Three Hearts and Three Lions

by Poul Anderson

  He grinned. “Nor should a young lady know too much,” he answered.

  “Ah, cruel! Yet am I glad you came.” She used the intimate pronoun. “I may address you thus, fair sir? There is a kinship of spirit between us, even if we find ourselves at war now and again.”

  “Dearest enemy,” said Holger. She drooped her lids, smiling with appreciation. His own eyes had a tendency to fall too that décolletage of hers. He searched his mind for more cribs from Shakespeare. The situation was made to order.

  They continued the flirtation throughout the banquet, which seemed to take hours. Afterward the company went into an even larger chamber for dancing. But as the music started, Duke Alfric drew Holger aside.

  “Come with me a moment, if you will, good sir,” he said. “We’d best talk over your problem at once, under four eyes, so that I can think on it awhile; for I foresee that our ladies will give you scant peace.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” said Holger, a trifle grumpily. He didn’t much care to remember realities just now.

  They strolled into a garden, found a bench beneath a luminous willow, and sat down. A fountain danced before them, a nightingale sang behind. Alfric’s black-clad body leaned back in one supple motion. “Say what you will, Sir ’Olger,” he invited.

  Well, no use holding anything back. If the Pharisee did have power to return him, he’d probably have to know the whole situation. Only where to start? How do you describe an entire world?

  Holger did his best. Alfric guided him with occasional penetrating questions. The Duke never showed surprise, but at the end he seemed thoughtful. He leaned elbows on knees and drew the knife of white metal which he carried at his waist. As he turned it over and over, Holger read the inscription upon the blade. The Dagger of Burning. He wondered what that meant.

  “A strange tale,” said Alfric. “I have never heard one more strange. Yet methinks there is truth in it.”

  “Can... can you help me?”

  “I know not, Sir ’Olger—for so it still seems natural to call you. I know not. There are many worlds in space, as any sorcerer or astrologue is aware, but a plurality of universes is another concept, only darkly hinted in certain ancient writings. If I heard you without being made helpless by amazement, ’tis because I have myself speculated that another Earth such as you describe might indeed exist, and be the source of myths and legends, such as those told of Frederik Barbarossa, or the great epical chansons about the Emperor Napoleon and his heroes.” As if to himself, Alfric murmured a few lines:

  “Gerard Ii vaillant, nostre brigadier magnes,

  tres ans tut pleins ad esté an Espagne

  combattant contre la Grande-Bretagne.”

  He shook himself and went on more briskly: “I shall raise spirits which can give counsel. No doubt that will take time, but we shall strive to show you hospitality. I think we have good hope of ultimate success.”

  “You are much too kind,” said Holger, overwhelmed.

  “Nay.” Alfric waved his hand. “You mortals know not how tedious undying life can become, and how gladly a challenge such as this is greeted. ’Tis I should thank you.”

  He rose, chuckling. “And now, methinks you’d fain return to the dance,” he said. “Good pleasance, my friend.”

  Holger returned in a haze of joy. He’d been too quick to judge this Middle World. No one could have been more kind or courteous than the Pharisees. He liked them!

  Meriven headed off several other ladies as he entered the ballroom. She pounced on his arm and said archly, “I know not why I do this, Sir Knight. Off you went, with never a word, and left me forsaken.”

  “I’ll try to make up for that,” he said.

  The elfin music surrounded him, entered him. He didn’t know the stately figure dances he saw, but Meriven caught on to the fox trot at once; he’d never had a better partner. He wasn’t sure how long the ball lasted. They slipped out into the garden, drank from a fountain of wine, laughed, and did not return. The rest of the night was as much fun as any he had ever spent, or rather more so.

  8

  HERE THERE WAS no real morning or evening, day or dark; the dwellers seemed to live according to whim. Holger woke slowly and luxuriously, to find himself alone again. At exactly the right moment the door opened and a goblin entered with a breakfast tray. They must have used witchcraft to learn his personal tastes: no Continental nonsense, but a good American assemblage of ham and eggs, toast, buckwheat cakes, coffee, and orange juice. By the time he was up and dressed, Hugi came in, looking worried “Where were you?” asked Holger.

