Song of the Gargoyle (20 page)

At first the young man could not decide. The knight—who soon announced himself to be Lord Wilfar, youngest son of the baron of Unterrike—gave an order, and then changed his mind. His first demand was for Tymmon’s party to go at top speed to Unterrike to fetch help. But then, as they were preparing to obey, he suddenly revised the order.

“Once out of my sight you’ll likely only fetch back some older members of your thieving tribe to slit my throat and steal the rest of my belongings. No. You will stay with me. All of you. You will help me to make my own way back to the castle.”

But after his first attempt to gain his feet, he reverted to the first plan, and then once again changed back. It was not until an hour at least had passed, and much preparation had been completed by Tymmon, that the decision was final, and the procession was under way.

First came the young knight, stripped now of all his gleaming armor. Leaning on a long staff on one side and Tymmon on the other, and with his injured leg bound and splinted, he managed to hobble forward with much groaning and swearing. He had, however, refused to part with his sword: strapped around his waist, the gem-encrusted scabbard flopped to and fro, constantly whacking Tymmon’s shins as they lurched forward.

Behind this stumbling pair followed Troff and the two children, whose progress too was slow, burdened as they were by various bits and pieces of armor. The breastplate and backplate hung across Troff’s back over his already heavy pack. Petrus wore the dented helmet, at first with some pride and pleasure, and carried various pieces of leg harness. Even little Dalia struggled along under the weight of brassards and gauntlets. Crippled and heavily laden, the little caravan moved forward in fits and starts.

They rested first in the shade of an old elm. Leaning back against the tree trunk, Sir Wilfar drank from Tymmon’s water gourd, drank again, and then leaned back limply and closed his eyes. Petrus and Dalia squatted nearby and stared at their new traveling companion with open curiosity. Troff had collapsed some distance away. He seemed anxious, aloof, and watchful. But when Tymmon came to him and removed his burden of pack and armor, he grinned and quickly rolled on his back, offering his stomach for a scratch.

“Hey, old friend,” Tymmon whispered, “what do you think? Will it be wise for us to go to Unterrike? It is very near to Austerneve, you know.”

The gargoyle’s only answer was to ask for more scratching, but later, when Sir Wilfar opened his eyes, frowned at the children, and told them to move away, Troff clearly said that he did not like the young knight. And Tymmon grinned and said he felt much the same. “But I suppose we must help him on a little farther. Perhaps we will soon meet some of his people, and then we will be allowed to continue on to Austerneve.”

Tymmon went back then to sit near the injured knight. A number of questions had occurred to him, and when Sir Wilfar opened his eyes, he ventured one of them.

“How is it, sir, that you were riding alone and in full armor so far from your castle?”

The question aroused more oaths and mutterings, but then an answer was forthcoming. “I had decided to leave early for the tournament, before the rest of my father’s party had finished their everlasting preparations. I wanted to arrive early to accustom my new horse to the lists—curse his evil heart—and to be the first to register my name, that I might get my choice of the contenders’ pavilions. My squire and I left before the others and took the faster route through the foothills, but we had not gone far when the faithless wretch deserted me. He was riding behind me and I did not realize that he had gone until it was too late. I went back to look for him but he had disappeared.”

Tymmon was aghast. Such behavior in a pledged squire violated the oath of loyalty, one of the most sacred charges of chivalry. “Why would he do such a thing? Are you sure he was not silently ambushed by brigands or...

“No. He deserted,” Sir Wilfar said and then went on to give his reasons for thinking so. His faithless squire, foisted upon him for political reasons it seemed, was the heir to a nearby estate. The spoiled and pampered only son of some minor noble, he had from early on been surly and resentful. “And today when I disciplined him by bringing my riding crop down across his shoulders he muttered something rebellious, and it was shortly thereafter that he disappeared. I will see to it that he is charged with treason, and also with endangering my life.”

“Endangering your life?” Tymmon asked.

“Yes, indeed. It was only because of my anger when I realized that I had been deserted, that I reacted as I did when Avenger shied at a shadow and almost unseated me. In my just and understandable wrath I forgot for a moment that the beast’s trainer had warned that he would bolt if he were beaten over the head, and I... He shrugged.

