The Dragon, the Earl, and

by Gordon R. Dickson

  "Ah," said Angie.

  Jim stopped talking for a moment and half closed his eyes, building a picture in his mind of how that space at the edge of the woods, with the table at which he, Mnrogar and the Earl had sat, had been. For a moment, there was only his effort to imagine it; and then suddenly he saw the clearing, as if it was being seen by an inner eye, sharp and clear.

  "I think I've got that firmly in mind," he said. "Of course I can't work the magic from here, but if I step outside and do it right, you and anybody with you, or Theoluf by himself, can go out to that indentation in the woods; and seem to vanish from the sight of anyone looking out from the castle. All they'll see will be as if the woods had closed in that space."

  "As I remember that clearing," said Angie, "there'll be enough space to hold all our guests of rank, and still have a good forty feet or so between them and the other end of the clearing—where we'll set up the manger scene."

  Jim and Angie spent a few more moments discussing the manger scenery. Jim wanted to have his mental image clear for the moment when he could step outside the castle and implement his magic production. It was a matter of putting together part of an actual barn belonging to an uncle of his, as modified by information gained from Theoluf; and replacing the cows in two of its stalls, one with an ox and the other with an ass. In between was a larger open stall, with a manger built against the wall to hold food for whatever beast was in it. It was a bit of a struggle to make all the changes. But he ended up with a clear, sharp mental picture in the end, right down to some straw on the plank floor.

  "Don't forget the heat," said Angie.

  "Heat…" said Jim.

  Well, that was not difficult. The original barn he remembered had been almost hot from the body heat of the large animals enclosed in it. Of course, it had also smelled of cow; but after a little effort, he was able to delete the smell, and just keep the warmth. Abruptly the visualization firmed up, the way the clearing in the woods had before; and once more he had the feeling that the necessary magic to produce it had been set in his mind, ready for release. He glowed inside.

  "There, I've got it, trees, manger and all. It's a good thing you're having a rehearsal tonight, though," he said to Angie. "You'll have a chance to look at it and see if you want any last-minute changes. I won't be with you. I've got to go to Malencontri after dinner, as I say; and then possibly to the dragons at Cliffside, to see if I can talk them into coming to the right spot and doing what I want them to do, so that they won't trigger off an attack on them by the knights here—Angie!"

  "What? What is it?" said Angie. "You made me jump!"

  "I just had a magnificent idea!" said Jim.

  He checked himself, realizing that Theoluf was still standing there, patiently waiting.

  "Off you go," he said to the other man, "and if you mention any of this to anyone in the castle—"

  He stopped himself just in time from uttering the words "I'll flay you alive!" Such an exaggerated threat would have been proper—even expected—if Theoluf had still been a man-at-arms; but now that he was Jim's squire, he was assumed to have acquired gentlemanly tact and responsibility.

  "Fear not, m'Lord," said Theoluf. "None shall know."

  He went out.

  "What was it you were so excited about just now?" asked Angie.

  "I just had a magnificent idea!" said Jim. "This will take care of what the dragons want, keep them safe, and do everything else to take care of them in one fell swoop. Angie, you remember the story also had dragons coming out and Saint Joseph being fearful until the young Christ spoke up and reassured him—"

  "Of course," said Angie.

  "Well," said Jim, "we can actually have a few dragons take part in your Creche scene. Actually, I think Christ must have been about two years old at the time of the Slaughter of the Innocents—but nobody's going to bother about that. The voice of the Holy Child can just speak from within the manger. He'll be out of sight of the audience. That was why I was so surprised that you wanted Robert there, instead of just a doll, or something like that. I was just going to make a voice come from inside the manger…"

  His voice ran down, whatever else he was going to say lost in the spreading glow of triumph that had come to him with the inspiration of using the dragons in the play.

  For the second time today, he felt in control of matters, instead of at their mercy.

  "Now I know what I'll say to them at Cliffside this afternoon," he told Angie. "It couldn't be better if I'd planned their coming from the start. Everything's falling together the way it should."