  “Ah, I slept in the garden. It seemed the richt thing to do when ye were, uh, busy.” The dwarf sat down on a footstool, an incongruous brown blot in this gold and scarlet and purple. He tugged at his beard. “I dinna like the air here. Summat ill is afoot.”

  “You’re prejudiced,” said Holger. Mostly he was thinking of a date he’d made to go hawking with Meriven.

  “Och, they can put on a bra show and bedazzle ye wi’ every manner o’ fine wines and loose lasses,” grumbled Hugi, “but there’s aye been scant friendship atwixt men and Faerie, least of all noo when Chaos gathers for war. As for me, I ken wha’ I ken. And this is what I spied as I lay in yon garden. Great flashes o’ lightning from the topmost tower, a demon figure departing in smoke, and the stench o’ warlockry so rank it nigh curdled ma banes. Later, from the west, another flying figure came in haste, landed on the tower and went inside. Methinks Duke Alfric ha’ summoned a weirdie to his aid. “

  “Why, of course,” said Holger. “He told me he would.”

  “Have yer fun,” muttered Hugi. “Be gay in the teeth o’ the wolf. But when yer dead body lies oot for ravens to tear, say no I didna warn ye.”

  A stubborn objectivity forced Holger to consider the dwarf’s words as he went downstairs. Indeed this might be a gimmick to keep him out of commission until too late... Too late for what? Surely, if they intended evil, they could stab or poison him. He’d stood off one of their champions—who had probably only attacked him because he bore the arms of the mysterious paladin of the hearts and lions—but he couldn’t beat a dozen. Could he? He dropped hand on the Faerie sword. It was a comforting thing to have.

  Meriven hadn’t set a definite hour, here where time hardly existed. Holger dawdled through the main reception hall. After a while he thought he might look up the Duke and ask if there was any news about his problem. On inquiry from a sullen kobold slave, Holger learned that the master’s rooms were in the north wing, second floor. He mounted a flight of stairs three at a bound, whistling cheerily.

  He came out on the landing just as Alfric and a woman stepped from a door. He had barely a glimpse of her, she slipped swiftly back inside again, but he was stunned. This world seemed full of extraordinary lookers. She was human, taller and more full-bodied than the Faerie ladies, long midnight hair coiled under a golden coronet, her white satin dress sweeping the floor. Her face was ivory pale, curve-nosed, with arrogance lying on the red lips and in the dark brilliant eyes. Hm! The Duke was a lucky fellow.

  Alfric’s scowl smoothed itself out. “Good morrow, Sir ’Olger. How fare you?” As he bowed, his hands moved in curious passes.

  “Excellent well, my lord.” Holger bowed back. “I trust you too—”

  “Ah, there you are, my naughty one. Wouldst run away from me?” Meriven took the Dane’s arm. Now where the devil had she appeared from? “Come, the horses are ready, we’ve some falconry to do.” She bore him off almost before he could draw breath.

  They had a good time, loosing their hawks at cranes, wild peacocks, and less familiar prey. Meriven chattered gaily the while, and he had to laugh with her. That anecdote about the hunting of the basilisk... well, hardly fit for mixed company, but it was funny. Holger would have enjoyed himself more had his memory not been nagging him again. That woman with the Duke—blast and damn, he knew her!

  He’d only had a flying look, but the image remained sharp within him; he knew her
voice would be low and her manner haughty, capricious, sometimes kind and sometimes cruel, but all her moods no more than an iridescence on the surface of an intransigent will. Meriven seemed rather pallid compared to... to... what was her name?

  “You’re sad, my lord.” The Pharisee girl laid a hand on his.

  “Oh, no. No. I was only thinking.”

  “Fie on you! Come, let me make a charm to drive thought away, ’tis the child of care and the father of sorrow.” Meriven pulled a green twig off a tree, bent it, and gestured with some words. It became an Irish harp, which she played while singing him love songs. They did lull him most pleasantly, but—

  As they neared the castle again, she caught his arm and pointed. “Nay, see!” she hissed. “A unicorn! They’ve become rare hereabouts.”

  He glimpsed the beautiful white beast flitting between the trees. A stray wisp of ivy had caught on its horn. Wait. He peered through the half-light. Didn’t someone walk beside it?

