Three Hearts and Three Lions

by Poul Anderson

  Holger lowered himself into one of the chairs, which creaked alarmingly under his weight. Alianora poised on the edge of another, flickering her eyes about like a snared bird. Martinus found a third seat, crossed his legs, made a bridge of his fingers, and said, “Now, sir, what seems to be your difficulty?”

  “Well, uh,” said Holger, “well, it all began back when—oh, hell, I hardly know where to begin.”

  “Would you like a couch to lie on?” asked Martinus solicitously.

  A bottle and three dirty goblets floated in and landed on the table. “About time,” grumbled the sorcerer. After a moment, when the invisible servant had presumably left, he went on, “I declare, there is no decent help to be had these days. None. That sprite, now, he is quite impossible. Improbable, at least,” he qualified. “Not like when I was a boy. Such classes knew their place then. And as for herbs, and mummy, and powdered toad, why, they just don’t put the sort of stuff into them they used to. And the prices! My dear sir, you’ll scarcely believe it, but only last Michaelmas—”

  Alianora coughed. “Oh, pardon me,” said Martinus. “I rambled. Bad habit, rambling. Must make a note not to ramble.” He poured the wine and offered it around. It was drinkable. “Proceed, good sir, I pray you. Say what you will.”

  Holger sighed and launched into his story. Martinus surprised him with questions and comments as shrewd as Duke Alfric’s had been. When Holger recounted his stay with Mother Gerd, the wizard shook his head. “I know of her,” he said. “Not a good sort. Not surprising you got into trouble. She traffics with black magic. It’s these unlicensed practitioners who give the whole profession a bad name. But do go on, sir.”

  At the end Martinus pursed his lips. “A strange tale,” he said. “Yes I think your supposition is right. You are the crux of a very large matter indeed.”

  Holger trembled as he leaned forward. “Who am I?” he asked. “Who bears three hearts and three lions?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know, Sir Holger. I suspect you are, or were, some great man in the western lands, France for example.” Martinus looked pedantic. “Are you familiar with the mystical geography? Well, you see, the world of Law—of man—is hemmed in with strangeness, like an island in the sea of the Middle World. Northward live the giants, southward the dragons. Here in Tarnberg we are close to the eastern edge of human settlement and know a trifle about such kingdoms as Faerie and Trollheim. But news travels slowly and gets dissipated in the process. So we have only vague, distorted rumors of the western realms—not merely the Middle World domains out in the western ocean, like Avalon, Lyonesse, and Huy Braseal, but even the human countries such as France and Spain. Thus, although this knight of hearts and lions, who seems in some manner to be yourself, may be a household name in that part of the world, I cannot identify him. Nor do I think the information is in my books, though I really must catalogue my library one of these days.

  “However”—he grew earnest and lost some of his fussiness—”in a general way, I think I can see what has happened. This western knight would have been too great a foe for Chaos to meet. Quite likely he was one of the Chosen, like Carl or Arthur or their greatest paladins. I do not mean a saint, but a warrior whom God gave more than common gifts and then put under a more than common burden. The knights of the Round Table and of Carl’s court are long dead, but another champion may have taken their place. So before Chaos could hope to advance, this man had to be gotten out of the way.

  “Morgan may well have done that herself, by burying his past life in him beyond the aid of any ordinary spell, turning him into a child, and projecting him into your other world, in hopes that he would not return until Chaos had irretrievably won. Why she did not merely assassinate him, I cannot say. Perhaps she didn’t have the heart to. Or perhaps, being one of the Chosen, he was shielded by a greater Power than hers.

  “In any event, I believe he was returned here at the crucial moment. Direct divine intervention seems unlikely; with all due respect, sir, I doubt if you are quite in a state of grace as yet, and certainly the spell on your mind remains. No, I think Morgan did not realize that unity of creation which you say you speculated about. At the moment of greatest need, the champion had to return. And now the Middle World is using its arts and strength to block him. Or you, as the case may be,” Martinus finished anticlimactically: “This is only a theory, my dear sir. Only a theory. But I flatter myself that it does fit the known facts.”

  Holger hunched his shoulders. It was an eerie situation. He didn’t like being a chess piece.