  "Of course," said Angie. "I said you'd always be able to handle any trouble when it came to a pinch."

  He opened his mouth automatically to argue this—to name instances when he hadn't—when he suddenly understood what she was doing. He saw her smiling fondly at him. He smiled back. He loved her.

  Chapter 31

  Jim appeared on the dais holding the high table at Malencontri right in front of Gwynneth Plyseth, the mistress of the serving room staff, who was carefully examining the wooden surface of the high table for splinters that might snag one of her best tablecloths, once Jim and Angie were returned and a tablecloth was in use daily.

  She screamed at the sight of him; but it was a purely automatic scream, since she had recognized him almost the second he had appeared; the staff of Malencontri had almost gotten used to their magician Lord appearing out of nowhere at unexpected times.

  There had been some grumbling about this at first; and a deep suspicion that perhaps Jim was attempting to catch them doing something they shouldn't, or failing to do something they should. But time had convinced them of Jim's innocence in this regard; and they had all come to take a proprietary pride in Jim's appearances. Very few castles could boast a Lord and master who might suddenly appear before you at any hour of the day or night.

  In short, while it was a feather in their cap to have a magician as their overlord, it was even more so to have an active magician. Anyone lucky enough to have Jim appear within a few feet of him unexpectedly had a story to tell for the rest of his life.

  Jim became aware that Gwynneth was bobbing a curtsy at him. It was a rather abbreviated curtsy, neither her years nor her figure being adapted to anything more extensive.

  "Would my Lord care for a bite and sup?" she was asking.

  "No, no," said Jim.

  He had become expert, these last eleven days, in the art of appearing to eat one of the lavish holiday dinners, without actually overstuffing himself. Nonetheless, at the moment he felt as if he was not likely to want any more food and drink for another twenty-four hours at least.

  He looked at Gwynneth. She was a sensible, experienced woman, who was knowledgeable about every person in the castle and on the Malencontri lands. He could probably do worse than to at least listen to her opinion.

  "Gwynneth," he said, "I need someone from the castle or the lands who could act as a herald for me at the tournament that's to be held tomorrow at the castle of the Earl. Who do you think would be best for that purpose?"

  "Herald, m'Lord?" echoed Gwynneth, frowning. "I know little of tourneys and heralds and such, m'Lord. They blow horns, I think. The one man who might be best at blowing a horn at Malencontri would be Tom Huntsman."

  Jim winced a little, though internally. There was a community feeling among the servants, he knew, and a definite conviction on their part, that among Jim's faults was the fact that he did not seem to care for hunting the way someone of his wealth and rank should. In fact, he had already gathered that they felt sorry for Tom Huntsman, who was himself feeling slighted and unhappy because the lack of use of the castle's pack of hunting dogs. He had a deep suspicion that it indicated to the world, if not to Jim himself, a feeling that he and they were inadequate in some way.

  Jim took a padded and backed bench at the table and sat down with his chin on his fist.

  He considered Tom Huntsman. The man was very reliable; but hardly the image of the slim, tabar
d-clad figure Jim had been imagining. Tom Huntsman was a short, spare but erect, man in his forties; in superb physical shape from running with his hounds during a chase. He was clean shaven, his hair was gray and he usually smelled rather strongly of the kennels.

  The one thing in his favor was that he had a remarkably resonant, carrying voice. Also, thought Jim, come to consider it, there was the fact that he could blow a hunting horn, which was ordinarily simply a cow's horn, fitted with a nipple. If he could do that, he probably could blow a herald's trumpet as well. Of course, Carolinus had already created a trumpet by magic; perhaps Jim could cause it to make its noise magically as well.

