your sister who was an enchantress."

  "Dear me, you sound so accusing," the crone replied placidly. "I did say that, and it's true. Still, I picked up a trick or two, growing up in the same household."

  "Enchantresses are abominations," Sarah said sternly.

  "Ah, yes, I believe I hear the voice of your cloth merchant behind that," the old woman said. "A very good man, your Mordecai, in his own way, but limited. Limited. I suppose it must be comfortable to see the world as being all good or bad, but it does require a bit of effort, don't you think? Is an enchantress who saves a girl's life an abomination?"

  "What? Who do you mean?"

  "Who do you think it was who dragged you away from the mob that night last February?"

  Sarah stared at the crone. "You? But the woman who pulled me into the bushes was a younger woman I'd never seen before."

  "It was dark and you were upset, I suppose," the crone said. "Why didn't you stay where I told you?"

  "I couldn't! I wanted to rescue them," Sarah snapped. "And if you hadn't dragged me away—"

  "You would have joined them on the pillory. Do you think a crowd of screaming fools willing to burn an innocent old man and woman would stop at burning a girl?"

  The images of that awful night came rushing back to Sarah, and the pain of her loss filled her breast and paralyzed her as it had not in weeks. She saw the crowd of townspeople, a black mass of arms that grabbed at Mordecai and her mother, held them in the air, and bore them to the village square. She heard her
mother's frantic voice and saw the flames begin, and most of all she saw the face of the knight who stood beside the growing fires, exhorting the crowds to destroy the evil ones and purify the land. When she was able to speak, Sarah said, "If it was you who saved me, why didn't you save them?"

  The crone's voice grew flat and menacing and did not sound at all like the voice of an old woman. "I tried. I tried to cast a spell of blindness over the crowd, then sleep, and nothing happened. Someone in that crowd had magic stronger than mine and kept me from saving Dioneta."

  "How do you know my mother's name?" Sarah asked breathlessly. She had been forbidden to say her mother's real name for so long that she had almost forgotten it.

  "I knew your mother long before you did, my child. She was much like you at your age. I will find the one who killed her."

  "We'll find him together," Sarah said, gripping her sword more tightly.

  The old woman shook her head. "No, princess. Not together. You cannot go where I must go. But you may certainly play your part. That's why I'm here. I have in structions for you. Stay with Gawain and Terence on their quest. When you come back to the meadow where Sir Meliagant took the queen and Sir Kai—"

  "Who?"

  "Sir Meliagant. That much I've learned—that's the knight who took the queen. Find that place, then go east. I don't know how it is, but the signs say that your mother's murder and this abduction are connected somehow."

  "Is the knight who hurt Sir Kai the same knight who killed—?"

  "I don't know yet, but do what I say. We will find our enemies, and they will be paid. Now, go back to camp and be quiet. If anyone wakes and sees you, say nothing about me."

  Sarah nodded, then frowned. "I thought you said you had put some sleeping powder on them?"

  "I did, and you could stroll into the camp banging a drum and not wake Gawain or that worm in the black robe, but Terence is a different matter. One doesn't simply put one like that under a spell. Now, go."

  Then the crone just disappeared. It wasn't that she moved away so quickly that she seemed to disappear. She simply vanished, and Sarah instinctively began murmuring to herself one of Mordecai's psalms: "Preserve me, O Lord, for in Thee I take refuge." The crone was a witch herself, and every fiber of Sarah's being told her not to trust her. Every teaching she had ever received from either her mother or Mordecai concerning magic told her to stay far away. But this witch had saved Sarah's life—more than once, actually, since she was the one who had left food and a cloak out for her. More important, this witch was as determined as Sarah to take revenge on the ones who had killed Sarah's mother and Mordecai. Sarah crept back into the camp, wrapped herself up in her cloak, and stared into the coals until almost dawn, dreaming of justice.