The Complete Compleat Enchanter (40 page)

“Whew!” said Shea, the wind of the heights on his face and a jellylike feeling in his center. “Sir Astolph, I think your Buttercup should use a rocket-assisted take-off.”

“Wouldn’t do, old man,” said Astolph, over his shoulder. “Laws of nature diff . . . frame of reference . . .” His words whirred away down the wind of their passage as Shea reflected that according to the theory of dynamics, this beast wouldn’t even be able to get off the ground. The contact with Belphebe sent tingles up his arms; he wanted to get her away for a good long talk. She seemed unaware of the emotion she was provoking.

The hippogriff apparently disliked the weight of its triple load and at every landing it sighted below, tried to spiral in for a landing. Astolph had to bark to keep it on course. After the third of these aborted efforts, Shea saw a cleared area of some extent; the details grew slowly to those of a small village with thatched roofs, surrounded by a patchwork of planted fields, plowed with ground and weedy meadow. The hippogriff, its horse-end sweating, swooped eagerly down, skimmed the ground, pulled into a stall, and made a four-point landing that jarred Shea’s teeth.

He climbed down and reached up a hand to help Belphebe, but she vaulted down without seeing him and he felt foolish. With the half-unconscious effort one makes to cover embarrassments, he swung toward the cottages, and as he did so, a chorus of screams burst from them. Men and women boiled out one after another, running for their lives. They were either deeply or suspiciously sunburned, and most wore nothing but long, dirty, ragged shirts, and the speed of their passage took no notice of hippogriff or riders.

After the spreading rout came two men. The shorter of the pair, a good-looking, youngish fellow with strong hands, seemed to be trying to pacify the other. The second individual wore the medieval-type garments with hosen and turned-up shoes Shea had seen in Faerie, but with the laces of his jacket dangling. His face was unbarbered and his eyes roved. The fists waved in jerky motions; the voice growled.

“Upon my soul!” said Astolph. “Look here, you chaps, cheerio, and all that.”

The shorter man gave a glance, waved a momentary hand, clamped a wrist-lock on the other and led him over to the newcomers. Shea perceived that the wild man would be handsome in a Latin sort of way if cleaned up.

“Greetings, most noble Astolph,” said the short man, with as near an approach to a bow as he could manage with his grip on the other, “and to you, fair Belphegor, hail. The wrath is on our great companion once more; he had slain half the village, had I not let him. Yet in true gentilesse, the fault be not wholly his own.”

“Indeed? Tell us about it, old man,” said Astolph.

“Would you believe it, fair lady, and you, gentles? A hart of eight brought I home, as pricksome a bit of venison as ever a man saw before vespers. A meal for the Emperor’s own majesty, one might think; make it a pie, or what will you? Nay, these base varlets must even serve it up boiled, as though ’twere salt stockfish in Lent. I gagged, but our friend Roland put down the first two bits fairly enough. At the third, me seems he must have recovered a whit of the laws of cookery, for he gave a great howl like a lion and set upon the knaves, beating in their heads with his fists. But alas, to what purpose? Not even a crack will let savor into such skulls.”

He looked round the group and his eye came to rest on Shea. “A Paynim, ha! I thank you, Lord Astolph; a cut from his haunch will recompense me my venison.” He gave a barking laugh to demonstrate that this was meant for humor. Shea smiled dutifully.

“All—er—” said Astolph. “Lord Reinald of Montalban, may I present to you Sir Harold de Shea? A johnny from England—that is, from one of our subject allies.” He swung to Shea. “I’d be glad to present you to Count Roland d’Anglante, except that as you see, the poor lad wouldn’t recognize you.” The Count, who was apparently the wild man, was alternately sucking one finger and tapping the end of it in the palm of the hand on which Lord Reinald retained his grip. It seemed to provide him with deep satisfaction. “Sir Harold is also looking for Roger of Carena. Small world, isn’t it?”

“The chase is like to be longer than that for Angelica,” said Reinald, reaching his free hand inside his jacket and producing something which Shea did not quite make out to kiss before he went on. “We have it on the word of the kerns that Sir Roger passed through at spark of dawn, moving as though Saint Beelzebub were on his slot.”

“Really, old man!” cried Astolph. “I must be losing my grip; to hear that he slipped past my watch is more startling than your canonization of Beelzebub.”