  But actually, Tom Huntsman was a far from impossible suggestion. It was a shame, Jim thought, that he had to be responsible for a situation that put the man in an uncomfortable light. The truth of the matter was that neither Jim nor Angie liked hunting at all. They had been brought up in the twentieth century, grown up with loved pets and cartoon movies of cuddly animals, and surrounded by a general attitude that one should be kind to all creatures, feed the birds in the wintertime and help any animal that had been hurt. Medieval hunting, with its breakneck pounding after the chase, the savage yelping of the dogs, their even more savage tearing at the chase once it had been surrounded and pulled down and before they were beaten off by the huntsmen—all this went directly against something deep in both of them.

  On the other hand, Jim knew very well that from the fourteenth-century viewpoint, such feelings were nonsense. The meat from beasts hunted and killed was a needed addition of protein to winter-bound diets—if not that of the lord and lady in the castle, then at least to the servants in that same castle and even those outside it. Wild game, from rabbits to boar or even bear—although bears had just about become nonexistent in the south of England by this time—was not only worthwhile but a necessary thing.

  Still, he and Angie could not help feeling that the chasing and killing was too much like a Roman holiday with games in the arena—at this point in his thoughts Jim felt his elbow nudged.

  He lifted it and his head, to discover that a cloth was being spread on the table and pitchers of wine and water, with a large glass cup, had been set in front of him, together with some small baked pies.

  "Just in case your Lordship should wish something after all," murmured Gwynneth in his ear.

  Jim managed to contain the sigh that started inside him. It was no use. He had to sit here with food in front of him, if only because that his servants would be uncomfortable if he didn't. However, the interruption had joggled his thoughts off hunting back to his problems; and it occurred to him that while Tom Huntsman might not be the ideal herald himself—as someone who was deeply involved with hunts, which meant deeply involved with the noble class—he might have more knowledge of heralds than anyone else in the castle at the moment.

  Besides, at the moment he was the only lead that Jim had.

  "Send him to me," said Jim to Gwynneth.

  "Yes, m'Lord."

  Jim waited. He never usually had to wait long for anyone who served in the castle, because normally they came at once, and came at a run. Absent-mindedly, he found himself dumping a little bit of wine into his cup. He stopped and filled it up with water. It was almost tasteless in the proportions in which he mixed it, but that was all to the good. He sipped at it, thoughtfully. His mind had automatically gone off to things he would need to tell the dragons at Cliffside.

  One of the things to get very clear was where the dragons would stay, until it was time for them to come forward into the play—or some of them, Jim corrected his thought. There were over a hundred Cliffside dragons. That was a lot of dragon. Probably, the answer was just to have four or five of them come forward as representatives of the whole group.

  Also, it would be a good idea to have them all warned to stay back among the trees, and not make any particular show of themselves. That would help keep the fighting men among the guests from getting either nervous or combative. In fact, it would be best if he announced to the assembled guests that dragons would be there; but he was putting a magic wall between them and the dragons, so that they could not get to the dragons, or the dragons get to them—on second thought, it had better be expressed only as "the dragons could not get to them"—

  "M'Lord?"

  He woke up from his contemplation of his cup and his thoughts to see Tom Huntsman standing in front of the table, with his cap in his hands.

  "Ah, Tom!" said Jim as genially as he could make himself sound. "I'm afraid I haven't paid as much attention to the kennels as I should, what with being away from the castle, and having so many other things to do while I'm here. I trust the hounds are all right?"

  "They do well, m'Lord," said Tom.

  "How many of them are there now?" asked Jim.

  "Twenty-nine, m'Lord," said Tom. "Harebell and Gripper died this last winter. But just a week gone, Styax, one of the younger bitches, gave us a good litter of nine pups, five of which I wager will make the pack, if they last through this winter."

  "Good!" said Jim. "Very good. And they're all in good health, and that sort of thing?"

  "They need exercise, m'Lord," said Tom.

  There was not the least note of reproach in Tom's voice. Jim was quite aware that Tom exercised the hounds daily, taking them out for long runs, and in fact running with them through the woods. But he did not hunt with them. He called them in if they started on the trail of any scent at all. Actually hunting with the dogs was an occupation for people of higher rank than just the castle huntsman; even though he knew much more about it than any of those around him at any given time. So there was no sound of complaint to be heard in his words, now, but a sort of aura of censure radiated from him.