  No, he wasn’t that. He was free. Too free. He embodied a power he did not know anything about and could not handle. Oh, blast and damn! Why did this have to happen to him, out of every soul alive?

  “Can you send me back?” he asked tautly.

  Alianora drew a sharp breath, then looked away. She’d known he wanted to return, thought Holger with a tinge of remorse, but she’d ignored the fact, lived in some kind of dream, until this moment.

  Martinus shook his head. “No, sir, I fear the task is too great for me. Most likely too great for anyone, mortal or Middle Wonder. If my guess is correct, then you have not only been caught up in the struggle between Law and Chaos, you are an integral part thereof.”

  He sighed. “Perhaps once,” he said, “when I was young and gay and arrogant, I might have tried to oblige you. I’d attempt anything in those days. You have no idea what student pranks can be till you’ve seen a magicians’ college... But I have learned my limitations. I fear I can give you little help, nor even much advice.”

  “But what should I do?” asked Holger helplessly. “Where should I go?”

  “I cannot tell. And yet—yet there is that item of the sword Cortana. Tales come out of the west, but so unwontedly clear and fulsome that I think the events concerned may have happened rather closer to here. The story is of a sword named Cortana, of the same steel as Joyeuse, Durindal, and Excalibur; and the story is also that a holy man, a veritable saint, laid his blessing upon Cortana, that in the hands of its rightful owner it might bulwark Christendie now that those other great weapons are gone with their masters. But later, the tale says, the sword was stolen away and buried in some distant place by the minions of... Morgan le Fay? You see, they could not destroy it, but with the help of heathen men who could ignore the sacredness, they hid Cortana away lest it be used against them.”

  “Should I try to find it, then?”

  “A dangerous business, young man. Yet I see nothing else which can long protect you against your foes. Tell you what.” Martinus tapped Holger’s knee. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll use my powers, and some have been kind enough to call ’em not inconsiderable, to try and find out who you are and where the sword is hidden. Its aura would make it perceptible to such airy sprites as I can summon. Yes, that seems the best course.”

  “Thank ye more than I can tell,” said Alianora. The prospect of danger didn’t seem to bother her, in her relief that Holger wasn’t going to be whisked away the next minute.

  “I fear I’ve no guest space,” said Martinus, “but there’s a tavern where you can stay overnight. Tell the landlord I sent you, and—hm, no, I’d forgotten about that bill of his. Well, come back tomorrow... Oh, yes. Would you like a disguise against the Saracen? I have some good disguises, very reasonably priced.”

  “The Saracen?” Holger exclaimed.

  “What? Didn’t I tell you? Bless my soul, so I didn’t. Clean forgot. Getting absent-minded. Must remember to whip up a memory-strengthening spell. Oh, yes, the Saracen you’d heard was looking for you. He’s in town too.”

  16

  A SEARCH OF HIS BOOKS confirmed Martinus’ belief that he had no cantrips powerful enough to lift the veil from Holger’s mind. But with a few passes and some foul-smelling fumes, he provided the Dane a new face. A mirror showed Holger his own countenance turned dark and rough-looking; his hair and the short yellow beard he had grown were now black, his eyes brown. Alianora sighed. “I like ye bett
er as ye were,” she said.

  “When you wish to resume your natural appearance, call on Belgor Melanchos and this will whiff away,” said Martinus. “But beware of getting too close to any sacred object. The sword Cortana, for instance, will dissolve the spell too. Not that the sin involved in this particular thaumaturgy is more than venial, but it does have pagan elements, and the holy influence—Anyway, keep your distance from blessed things. Inverse square law, you know.”

  “Better fix up my horse,” said Holger. “He’s rather distinctive too.”

  “My dear fellow!” sputtered Martinus.

  “Please,” puffed Alianora. She waved her lashes at him.

  “Oh, very well, very well. Bring him in. But mind he behaves himself.”

  Papillon almost filled the shop. He emerged as a big chestnut destrier. While he was at it, Martinus also transformed Holger’s shield. When asked what new device he wanted, the Dane could only think of Ivanhoe, so he got an uprooted tree. He himself, because of being involved in the illusion, could only see these changes in a mirror.