Reinald shrugged and resisted a sudden jerk by his companion. “Let buy a candle for Lucifer, then. The thing’s established—would you doubt my word?”

“No, but—look, here, old man, it’s rather important for the Emperor. Whyn’t you stop him?”

“Can a man live forever like a priest? Roland slept; I tied him to a rafter and sought a damsel who had made certain signs by the fountain.”

“How perfectly rotten of you!” cried Astolph. “What the devil did you funk the job for?”

Reinald grimaced. “Angelica lost, and fair Belphegor drives me to a distance with arrows sharper than Saint Cupid’s own. What’s left of life?”

There seemed not much more to say. They walked back toward the village, Astolph fingering his chin. He looked up to remark: “Do you know, I believe Sir Roger will head west, then double back to join Agramant’s army. Sort of thing he would consider the height of cleverness.” He turned to Shea. “Your gangster friend with the odd name won’t find him. That direction would be the double bluff.”

He paused and, pulling the hippogriffs head down to his lips, said something in his ear that sounded like a series of low-toned whistles. The animal cocked an intelligent eye at him and stood still.

Among the huts a table stood under a tree, and on it lay two large wooden plates with boiled meat which gave off a powerful odor of garlic and was framed in congealing grease. There were no other plates in sight, nor anything to drink.

While the others waited politely Reinald went from door to door, shouting in each without result, then returned, shaking his head gloomily. “The rats have fled the larder,” he said. “Beyond the mind of reasonable man to riddle out. Sir Harold, how wags it in your country? Would not men without number be glad and overglad to have lords of Charles’ own court to hold them with harm?”

Shea raised his eyebrows. “It couldn’t be that they’re afraid of your friend’s tempers?”

“Think you so, indeed?” Reinald’s eye brightened and he nodded his head as though something new and important had come into his life. “They be base-born enough. Three or four has he slain, but no more; and even those without pretension to gentle blood. It might be, though; fear of death is ever dreadful to those who know it not for a mocker. A mystery.”

The five made room on a couple of rough-hewn benches and divided the meat with knives supplied by Reinald and Astolph, washing it down with water from the village well, drunk from the bucket. Shea hoped that the fauna of this continuum did not include typhoid germs, the back of his mind assuring him comfortingly that the deadliest disease present would probably be African fever induced by night air. All the same when he noticed a crawfish clinging to the moss inside the bucket, he and the crawfish pointedly ignored each other.

Reinald gnashed his teeth across a bone and addressed Astolph: “Start we tonight or attend the Lady Bradamant, the mirror of true valor?”

Said Astolph: “I don’t really believe we gain anything by a night march, do you? After all, it will be hard going with Count Roland in such a state, and we won’t really lose anything, since I doubt if Roger is up to a night march. Up with the birds, then . . . but wait a tick. Our young friend here is a jolly and good qualified magician, and says he knows a spell to bring Roland’s wits back.”

Reinald crossed himself. “Holy Saint Virgil, protect us! Those wits lost to black Mahound!”

“Would simplify—”

Count Roland, who had been slobbering over his meat, suddenly turned round to look at Shea and said in a loud, clear voice: “You Saracen! I slay you!” and leaped from his place, trotting around the table with dirty hands outstretched.

“Get him—” yelled Astolph, as the others scrambled to their feet, but the latter was upon Shea before he could more than get on his feet. He did the only thing he could think of at the moment to save his neck without bringing the others down upon him; viz, ducked, knocked the clutching right hand up with his own left and dug his own right with all his strength into the Count’s belly. It was like punching a truck-tire, but Roland staggered two steps, almost upset the table, sat down with a fishlike expression, spreading across his face, and as he recovered his breath, began to cry.

Shea, shaking his hand to get the tingle out of his knuckles, almost laughed at the sight of Reinald’s open mouth. “By my halidome!” said the paladin. “A rude stroke was that.”

“Oh, yes,” said Astolph. “Quite good at the thrust, this young fella; nearly gutted me like a bird a bit back. If you ever fight him, Lord Reinald, guard against that straight lunge. Now look here, I think we can reach an agreement. Sir Harold, I take it, only wants Roger to exchange him for a brace of friends, now in durance in Castle Carena, where that blighter Atlantès is holding them in chancery. If he can restore Roland’s wits for us, I say that with three paladins, we ought to be able to set him on the right track.”