  Meriven tensed pantherishly. “If we steal close—” she whispered. Her horse moved forward, hoofs noiseless on the turf.

  The unicorn stopped, looked back at them, and was away, a shining shadow rapidly lost to sight. Meriven swore with unladylike imaginativeness. Holger said nothing, because he had seen what accompanied the animal. For one moment he had locked eyes with Alianora. Now she was also gone.

  “Well, lackaday, such is life.” Meriven came back to him and they rode on together. “Be not so downcast, my lord. Mayhap we can make a party later and run the brute down.”

  Holger wished he were more of an actor. He mustn’t let her guess his own suddenly mounting suspicions. At the same time, he had to think them through. It wasn’t that he had any new reason to think badly of Faerie: just that the sight of Alianora had triggered something in him. He needed Hugi’s counsel.

  “If you will forgive me, my lady,” he said, “I’ll go bathe before dinner.”

  “Oh, my bath is large enough for us both, and for some fine sports I can teach you,” she offered.

  Holger wished he had a helmet to cover his ears. They felt incandescent. “I’d like a short nap, too,” he said clumsily. Inspiration: “I must be at my best for you later on. There’s so much competition.”

  He beat a retreat before she could insist, and almost ran to his apartments. Hugi looked up from the bed, on which he had curled himself. Holger bent over the dwarf.

  “I saw a woman this morning,” he said, fast and softly; and he described her, not from the bare glance he had had but from a memory which seemed to stretch over many years. “Who is she?”

  “Why—” Hugi rubbed his eyes. “That sounds like ye’ve spied Queen Morgan le Fay. Could it ha’ been hersel’ whom Alfric summoned last nicht from Avalon? Then there’s deviltry abroad for fair.”

  Morgan le Fay! That was it. Holger knew so with a certainty beyond knowledge. And Avalon, yes, he had seen an island of birds and roses, rainbows and enchantment, but where and when and how? “Tell me about her,” he urged. “Everything you know.”

  “Ho, is ’t yon doxy ye noo hanker for? She’s na for the likes o’ ye, lad, nor e’en for Duke Alfric. Cast no yer eyes too high up, lest the sun blind ’em. Or better, lest the moon strike ye mindless.”

  “No, no, no! I have to know, that’s all. Maybe I can figure out why she’s here.”

  “Well, noo... I dinna ken mickle. Avalon lies far, far in the western ocean, a part o’ the world wha’ we’ve nobbut auld wives’ tales aboot here. Hooever, folk know Morgan le Fay is sister to Arthur, the last great king o’ the Britons, though in her the Faerie strain in yon family runs strong and wild. She’s the michtiest witch in Christendie or heathendom, and could belike match hersel’ wi’ aught in the Middle World. Immortal, she is, and a kittle un; none know if she stands wi’ Law or Chaos or only her ain self. ’Tis said she bore off Arthur when he lay grievous wounded, to heal him and keep him against his time to return. Yet could be that were but a sly excuse to hold him from just such a coming back. Och, I’m no gleeful to be under ane roof wi’ her.”

  Still no proof. Morgan might have come here to help Alfric on Holger’s problem, or she might have stopped in on some altogether unrelated errand. But it did look queer.

  A goblin entered the bedchamber. “The good Duke gives a feast for castle servants,” he said. “You, dwarf, are bidden.”

  “Ummm—” Hugi tugged his beard. “I thank ye, nay. I dinna feel so well.”

  The goblin raised his hairless brows. “ ’Twill be taken ill if you spurn the feast,” he said.

  Hugi traded a look with Holger. The man nodded. Maybe this was a device to get the dwarf out of the way, but if so, there didn’t seem to be any means of evading it. “Go on,” he said. “Have a good time.”

  “Aye, so. Take care o’ yersel’ .” Hugi trotted after the goblin. Holger lit his pipe and lay down in the bath which had drawn itself for him, to think. He felt as if he were caught in spider webs. Very delicate, very lovely, but you couldn’t get out. For a panicky moment, he wanted to shout and run.

  He suppressed the feeling. He could do nothing at present but string along. And his suspicions were based on so little. Still—

  A new suit of party clothes was laid out for him. He donned it, the laces and buckles fastening themselves. Hardly had he finished when the doorknob formed into metallic lips and said politely, “His grace the Duke asks leave to enter your presence.”