  “Come back tomorrow and I’ll tell you what I’ve been able to learn,” said the magician. “Not before noon, mind you. These backwoodsmen keep ungodly hours.”

  On the way to the inn they passed the church. Holger stopped his horse. He wanted to go in and pray. But no, he dared not with this disguise. More of the unknown knight? He must have been pious in his fashion. It was hard to fare back to darkness without having received the Host... Holger kicked Papillon into a trot.

  By this time night had fallen and they groped through unlighted streets to the tavern. A plump, cheerful-looking man met them in the courtyard. “Lodging for yourselves? Aye, sir, I’ve a fine room which has even pillowed crowned heads.”

  Which I hope didn’t lie uneasy because of bedbugs, Holger thought. “Two rooms,” he said.

  “Oh, I’ll snark in the stable wi’ the horses,” leered Hugi.

  “We still want two rooms,” said Holger.

  As they dismounted, Alianora leaned close against him. He caught the faint sunny odor. of her hair. “Why, dear lord?” she whispered. “We’ve slept side by side in the glens.”

  “Yes,” he muttered. “But I don’t trust myself any more.”

  She clapped her hands together. “Oh, good!”

  “I—I—Hellfire! Two rooms, I said!”

  The landlord shrugged. When he thought no one was looking, he was seen to tap his forehead.

  The chambers were small, with no more furniture than a pallet, but seemed clean enough. Holger wondered how he would pay. He’d had too much else on his mind to remember he was broke. And Alianora, the woods child, might have forgotten about that aspect. Furthermore, gossip of his original entry would have spread through the town; someone would be sure to deduce that the dark-complexioned knight had gotten his face from Martinus, and perhaps that talk would reach the Saracen’s ears. Well, he’d just have to cross his bridges as he came to them.

  He shed his armor and donned his best tunic and hose, but kept his sword by him. When he emerged, he met Alianora. He was rather glad the corridor was too dark for her to see his expression. “Shall we go eat?” he asked lamely.

  “Aye.” Her words were a little choked. Suddenly she caught his hands. “Holger, what is ’t ye dinna like about me?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “I like you very much.”

  “But that I be a swan-may, wild and unchristened? I could change that,” she gulped. “I could learn to be a lady.”

  “I—Alianora—You know I’ve got to get home. In spite of what they say, I’ve no real place in this world. So sometime I’ll be leaving you. Forever. It’d be hard on both of us if... if I took your heart with me, and you kept mine here.”

  “But if ye canna get back?” she whispered. “If ye have to stay here?”

  “That w-would be another story.”

  “How I hope ye fail ! And yet I shall strive wi’ all my micht to aid ye home, sith ’tis your wish.” She turned from him, he could barely see how her head drooped. “Och, life is an unco thing.”

  He took her hand and they went downstairs.

  The taproom was long and low, lighted by candles and a genuine fireplace. In these troubled times the landlord was only setting dishes on the table for one guest besides Holger and Alianora. As they entered, the man sprang from his bench with a shout. “Ozh—” He broke off when the Dane came into the light.

  “I mistook you, fair sir,” he bowed. “I thought you one whom I seek. Pray pardon, my lady and lord.”

  Holger studied him. This must be the Saracen. He was medium tall, slim and supple, elegant in flowing white shirt and trousers and in curly red shoes. A scimitar hung at his sashed waist. Under a turban with an emerald brooch and ostrich plume, his face was dark and narrow, eagle-nosed, sporting a pointed black beard and gold rings in his ears. He moved with feline smoothness and his tones were low and cultured, but Holger felt he’d be a nasty customer in a fight.

  “Peace on you,” said the Dane, trying to be polite. “May I present the Lady Alianora de la Fork? I hight, umm, Sir Rupert of Graustark.”

  “I fear me I never heard of your demesne, good sir, but then I am from the far southwest and ignorant of these parts. Sir Carahue, onetime king of Mauretania, humbly at your service.” The Saracen bowed almost to the ground. “Will you sup with me? ’Twould pleasure me to, ah—”

  “Thank you, gracious knight,” said Holger at once. It was a relief to have someone else pick up the dinner check. He and Alianora seated themselves. Carahue was a bit astonished at the girl’s unconventional costume, but looked delicately away.

