The Dragon and the Fair Maid of Kent

by Gordon R. Dickson

  "I want a real sword!" said Hob. "A killing sword."

  " 'Course you do," said the blacksmith, winking at Jim.

  Jim did not wink back.

  "That's right," said Jim. "A sword just like my own, but his size. Harkye, Master Blacksmith, that means a working blade."

  The blacksmith, stared, open-mouthed.

  "You heard me," said Jim.

  The blacksmith literally wrung his hands.

  "But, m'lord, I can't do that!"

  "You can if I tell you to."

  "But I can't—I mean, m'lord, I would do so, right now, right willingly. But I just can't! I haven't the metal. I haven't the Mystery. I haven't the skill in my hands. My lord—it takes a swordsmith to make a weapon such as you ask for!"

  Jim stared back at him. The man was right, of course. The "Mystery," the exact method by which the blade must be shaped and tempered, was a guarded secret—many guilds had such—and the guild of Swordsmiths would have been careful to keep the knowledge hidden from someone like an ordinary blacksmith. Experts were needed at this point.

  "Get me Theoluf!" Jim snapped.

  "Get His Lordship his squire—and be quick about it!" snarled the blacksmith to his closest journeyman-assistant, who had been standing by, staring and listening, up to this point.

  "At once, m'lord! At once, Master!" The journeyman went off at at a run, still wearing his leather apron.

  He was back in no time at all, unexpectedly followed by two others: one was Brian, and the other was obviously the knight who had been his guest and come down to Malencontri with him on Jim's invitation. They had plainly been out hunting. They both wore the heavy-leather outer clothing useful to men who might need to gallop or run through brush, and both were wearing their poniards as well as their swords.

  However, Jim got a jolt on seeing the guest. He was one of the last men Jim would have expected to find visiting with Brian—Sir Harimore Kilinsworth, whom Jim had met for the first time at the Earl of Somerset's castle. He was a little taller than Brian, but moved with the same lean, eager, supremely confident manner. He sported one of the little mustaches that were fashionable at this period, but was otherwise as clean-shaven as Brian.

  The two men obviously respected each other for their strict adherence to their knightly vows and military skills—in which they were a class by themselves. But Jim had always understood that otherwise they were at swords' points.

  But they came up now behind the panting journeyman-helper, who came running ahead to unnecessarily announce the arrival of Jim's squire, Theoluf—unnecessarily, since in fact Theoluf had already arrived ahead of him.

  "No proper metal to make a sword?" demanded Theoluf of the sweating blacksmith. "Don't tell me you have no store of broken swords or other weapons! Get them out!"

  "Get them out!" barked the blacksmith at the journeyman-apprentice. "Don't just stand around there all day!"

  "Yes, Master—yes, m'lord" gasped the journeyman, and plunged through a door to the back room of the smithy.

  There was a grunting and a jangling of metal as the journeyman brought out armloads of old iron in the shape of damaged swords, daggers—from brasards to poniards—spear points, half-cracked halberds, pikes and other damaged or worn fighting equipment, and spilled them up in front of the smithy in the courtyard, along with a broken saw and some reaping hooks—rusty, nicked, or otherwise in bad shape.

  Brian and Sir Harimore immediately plunged into the pile, searching and examining like boys on a treasure hunt—and incidentally betraying at least one reason why they had followed Theoluf here. The blacksmith and the journeyman stood as they were, making no move to interfere. These two were belted knights, if they chose to take precedence in rummaging through the pile before them, who was to say them nay? But Theoluf, who had been a chief man-at-arms for years before the rare lack of anyone else suitable had raised him to the gentlemanly rank of squire, had dealt with the higher ranks before.

  "By your great grace and pardon, sirs," he said, and he did not keep a note of asperity completely out of his voice, "my lord is engaged in a matter of some importance here, and it is necessary that I examine the old iron myself as soon as possible."

  Both Brian and Harimore were completely aware of the fact that either one of them could handle Jim with one hand tied behind his back, and the elbow of the other tied to his side—plus a blinding hangover to boot. But they both backed away instantly.

