The Knight of Silk and Steel (2 page)
“It is a simple tale,” Ulrich said, and he walked towards the bar of the tavern.
Leonard the landlord backed away. The shining steel of the swinging sword filled him with fear.
His daughter Meg was not afraid. “We love tales in this tavern,” she said. “But we hear the same ones time and time again. If you have a new tale, then tell us, please!”
Ulrich leaned against the bar. “I’ve travelled twenty leagues today. I need a little food and wine to wash the dust from out of my throat.”
Leonard the landlord bowed so low he almost scraped the floor. “Of course, my lord, we serve the very finest wine … for those who can afford to pay!”
The knight lifted a purse that hung from the silken belt around his dress. “I’ve money … gold or silver, groats or guilders,” he said.
“A groat will buy you wine, and two will buy a plate of stew,” Meg said merrily.
“That’s
two
groats for our finest wine and
four
groats for our better stew,” her father put in greedily.
Ulrich threw a piece of gold upon the counter top. “That should do to buy a drink for everyone here in the tavern… Keep the change,” he shrugged, as Leonard the landlord snatched the coin. “When all my new friends have been served, then I shall tell my tale.”
Ale splashed into cups, and from the cups slopped into mouths, while Ulrich drained the tavern’s finest flagon of rich, red wine.
Meg made sure the man had only plates of lean beef stew and crusty white bread to mop the tasty gravy. The dogs looked up and dribbled down their chops to smell the meal that Meg had made.
At last, the tavern settled back onto their stools and looked towards the bar.
Ulrich was a handsome knight. He wiped his yellow beard carefully and looked around, and fifty pairs of eyes looked back. (Well, fifty-five, if we add in the dogs.)
“My name is Ulrich,” he began. “My tale goes back to when I was a boy of twelve.”
“I’m twelve,” Meg said with a grin, and Ulrich nodded.
“I was a squire.”
“I know what that is!” said Meg. “It’s a boy who helps a knight – he fastens on his armour, cares for his horse and polishes his weapons.”
Ulrich nodded once again, then went on with his tale. “My master was a lord of Alsace on the borders of France. Now, knights must have some deeds to do.”
“Kill dragons!” Tom Fool said, but Ulrich shook his head.
“I’ve never seen a dragon, and I think they just exist in old stories told to frighten children.
Real
knights fight for what is right against the greatest evil of them all – wicked men!”
“Ahhhh!” the crowd inside the tavern sighed.
“But there is one fight greater than all other fights,” the young knight said. “There is one thing that a knight may swear to live and die for…”
“I know!” Meg squealed. “Yes, I know just what you’re going to say.”
“A knight should find a lady fair that he can give his life to,” Ulrich said.
“A lady
fair
!” Meg moaned. “My hair’s as dark as coal.”
Ulrich laughed. “When I say fair, I mean fair of face – or pretty.
She doesn’t have to have fair hair!” he said, and pointed to his own blond wig.
“That’s good,” said the girl. “Carry on. When you were twelve…”
“When I was twelve, I first met with that old man … Death.”
The crowd let out a sorry moan.
“When I was twelve, my master fell in love with Isabel, the fairest lady in the whole of Austria.”
“Then he married her,” Sam the blacksmith groaned. “And they lived happy ever after. Pah! We’ve heard that tale a hundred times. We want the other tale – the one that tells us why you’re wearing a green, silk dress!”
“Oh, silence, Sam!” came Helen’s voice from somewhere underneath the table. “Let the knight tell us his tale in his own time.”
“The Lady Isabel is married,” Ulrich went on. “Her husband is a miserable man. He punishes his peasants, uses them as slaves, he’s mean with money … he lets fair Isabel dress in wool instead of silk.
“He holds no feasts and keeps no jesters, guests get dry bread, wine like vinegar and beds that have more fleas than fleece.”
“We know his sort,” said Ben the badger-baiter quietly. “Your master fought this wicked lord and killed him as dead as some duck’s toenail?”
“Oh, no, my story has a much sadder ending,” young Ulrich moaned, and sipped his rich, red wine. “My master went off to a joust – a mighty show of knights. Each knight takes it in turn to charge another knight with his lance. The knight who breaks the tip off his lance is the winner. He goes on to fight again and again till there is just one knight left … the champion.”
“Your master fought to be the champion and win his lady’s heart?” Meg asked.
“He fought,” young Ulrich sighed.
“And lost?”
“And worse. A knight from France smashed his lance against my master’s shield. The broken splints of lance went through the eyepiece of his helmet, through his eye and clean into his brain!”
“I bet that hurt,” Richard the rabbit-catcher gasped.
Helen the harpist sat up straight. “Don’t be a fool!” she cried. “It wouldn’t hurt at all, for it would kill him dead!”
“It did,” said Ulrich. “Such a mess.” He supped his wine, as red as dead knight’s blood. “I took his armour and vowed that I’d fight on. I’d win the lady’s love, I’d fight a hundred knights – five hundred if I must.”
“All very well,” old John the gong-farmer said. “So you set off around the world to fight five hundred knights. There is a name for knights like that … I can’t remember what it is…”
