Igraine the Brave (12 page)

“Well, we’ll see about that,” said Igraine, straightening up again. “How did he rob you of your honor? Not just by defeating you?”

“No, a knight does not lose his honor when he is defeated in a fair fight. He did worse, much worse, and I became the Sorrowful Knight of the Mount of Tears.”

“Oh, come on!” Igraine reached for his hand. “It can’t be as bad as all that. But you don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to. Just come to Pimpernel with me and you can watch my parents turn Osmund and the Spiky Knight into tadpoles or wood lice. They need the giant’s hairs for that, however, because they’re pigs at the moment, I’m afraid. Very pretty pigs, though.”

A tiny smile appeared on the Sorrowful Knight’s lips.

“I suppose magic isn’t allowed in chivalry, is it?” asked Igraine.

“No. That would be dishonorable,” replied the knight.

“Well, never mind.” Igraine went over to Lancelot and put his bridle on again. “I’m very bad at remembering magic spells, anyway. Let’s ride on, and you can tell me what else is dishonorable.”

“As you wish, Brave Igraine,” said the Sorrowful Knight, mounting his horse. “Do you know, I am sure you will be an excellent knight someday.”

15

I
graine dared not ride past Darkrock carrying the precious giant’s hairs. So they turned west, where the One-Eyed Duke ruled the land and its people. Neither Igraine nor the Sorrowful Knight had ever ridden this way, but Igraine knew that the Elfin River would lead them to the Whispering Woods.

Soon dense woods came down to the banks of the river. They offered protection from prying eyes, but progress was slower among the trees than in the hills. The horses grew restless; they picked up the acrid scent of bears and wolves. Igraine and the knight had their swords at the ready, but apart from a couple of robbers who made off at the sight of their armor, nothing but hares and deer crossed their path.

It was a hot day, but under the trees it felt cool, and early in the afternoon Igraine saw the Duke’s castle on a hill not far away. It was surrounded by miserable straw huts, and the peasants with their children were toiling away in the fields outside, sweating in the baking sun.

Igraine reined in her horse. “Look at that,” she said. “Even the children have to work from sunrise to sunset while the Duke goes out hunting. I wouldn’t want to end up that sort of knight.”

The Sorrowful Knight smiled. He was smiling more and more often now.

“I hardly think we need worry about that, noble Igraine,” he said.

They went on following the river. Soon it made its way, foaming, through a ravine with steep and densely overgrown sides. Only a narrow path led along it above the water.

“Why don’t you live in your castle anymore?” Igraine asked the knight as they followed the path side by side. “It must be terribly cold and drafty in that tower.” And there were probably any number of spiders, but presumably the knight didn’t mind them.

For some time he didn’t answer. And when he finally did, his voice was dark with sadness. “I was once the guardian of a castle,” he said. “Three ladies lived there, and I was appointed to protect them.”

“What for? Couldn’t they protect themselves?” asked Igraine.

“They weren’t like you,” replied the knight.

“What became of them?”

There was another long pause. Then the knight said, “Rowan Heartless, whom you call the Spiky Knight, stole them away, and I could do nothing to stop him.”

“Oh!” Igraine looked at him in dismay. “But how could they just let themselves be stolen away like that?”

The knight never got around to answering her. There was a rustling in the bushes on the slope to their left. Lancelot shied away as something slithered down the ravine with a loud squawk. It landed in front of the stallion’s hooves in a shower of leaves and twigs that had been torn loose, rolled on, and fell into the river with a mighty splash.

“What was that?” asked Igraine, bending over Lancelot’s neck.

Three heads emerged from the river, spluttering, the third one noticeably smaller than the other two. They all belonged to a moss-green dragon that hauled itself out of the water, snorting angrily, and stared grimly up at Igraine and the Sorrowful Knight.

“Oh, no! Two more of them!” growled the smallest head. “It’s one of those days again.”

“What are you gaping at?” bellowed the other two heads. “Are you out hunting dragons for fun, too? Do you need a dragon’s head to hang over your castle gate? Look at my third head, will you? The One-Eyed Duke cut it off, and it still hasn’t grown back any larger than one of your silly human heads. I really am sick and tired of this. And today that fellow’s after me again! Don’t you and your sort in those tinpot helmets have anything better to do? What the …”

“We don’t hunt dragons!” Igraine interrupted as soon as she could get a word in. “Really we don’t. Word of knightly honor!”

“I wouldn’t give much for that!” growled the dragon back. “But I don’t fancy sitting about in this icy water any longer, either.”

It sneezed three times as it waded to land, going red in its three green faces, and once on the bank it shook itself so vigorously that Lancelot almost bolted. The Sorrowful Knight’s mare, however, seemed to be used to dragons.