  Jim was their host. It was his castle, his iron, and they were here only by his courtesy in inviting them. Theoluf dug into the pile and began to come up with his own choices from it.

  "You say you lack the metal to make a sword, Master Blacksmith?" Theoluf said, waving a rust-streaked blade with the last third of it gone near the tip end. "Here in this heap is good striking metal enough to rearm all our castle's fighting men—once it has been recut, sharpened and fastened to a new hilt and hold! But you are not being asked to rearm us all, merely make one good, battle-worthy sword for a hob less than half a man's size… and perhaps a dagger and shield to go with it!"

  "Well, I doubt a shield, now…" began the blacksmith, gathering his courage but sounding remarkably timid in spite of all that.

  "Use your wits, man! Shields are not solid iron—if they were, the weariness of shield-arms would make many encounters much shorter than they are. Also, the function of the shield is to turn a blow. To be sure, it is a fine thing to have that well-polished, shining surface on which is a coat of arms. But there is no question of coats of arms here, any more than there would be for one of our common armsmen, and strips of iron, laid close together, will turn a sword edge as well as a solid cover. True, a spear point may catch on the line between two strips, but there is no question of the hob riding with couched lance, either!"

  "What you say is true—" began the blacksmith.

  "Then get on with it. You may need the help of Master Carpenter and others, but I leave the small parts up to you."

  "I'm glad you're here," said Jim to Brian and Harimore. "I was going to find you and ask you about this. Brian, you know our hob well, but of course, Sir Harimore, you know nothing about him—that's him, standing right over there."

  He gestured at Hob, who had backed off some little distance so as not to intrude. He had been looking excited, hopeful, worried—and showing half a dozen other emotions in a sort of kaleidoscope of reaction as he listened. He was resisting his frequent tendency to stand on one leg, however, and still had the squared-shouldered, upright stance he had shown Jim in the Solar.

  "Indeed, Harry," said Brian unexpectedly. "He has been with James and myself on many a dangerous expedition, and shown great bravery as well as sharp wits. I do not believe there is another hobgoblin living who has had such adventures and carried himself so well."

  "It's true. Thanks, Brian," said Jim gratefully. Brian had unknowingly given him the excuse to speak, and now was the time to follow up with the information. "It just happened that today he was able to tell me something that touches all England—perhaps touches the whole world. I can't, unfortunately, tell you the details because it involves magic. But it's the reason we now need him not only armed but able to fight with the rest of us."

  "Armed? Fight? A hobgoblin?" Sir Harimore stared at Jim.

  "Yes!" said Jim. "As I say, I wish I could tell you more so that you could see the need of it, but as a Magickian my lips are sealed."

  Mentally, he crossed his fingers, remembering that Brian had told him Sir Harimore's respect for his knight's vows and obligations were as strict as those of Brian himself. Would they, in this case, tip him toward acceptance of an armed and battle-ready hobgoblin—or against the very idea? Jim could not directly lie to the man, but—he was suddenly inspired.

  "As I said," Jim went on, "my lips are sealed. I can only give you my word he must be armed and learn to fight."

  "I accept your word of course, Sir James," said Harimore stiffly. "No more need be said."

  "Well, there's just one
thing more," said Jim. "I was going to try to give him a lightning-swift course in how to use his sword and shield—"

  "James, there is no thing such!" said Brian, looking embarrassed. "The art of arms cannot be taught in an hour or a day—"

  "I know that," said Jim hastily. "But there are a few necessary things to know, such as how to hold your sword and how to strike with it, regardless of what your enemy might be doing in the same movement. I'd hoped I could at least show that much to Hob." Mentally he crossed his fingers again before going on. "And then—if you will forgive me, sirs—it came to me that two gentlemen like yourselves, learned in the art, might be willing to at least teach such simple things correctly, where I could likely not…"

  He let his voice trail off hopefully. Brian, he knew, loved to teach, but Jim had never heard of Sir Harimore Kilinsworth educating anyone in the skills he was so good at himself.

  "Hah! No doubt!" said Harimore. "But there must be something of a makings of a man to start with—catch that!"