  "Well, well," said Jim, "I must find time to go out with them soon. Yes, soon. However, Tom, that isn't the reason I wanted to see you. Lady Angela is arranging for a play to be given during our visit at the Earl's castle."

  "Indeed, m'Lord," said Tom.

  "Yes," said Jim. "And a need for someone to play the part of a herald has arisen. I thought you might know of someone who could act the part. He would have to know how to sit a horse, and to blow a herald's trumpet."

  "There is no one in or about Malencontri who can blow a trumpet, m'Lord," said Tom decisively.

  "Oh?" said Jim. "I thought it was very much like blowing a hunting horn."

  "Not so, m'Lord," said Tom. "The nipple of the horn makes a note. The note is made on the trumpet when it is blown by the way the herald's lips are set on the open mouthpiece of the trumpet."

  "Oh," said Jim again.

  It occurred to him abruptly that he might be using that conversational sound a little too much. But in any case, if the huntsman was correct, Jim was going to have to make sure the trumpet was blown magically. But he still needed someone to sit in the saddle and hold it. He had already been planning to do the herald's speaking for him, in any case. He merely needed a body properly clothed on a horse—and even the clothing, the herald's tabard, could be provided magically.

  "Well, never mind that, then," he said. "But who do you know we have in the castle, or on Malencontri's lands, who is fairly young—between fifteen and twenty, say—who can ride and sit straight in a saddle? Someone who could look like a herald, if he was properly dressed and placed as to appear one?"

  "Well, there's Ned Dunster, m'Lord," said Tom. "He's a bright one, and bidable. He remembers his orders well. It's in my mind that he's seventeen years, now, but it may be he is a year or so younger. Shall I send him to you, m'Lord?"

  "If you would, Tom," said Jim. "And—oh, yes, I was glad to hear about that new litter. If I can ever get around to using the pack, we should have some interesting hunts."

  He felt like the sleaziest of dishonest politicians in saying what he did; but people of Tom's class were used to people of Jim's class promising things and then forgetting about them completely—and he did have to have someone to stand there and fill the part of herald when h
e introduced Mnrogar to the crowd watching the tournament. He felt even more guilty, as he saw Tom's face light up with at least a ray of hope.

  "I'll send him to you right away, m'Lord," said Tom, and ran off.

  He was back within minutes with Ned Dunster, a bright-eyed individual only a few inches taller than Tom Huntsman himself, and clearly on the knife-edge between the last of youth and the first of full manhood.

  He was sturdily built, with straight, light hair that was brown and eyes of the same color, a square chin and an open face that was one of the naturally happiest faces Jim had ever seen.

  There was a merriment like an aura around him. Not the slightly mischievous merriment that Jim was more used to encountering in a great many of these medieval people at moments, but a sort of continuous wonder and happiness—even surprise—at everything about him. It was as if, even after nearly two decades of life, he was still finding the world crammed with wonderful and interesting discoveries to be made. He came to a halt with Tom Huntsman in front of the high table.

  "M'Lord," said Tom, "this is the kennel lad I told you about, Ned Dunster."

  "M'Lord," said Ned, pulling off his very scruffy headgear, which might have looked something like a beret at one time but now was unrecognizable, except as a rag that would cling to the head, instead of falling off with the first nod or bow—the second of which Ned had just clumsily attempted.

  "Ned," Jim said, "Tom Huntsman tells me that you can ride a horse."

  "Yes, m'Lord," said Ned. "I started riding the miller's horses when I worked for him as a tiny lad, before I ever came to the castle."

  "Good," said Jim. "I'll also want you to go through the motions of blowing a herald's horn."

  "A herald's horn?" said Ned, staring at him. "Crave your pardon, m'Lord, but what's a herald's horn?"