“Look at me!” muttered the dragon, dragging its tail out of the river and gloomily examining its reflection. “Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. My head is no bigger than a plum, and if that Duke had his way, I’d have three heads that size on my neck!”

Its scaly body was so large that it entirely blocked the path between the slope and the river. Igraine was just wondering how they were ever going to get past it when the Sorrowful Knight turned in his saddle.

“There’s someone coming,” he told her softly. “Draw your sword.”

Igraine obeyed. She heard the sound of galloping hooves, the clank of armor, and dogs barking.

The dragon hunched all three heads down between its shoulders in alarm. “I know who that is!” it hissed. “I just can’t seem to shake him off. I suppose I’ll have to wave good-bye to another head now!”

“No, you won’t,” said Igraine, turning Lancelot so that he was standing in front of the dripping-wet dragon. The Sorrowful Knight brought his horse up beside her, and laid his sword over his knees. Igraine did the same.

“What’s all this about?” asked the dragon, taken aback.

“We will protect you, fire-worm,” replied the Sorrowful Knight. “Or have you ever done the One-Eyed Duke wrong?”

“Of course not,” cried the dragon. “I’ve never done a living soul wrong. I haven’t cut off one of anyone’s heads! I feed on moonlight, and all I want is to lie in my cave and be left in peace.”

“Indeed, that is not too much to ask,” said the Sorrowful Knight.

“Here he comes!” cried Igraine.

Four hounds, barking, raced down the path. Behind them galloped a knight on a large horse, which was also wearing armor. The rider’s visor was open, and Igraine saw that he wore an eye patch embroidered with pearls. The coat of arms on his shield was a dragon’s head. When the hounds saw the strange knights they stopped in surprise, growled, and put their ears back. Their master, taken aback, reined his horse in.

“Out of my way, you!” he roared. “That’s my dragon. I’ve been after it for weeks. What’s more, you’re trespassing on my property. So clear off, and get a move on!”

The hounds growled louder than ever and cautiously ventured a little closer.

“Run for it, dragon,” said Igraine over her shoulder, without taking her eyes off the Duke. “And if you want to be rid of this one-eyed idiot forever, move to the Whispering Woods. No one hunts dragons there.”

The dragon’s three pairs of eyes looked incredulously down at her. Then it turned and scuttled away as fast as its scaly legs would carry it.

“Stop! Stop, blast you!” bellowed the One-Eyed Duke, so angry that he almost fell off his horse. “You two will be sorry for this! That was the only three-headed dragon in my forests!”

With a brusque movement he drew his sword, waved it over his head, uttered a loud roar, and stormed forward.

“Leave this to me,” the Sorrowful Knight whispered to Igraine. Without waiting for her answer, he raised his shield and urged his horse on along the narrow path to meet the One-Eyed Duke.

The Duke slammed his sword down on the Sorrowful Knight’s shield so furiously that Igraine could hardly see or hear for the noise. But the Sorrowful Knight didn’t seem particularly impressed. Effortlessly, he fended off the wild sword strokes, then suddenly lowered his shield. The Duke immediately went at the target so easily offered, and the Sorrowful Knight answered with a blow that struck the sword from his hand. It flew through the air and landed in the river. The Duke, taken aback, watched it go — and fell backward off his horse when the Sorrowful Knight dealt him another blow on the breastplate. His hounds licked his face as he landed among them, and his horse jumped into the river, swam to the opposite bank, and stood there with its reins dangling.

The Sorrowful Knight rode over to his fallen opponent, dismounted, and looked down at him. “Do you require my help?” he asked.

“No!” shouted the One-Eyed Duke. “You were lucky, that’s all! Tell me your name, so that I can find you and take revenge for this disgrace!”

Without a word, Igraine’s companion put his sword back in its scabbard and remounted his horse. “I am the Sorrowful Knight of the Mount of Tears,” he said. “And you, less than noble knight, surely do not know the meaning of disgrace.”

So saying, he turned his gray mare, rode back to Igraine, and with a weary wave of his hand gestured to her to follow him.

“You just leave the dragons alone in future, understand?” called Igraine to the Duke, who was still lying among his hounds. “If I ever hear otherwise, you’ll have me to deal with. Or I’ll tell my mother to turn you into a fat worm.”

The Duke could think of no answer to that, and Igraine turned Lancelot and rode after the Sorrowful Knight.

16

I
t was pitch-dark by the time they reached Pimpernel, but even from some way off they could see countless fires burning in the darkness, and when they came closer, Igraine realized that hundreds of tents had been pitched on the meadows outside the castle. Osmund’s banner was fluttering over the largest tent. Pimpernel was under siege.