“I see,” Tymmon said solemnly, hiding the smile that might have given away his sudden conviction that the steed, Avenger, had cleverly made use of an oak tree branch to live up to his name.

“And now I will miss the tournament at Austerneve and my first opportunity to gain fame and glory in the lists. And it is all the fault of...

He rambled on but Tymmon had ceased to listen. “Austerneve?” he asked. “There is to be a tournament at Austerneve?”

“Yes. To celebrate the betrothal of my brother, Quantor, to the princess Arnica, King Austern’s granddaughter and heir.”

“Princess Arnica?” Tymmon gasped in disbelief. The small pale child he had often seen in the great hall at Austerneve, who even now could not be more than eight or nine years of age.

“Of course she is still quite young,” Sir Wilfar said as if in answer to his thoughts, “but the wedding will not take place for some years, and in the meantime... He grinned, and silently Tymmon supplied what he was obviously thinking. In the meantime the baronet would be recognized as the legal heir to all the lands and holdings of Austerneve.

It was a short time later, while he was strapping Troff into his pack and armor, that Tymmon noticed that Sir Wilfar was watching him with some interest. And it was when they were again under way, stumbling slowly down toward the road that could now be seen in the valley far below, that the knight began to ask questions about the gargoyle.

“What breed is he?” he asked. “I have seen dogs of similar shape and conformation in the low countries, but none quite so large and of such a striking appearance. You should outfit him with a spiked collar and enter him in the dogfights in the villages. One could win a small fortune with such a dog if he is as fierce as he looks.”

And when Tymmon said he did not know the name of the breed but that he understood it was one developed for the hunting of bear and boar, the knight’s interest seemed even keener.

“And is your dog trained for hunting, then?” he asked.

“He is a great hunter,” Tymmon said proudly, and then, watching the eager gleam in the young knight’s eyes, he suddenly wished that he had said no, that Troff was entirely useless as a hunter and as a fighter as well.

On the rest of the journey there was no more talk of Troff. Instead Sir Wilfar began to describe his recent knighting. As they stumbled forward with the large and well-fleshed youth leaning heavily on Tymmon’s shoulder, he spoke at great length of the glories of knighthood and of the inspiring ceremony that had so recently raised him to that exalted level.

He told of the fasting and bathing that had preceded the long night’s vigil kneeling in the deserted church, and then of the glorious oath-taking before the assembled nobles. He went on then to tell of his high hopes for fame and glory since he was obviously so well suited to knighthood. Well suited to join the ranks of the loyal and courageous men who loved honor above all else and welcomed bloody battle as the most noble and glorious of all conditions of life.

They had almost reached the highroad and Tymmon, exhausted as much by Sir Wilfar’s tongue as by the weight of his body, was no longer making much response, when a sudden question sprang to his lips unbidden.

“Sir Wilfar,” he hastily inserted into a momentary pause, “do you know of a deserted manor house about a day’s journey to the south in the direction of Bidborn?”

“A deserted manor?” Wilfar repeated. And then, “Oh, yes. In a valley below the highroad? A tall structure with towers at the four corners and built of pale gray stone?”

“Yes,” Tymmon said. “That is the one.”

Sir Wilfar chuckled. “It is Unterrike property now,” he said. “It was once held by the family of a minor noble known as Dannold, but it is now part of Unterrike, fairly won in honorable combat.”

“Fairly won in honorable combat?” Tymmon whispered. “Were you there, sir, when Dannold Hall was taken?”

“Was I there?” Wilfar said disgustedly. “No, I was not. I very much wanted to be, but that was some two years ago, before my knighting, and my father refused to let me ride with him and Quantor. But I have since been with him on other dangerous undertakings. I have...

“But, sir,” Tymmon interrupted, “I thought the High King had outlawed such private battles. I thought...

Wilfar laughed. “The High King is far away and he seldom hears of such small misunderstandings between neighbors. And even if he should, my father has heard that a gift of suitable generosity can turn aside his anger.”

Tymmon staggered, shaken by a flood of violent emotions, and Sir Wilfar cursed his awkwardness. At that moment the injured knight came very close to being unceremoniously dumped on the ground and left to fend for himself. In fact he surely would have been had there not been a sudden shout from Petrus.