  With the last words, and so swiftly that Jim had barely time to realize the knight had done it, he had drawn his needle-sharp, razor-edged poniard and thrown it tumbling through the air toward Hob.

  Hob, looking puzzled, watched the approaching weapon until it was almost upon him, then took one step aside, picked it out of the air by its hilt and started carrying it back to Harimore.

  "Hmpf!" said Harimore, in an obvious tone of surprise, then lifted his voice to speak to Hob again. "No! Hold to it! Go back where you were."

  "Yes, m'lord." Hob obeyed. Harimore poked through the pile and came up with the amputated handle of a diseased-looking half-pike.

  "Come," he said to Hob, and when Hob came, he handed him the handle. "Let me see you cut that—with my poniard."

  "Yes, m'lord."

  Hob lifted the poniard and brought its blade down edgewise on the old, dark wood of the handle. A little of the dry, hard wood chipped off, but that was the only result.

  "So it is revealed," said Harimore, turning to Jim and Brian, who had drawn close to watch. "Natural speed of eye, hand and body make for a good swordsman, but what is it of worth if he has no strength of body?"

  "Forgive me, my noble lord," said Hob in a small voice, "but did you mean you wished me to cut the staff in two?"

  "Of course."

  "Oh!" Hob picked up the ancient half-pike handle with one hand and lifted the poniard. He brought the weapon down again—but this time with a difference. This time his whole body arched to the blow and his feet left the ground as blade met wood. The hard, dry pike handle opened up—not completely, but the handle's two end-pieces fell apart, all but perhaps half an inch of wood clinging to both ends at the bottom of Hob's cut.

  Brian and Harimore stared at each other in what was plainly amazement.

  You see what he can do if he tries! Jim was about to say, when he discovered there was no need. Brian exploded as Harimore stared. "A drawing cut! He used a drawing cut—you saw it yourself, Harry!" he cried.

  A drawing cut was where the blade was pulled along the surface it contacted, so as to make a deeper wound. Brian had mentioned it from time to time, but it was never one of the things Brian had attempted to teach Jim.

  "I saw," said Harimore. "I still believe he will make the equal of a fighting man only by an Act of God—" he crossed himself"—but I own you were right, Brian—and my Lord Sir James. The makings of a small fighter at least may be there. If you will adventure, Brian, to teach him some simple matters of weaponry, so will I also."

  Chapter Ten

  Cheerfully, Jim left them all and went on his way. Now, finally, for a look at how they were coming with the Nursing Room—also the chance to get some idea of how the people of Malencontri were reacting to this terrifying shadow of plague creeping upon them. He found the place in the servants' quarters which had been chosen—almost certainly by Angie, who knew these precincts much better than he did.

  It had already been walled off to make a large separate room—that was what had probably kept Angie awake and up while he slept. She would have wanted to supervise the work closely until it was done.

  The door in the new front wall was wide open, and a considerable din was coming from within. Instead of simply walking straight in, he stepped to one side of the door and peered inside. The room reeked of pennyroyal—the herb that fleas did not like.

  The men and women at work there had already knocked out a hole for a window in the stone outside wall of the room, but the glass to put in it had not been fetched from the storage room on the Solar floor, where an eye was kept around the clock on something so precious and expensive—and, above all, so breakable.

  The eight spare beds Malencontri had had been placed in a row, along with a number of pallets. The single fireplace that had existed there before this section of the larger room was walled in was being enlarged to three times its original size, with a chimney to match. A sort of platform about the height of the dais in the Great Hall that held the high table—but about half its circumference—was being built.

  But among all this activity was a strangely merry air. To Jim's surprise, the workers were responding almost as if what they were preparing for was the wedding dinner that was to be held at the end of the week. Nobody was sick yet, seemed to be their attitude, and this break in regular routine was an occasion for games, practical jokes and general buffoonery.

  Jim stopped snooping and strode into the room.

  "What is this, a game of some kind?" he roared at them in his best autocratic, dominating voice.

  There was instant silence, instant stillness. Nobody moved. All faces were completely sober, completely humorless.