  “Yipe!” said Holger. Recovering himself: “P-p-please come in.” Evidently slaves, being beneath notice, came and went without asking, while the upper classes respected each other’s privacy.

  The Pharisee entered, his chiseled white visage smiling. “I bring good news,” he said. “I have conferred with numerous of the Powers, and there seems to be an excellent chance of sending you back home.”

  “Why... why... I cannot thank you, your grace.” Holger stammered.

  “’Twill take some time to gather the necessaries for the spells,” Alfric said. “Meanwhile, methinks a special merrymaking is called for. There’s to be an entertainment in Elf Hill.”

  “Hm? Oh, yes. I’ve seen the place.”

  Alfric took his arm. “Shall we away, then? I warrant you’ll have some lusty hours. The elves know how to make a man glad.”

  Holger didn’t feel like an orgy, but had no way to refuse. They went down the stairs. The castle dwellers were gathering, a murmurous swirl of color through the halls and out into the courtyard. Meriven trod forth from among them, and Alfric relinquished Holger to her.

  “I’ll accompany you into the hill,” she said. “I’ve no mind to let some elvish hussy steal you.”

  “Why, isn’t everyone coming?” he asked.

  “Presently. You and I are to go in first. The others will follow later. You shall see how ’tis planned.”

  Holger thought of death traps and dismissed the notion, since one of their own would be with him.

  The procession wound out of the gates, over the bridge, across the lawns toward Elf Hill of the roses. Behind him curveted warriors on horseback, banners flying from their lances, musicians playing horns and harps and lutes, a hundred lords and ladies of Faerie, who danced as they neared the mound. And now Holger heard music which rose to answer theirs, a skirling sweetness that entered his blood and roiled in his head. He smiled down at Meriven, all at once eager, and she laughed back and hung close on his arm. Her loose pale hair blew up across his face, half blinding him, the perfumes like a taste of strong wine. The hill opened. Through Meriven’s tresses he glimpsed wavering lights, against which tall figures stood black. The music hurried his feet for him, he couldn’t wait.

  Hoofbeats hammered in the earth. A horse neighed, loud and angry. Holger whirled to see Alianora on Papillon, galloping out of the woods. Her face was distorted with terror.

  “Holger! Nay, Holger, not in there!”

  9

  BEHIND HIM ALFRIC SHOUTED a curse. A spear flashed through the air, hardly missing the girl.
Holger stood locked in amazement. “Get him in the hill!” yelled Alfric.

  Meriven pulled at his arm. Three Pharisee men plunged forward like football tackles. A sudden rage snapped up into Holger. He launched himself to meet them. The nearest he stiff-armed, letting him drop with a grunt and lie quietly. His right fist swung around, trailing Meriven, and smashed another handsome face. The third warrior he dodged. A horseman loomed before him, lance almost in his ribs. He tore the grimly clinging Meriven loose, lifted her above his head, and pitched her at the rider’s midriff. Both went over the horse’s crupper.

  Three chevaliers had closed in on Alianora. Papillon reared, struck out with his forefeet, and sent one clattering from the saddle. Whirling, the huge black stallion bit a chunk out of the next Faerie horse, which screamed and bolted. The third rider slashed at Alianora. She ducked his sword and sprang to the ground.

  “Hai!” She had leaped almost into the arms of a velvet-clad Pharisee lord. He grabbed her, grinning as she tried to writhe free. But then he held a swan. And swans have vicious tempers.

  “Yi!” he shouted as she pecked at his eyes. “Yee!” he added as a wing-buffet nearly broke his jaw. “Help!” he finished when she nipped off a finger, and dropped her and fled.

  The Faerie lords boiled around Holger, hewing and thrusting at his unarmored body. He was too excited to feel any hurts. A remote part of him wondered at the incredible luck which was letting him by with minor flesh wounds. Could it be luck? He fed the nearest enemy a mouthful of knuckles, snatched the fellow’s sword, and hacked around him. The blade was lighter than iron, he could swing it one-handed, but the edge was keen. An axman cut at his bare head. He caught the haft with his free hand, wrenched it loose, and waded into the Pharisees with ax and sword.