“Look. Look, Boy. An army. Down there on the road.”

It was true. Far down on the valley floor an army, or at least a large procession of horsemen, had come into view on the low road that led to Austerneve. At least a dozen knights in full armor led the party, followed by thirty or forty squires, pages, and other attendants. Up and down the column banners fluttered and the sunlight glinted off shining armor, gem-encrusted satins and velvets, and the sleek hides of well-groomed horses. And behind the procession a great column of dust rose up from under the horses’ hooves and drifted backwards like a following white cloud.

It was, no doubt, a glorious and stirring sight, but at the moment Tymmon was too troubled and harassed to appreciate it. On the one hand Sir Wilfar was dragging him down the steep hillside yelling and shouting, while behind them Dalia was shrieking in wild hysteria.

But although Wilfar and Tymmon staggered downward as fast as they could and the young knight’s shouted summons seemed loud enough to alert an entire kingdom, no one from the passing army looked up or answered. Deafened, no doubt, by their own clanking, jangling, clopping progress, they seemed to hear nothing, and soon passed from view, hidden by their trailing cloud of dust.

Tymmon broke away then and ran back to comfort Dalia, who had collapsed in a moaning, trembling heap.

Petrus crouched over her, vainly patting her back. “It be the army that frighted her,” he said. “It be like the one that came to our farm. Just like that one.”

Sitting beside Dalia, Tymmon pulled her onto his lap and cradled her while he told her over and over again that the army had meant them no harm and that they were now gone away.

By then Sir Wilfar, who had necessarily remained where Tymmon had left him, had begun to shout for him to return. Again Tymmon considered going off and leaving the knight to find other rescuers as best he might, but in the end he relented and returned with a suggestion.

“I’m afraid, sir, that we can go no farther as we are. As you can see, the path below us becomes much steeper. But perhaps I could send Petrus down to the road to stop the next travelers and ask them for assistance.”

Wilfar considered the proposal suspiciously for some moments before he agreed. But agree he finally did. And so it was that before another hour had passed Petrus had stopped an ox cart and enlisted the help of a farmer. A large and muscular farmer who lifted the young knight onto his back like a sack of flour and carried him down to his cart.

And soon afterwards Tymmon, Troff, and the two children were packed into the ox cart along with Sir Wilfar and his arms and armor. And the cart was on its way back toward the south and the Castle of Unterrike.

T
YMMON HAD NOT MEANT
to go to Unterrike. Once Sir Wilfar had been safely settled in the ox cart, along with his ankle-bruising sword and all his various bits and pieces of armor, Tymmon had bidden him and the farmer good-bye and Godspeed. But as he took Petrus and Dalia’s hands and turned toward the north, the knight called to him.

“Halt, lad,” he said in a surprisingly pleasant tone of voice. “Do not go. I would like you to accompany me back to the castle. I want to”—there was a brief pause—“to reward you for your assistance. Yes, I wish to repay you for coming to my aid. Here. Climb up on the cart and we will be off. And your dog, too. And, yes, the children as well, I suppose. Bring them all up into the cart. There is room enough for all.”

Tymmon was declining the kind offer with humble and grateful thanks when Sir Wilfar ordered the farmer to lift the children into the cart. And when the huge man had obeyed without hesitation, and when neither the farmer nor the young knight paid the slightest attention to Tymmon’s protests, there was nothing for Tymmon to do but join them, and Troff with him. The driver climbed onto his seat and cracked his whip, the oxen plodded forward, and before an hour had passed the walls and towers of Unterrike rose up on the horizon before them.

The Dark Castle, as Unterrike had long been called, was built of stone the color of old ash heaps. Looming up against the sky from its base on a rocky hillside, its crowded throng of ashy-hued towers and turrets made it seem a city of darkness. And well it might, since for many years, long before the reign of the present baron, the castle had figured in the darkest dreams of all its neighbors.

It was not Tymmon’s first visit to Unterrike Castle. Some years before he had been there with his father. It had been at the time that the treaty of peace had been renewed between Austerneve and Unterrike, and all of King Austern’s court had been invited to join in a celebration at the baron’s castle. And as a favorite of the old king’s, Komus had been granted the right to bring his young son to witness the grand and glorious occasion.