  But he was not fooled. In spite of their appearance of being struck dumb and motionless by the mere appearance of Authority, he knew perfectly well the moment he walked back out of the door, the joking and general merriness would be going full-blast again. The cheerful glint of their eyes gave them away. They knew him too well. Angie might not spoil the servants as Geronde claimed, but by now all those at Malencontri knew Jim's bark bore the same resemblance to his bite as the gentle mouthings of an adoring domestic dog to the driving fangs of a wild wolf.

  He walked further into the room.

  "Is this all that's been done so far?" he said in the same hard voice. "We may have to do it all over again!"

  He saw the glints go out in a few of the eyes—but not many.

  "M'lord," said the Master Stone Mason, whose graying hair, age and authority gave him something of a license to ask questions. " 'Tis true the plague is in London?"

  "Yes!" said Jim.

  " 'Tis a great distance London is from here."

  "Perhaps not to the plague," said Jim. "Last night, escorting the Bishop home, we were attacked by demons, riding on gray rats and carrying lances tipped with diamonds."

  Instant reaction on the part of everyone at the word "demons." Clearly the men-at-arms had been following the custom among the staff of taking an unofficial day off after they had returned from a trip, and had made a suitably spine-chilling tale of their adventures.

  But Jim went on quickly before Malencontri's Master Stone Mason could hint at other arguments. "What's this?"

  He kicked the edge of the platform.

  A number of people who were standing on it decided to get off, revealing the fact that it was completely carpentered, but so far had neither paint nor any kind of superstructure on it. It was simply an elevated platform holding a chair, a small table, two busy women and what looked like a sawn-off lower half of a small wine barrel. Sitting in the chair was the Serving Room Mistress, Gwyneth Plyseth. Standing beside her was May Heather, officially her apprentice—though lately May had been acting more like an auxiliary Serving Room Mistress without title.

  Jim stepped up on the platform and strode ominously toward them (just in case one or other of them had been exceeding orders—neither he nor Angie had spoken of this sort of structure). Mistress Plyseth got up—awkwardly, b
ecause of her arthritis—and curtsied to him. May followed suit. She had grown a good deal more expert in that polite maneuver lately, Jim noticed.

  "Sit down, Mistress!" Jim growled at Gwyneth. With gratitude plain on her face—her joints as always pained her in the fall—she sat. "What is all this?"

  He waved his hand in the general direction of platform, barrel-half, and the two of them.

  "Please you, m'lord," said Gwyneth, " 'tis for the Chief Nurse, and all the things."

  "All the things? What things?"

  "Oh, a mort of things, m'lord. The pair of terriers from the kennels—"

  Jim had to admit to himself that it had never occurred to him that the terriers, kept for following a small prey down into its den, and feisty as the day was long, would be sure death to any surviving rats that followed their noses toward the smell of food in the Nursing Room. But Gwyneth was going on listing what seemed to be innumerable items.

  "—more pallets and bedding, fast as we can make or sew them together, a sandbox to reheat the soup that comes from the kitchen for our sick ones—"

  "I take it," Jim interrupted, "you're going to be the Chief Nurse here in the Nursing Room?"

  "Yes, m'lord, if you can spare me from my duties in the Serving Room for some hours a day—and if I do say it myself, being older and some wiser than any other for the work. May Heather will take over my place either there or here if I'm gone, if sobeit that meets with your approval."

  She started to struggle up from her chair to curtsy again.

  "Sit!" said Jim, adding as she sank back with a breath of relief, "Just tell me one thing more. What's this barrel for?"

  "Why, for the tar, m'lord."

  "Tar?"

  "Oh yes indeed, m'lord. 'Tis said when they sicken with the plague they get these great swellings upon them, and there's nothing like heat to take your swellings down. To put hot compresses on a whole roomful of sick and keep they compresses warm and in place would take as many nurses as sick. But a great spoonful of hot—well, not too hot—tar put on each swelling would keep the warm on it for some time, nor be like to slip off as a compress would. So we'll keep this barrel warm and ready for each new one as he comes in. All in all, everything will be kept here on this platform, close to hand, and a nurse can call to me from anywhere in the room, and I'll see we have what else is needed."