  He insisted on having samples brought of the landlord’s wines, sipped each, winced, and laid out the best accompaniment he could for each course. Holger could not resist saying, “I thought your religion banned strong drink.”

  “Ah, you mistake me, Sir Rupert. I am a Christian like yourself. Once, true, I fought for the paynim, but the gentle and chivalrous knight who overcame me also won me to the True Faith. Though even were I still a follower of Mahound, I would not be so discourteous as not to drink to your most beautiful lady’s health.”

  They had a friendly supper, chatting of inconsequentials. Afterward Alianora yawned and went to bed, the close air made her sleepy. Holger and Carahue were still wakeful and settled down to some serious guzzling. The Dane demurred at first; he didn’t like to be carried in every round. But the Saracen insisted on treating.

  “I joy in the company of gentlefolk who can turn a sestina as well as break a lance,” he declared, “and such are rare in this uncouth borderland. I beg you, let me express my gratitude.”

  “This is certainly no good place to go knocking about in,” said Holger. Probingly he added, “Some great purpose must have brought you here.”

  “Yes, I seek a man. “ Carahue’s eyes were shrewd above the rim of his goblet. “Mayhap you’ve heard news of him? A big fellow, about your size, but yellow-haired. Most likely he’ll ride a black stallion and bear arms either of an eagle, sable on argent, or of three hearts sanguine and three lions passant or.”

  “Hmmm.” Holger rubbed his chin and tried hard to appear calm. “I think I’ve heard something, but can’t quite remember. What did you say his name was?”

  “I didn’t,” said Carahue. “Let his name be what it will, if you will indulge me in such a whim. Truth is, he has many powerful enemies, who’d be swift to fall on him did word get abroad.”

  “Then you are a friend of his, sir?”

  “Perhaps,” said Carahue gently, “it were best that my own reasons be hid too. ’Tis not that I distrust you, Sir Rupert, but there are ears everyplace, some not human. And I am a stranger, not only to this part of the world, but to this whole time.”

  “What?”

  Carahue watched Holger steadily, as if to catch any flicker of reaction, while he said, “This much I dare relate. I knew the man whom I seek centuries ago. But he vanished into realms unknown.
I’ve learned that he came back once, “when le beau pays de France stood in danger, and routed the heathen invaders, then vanished again. But that was after my time. For when he had first gone, I fared out to sea in quest of him. A great storm cast me ashore in Huy Braseal, where I was received in her enchanted castle by a most fair damsel.” He sighed dreamily. “Time flowed strange in that realm, as ’tis said to do in Avalon or under Elf Hill. It seemed but a year to me that I abode with her; yet hundreds of years fled in the lands of men. When at last I got rumors of hosting throughout the Middle World, I stole the use of my lady-love’s arts magical and learned that the whirlwind would first break in these eastern lands. I learned too that O—this knight whom I would fain meet again, would be drawn back by force of that gathering storm, from strange realms to which he had been exiled. So I helped myself to an enchanted ship, which bore me in a night from Huy Braseal to the south coast of this realm. There I got a horse and wandered north in search of him. But so far God has not willed that I succeed.”

  Carahue leaned back and drank thirstily. Holger scowled. By now he was quite prepared to believe such a tale. He’d experienced worse whoppers himself. But the Saracen could be lying... no, Holger had a notion he was telling the truth, as far as he went. The lean brown face was familiar. Somewhere, sometime, he must indeed have known Carahue. But as friend or foe? The other had carefully avoided committing himself on that point, and Holger didn’t feel it would be wise to ask. True, the Moor had spoken well of the man he sought, but that didn’t prove anything. Under the fantastic code of chivalry, men could sing each other’s praises while carving out each other’s livers.

  The part about an acquaintance hundreds of years old was not unduly disturbing to Holger. He couldn’t feel more alone and homesick than he already did. And the idea explained some things. He, Holger, of three hearts and three lions, had been a knight whom Morgan enticed to her timeless isle of Avalon. Once he returned, when France needed him. She’d let him do so, probably not caring who won that war, and he’d gone back to her when it was over. Now again—But this time his return was from a farther place, and Morgan opposed him with all her obscure powers.