Reinald blinked once or twice in a way Shea found not altogether pleasing. “The Lady Bradamant would stand our certain aid, I doubt not,” he said. “Is aught of philosophical apparatus required for your enchantment, Sir Harold?”

“No-o-o. Not that I know of; unless you have a night light.”

“That wot I not of; but since there be no bar and our composition waits but on your action, speed on. It is good law that the vavasour render his service before he have his sustention.”

Shea looked at Belphegor (whom he insisted upon calling Belphebe in his mind), but she was looking in the other direction, after a single glance. He was not at all sure that he understood what Reinald was saying and he would much rather have a tête-à-tête with his wife, but as near as he could make out, the two paladins were making a deal with him to get Doc and Florimel out of Castle Carena if he got Count Roland out of what seemed to be a case of simple throwback amnesia. He sighed and addressed himself to the task by turning toward the still softly sniffling paladin:

“There, there, that didn’t hurt much, did it? But when little boys are bad, they have to learn . . .” Belphegor’s mouth fell open a little as he droned on, but the wild man looked at Shea interestedly, then suddenly seized him around the neck and implanted a greasy kiss on his cheek.

Reinald laughed openly; Astolph seemed to have some difficulty in controlling his breath for a moment and announced that he was for bed. Shea turned toward the pale blue eyes now fixed on his in adoration.

“Want a story?” he asked. “If you’ll come along I’ll tell you one about three—dragons.” The pattern seemed simple; age was suppressed beyond about a three-year-old level. He said rapidly over his shoulder to the others: “This is going to take some time, if the spell will work at all. You all will have to get away from here and wait a while. I could use insulin shock, but that piece of philosophical apparatus isn’t around, so I’ll probably have to work half the night by my own method.”

They went, willingly enough and yawning under the declining light. Roland listened with interest to the story of the three bears, translated into dragons, and demanded more. “No,” said Shea. “You tell me a story instead, ’cause it’s way past my bedtime. Then I’ll tell you one.”

Roland laughed delightedly. “They’re all silly go-to-bed-earlies. What ’tory you want?”

“Well, tell me who you are.”

“I’m me.”

“Sure. You live in a cave, don’t you?” Bits of the
Orlando Furioso
were floating through Shea’s head; or was it the
Chanson de Roland?
He wished he could get them straight, but seemed to be doing all right so far, since his patient remained attentive. “And your mother’s name is Madame Bertha. But what does she call you?”

“Gay-gay. That means ‘snookums,’ an’ it’s white and red.”

Shea grunted internally. This mass of muscle, hair and dirt was about as far from a snookums as he could conceive; but at least the white and red was a tiny advance; those were Roland’s colors. That was in the book. “What else do they call you?”

“Rufly.”

“Not much there. What’s your father like?”

A pout. “Don’t know. Gone to fight Saxons.”

“Didn’t he come back?”

The heavy face became woebegone. “Don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. No tell, no story.”

Roland began to sniffle a little and Shea did not altogether blame him. It must have been pretty rough to move out of a castle into a cave where you didn’t get enough to eat. But he was inexorable; Roland finally stopped sniffling and remarked: “Mama said he gained glory, and the syndics said we mustn’ live there anymore, and I was cold and had a fight and saw a fat man sitting in an inn and somebody blew a music and I don’t like it here and I’m hungry.”

The ice was beginning to crack. Shea felt a jump of joy in his heart and looked around for Belphegor, but she had vanished. With elaborately affected scorn, he said: “I know a better story than that.”

“You do not, either! The fat man was a crowned king, and he was my mama’s brother . . .”

A solemn moon came up and winked through the leaves, then settled slowly toward disappearance-point again as Shea desperately flogged his own memory and the paladin’s on the details of the vanished career. Once he thought he was going to lose his man, when Roland mentioned the name of Angelica, put down his head and wept for quite five minutes; once he thought all would come clear at once, when Shea threw in the name of the giant Ferragus, and the paladin seized a bone from the table, leaping up and shouting “Montjoie!” But that one only collapsed into babbling, and it must have been well past midnight, a poor hour for this country, when Roland once more got to his feet, and pressed the heels of both palms to his eyes.