The Return of the Dragon (7 page)

Gawain sat on a step in the doorway of the castle kitchen, kicking his heels, waiting until it was his turn to help serve the guests at the banquet in progress in the Great Hall. Behind him, the cook and his helpers were working furiously, preparing platter after platter of food. Servants swept by carrying roast boars with apples in their mouths, whole peacocks, gilded and trimmed with their own green-and-blue tail feathers, and an elaborate sweet in the form of an enormous galleon with spread sails made of sugar.

Gawain was bored. He hated being a page. He dreamed of the days when he would be a knight, dressed in flashing armor and a helmet topped with flowing plumes, riding off on a white charger to battle the enemy with sword, lance, and shield. He wanted to be like Sir Tristram, oldest son of Lord Charles. Sir Tristram, in Gawain’s opinion, was everything a knight should be: wonderfully handsome, unfailingly courteous, and gloriously brave.

“Gawain!” someone shouted from the kitchen. “More wine! Look alive, lad!” Then there was a startled shriek and a crash of falling crockery.

“Gawain!”
the voice shouted again, louder.

Gawain sighed and rose from his seat. In the kitchen, he stepped around a puddle of spilled gravy on the flagstone floor, then filled a pitcher with wine and carried it carefully to the Great Hall. There, moving quietly behind the guests, he filled each empty goblet. Then he went to stand patiently at Lord Charles’s right elbow, awaiting any instructions from the lord or his lady. As the company ate and drank, a troubador dressed in green velvet stepped forward, strummed upon a lute, and began to sing a song of many verses, all about gallant deeds of war.

Gawain shifted restlessly from foot to foot, rustling the clean straw scattered with rose petals that was strewn on the hall floor. His gaze swept around the high stone walls, hung with crossed lances, swords, shields, and silk-embroidered banners. “Sir Gawain,” he whispered under his breath. His fingers drummed on the wine pitcher. He was very bored.

Only one other person in the castle was as bored and unhappy as Gawain. That was his best friend, Eleanor. Eleanor was ten, the very youngest of Lady Margaret’s ladies-in-waiting. Her parents had sent her to Hampton Castle to learn all the graces of noble ladies. She was to learn to dance and sing, to play upon the lute, and to master the art of fine embroidery so that she could make exquisite tapestries. Eleanor was a poor pupil. She hated it all.

“I will never be a lady,” she told Gawain in despair as they stood on the castle wall, looking out toward the great green forest and the distant blue hills. “Everything I do is wrong. I fall over my own feet when I dance the galliard. I can’t carry a tune. I hate embroidery. All my stitches are crooked, and I keep pricking my fingers. My unicorns look like pigs.”

Gawain made a sympathetic sound. He didn’t know what to say. After all, there wasn’t much else for a girl to do.

“Nobody even talks about anything interesting,” Eleanor went on. “All the ladies-in-waiting talk of nothing but fashions and face paint and the best way to dress their hair. And Sir Tristram.” She put her chin in the air, batted her eyelashes very fast, and imitated someone else’s voice. “He’s
so
handsome!” she said. “
So
powerful! And
such
golden hair!” She resumed her own voice. “He’s a conceited dolt. He has absolutely no conversation. He talks of nothing but his sword and his stupid horse.”

Gawain was shocked. “He’s a perfect knight, Eleanor,” he said. “Perfect. He won every joust in the tournament last year. I want to be just like him someday.”

Eleanor snorted through her nose. “I certainly hope not,” she said.

Two days after the banquet, Eleanor brought Gawain some interesting news. A wandering minstrel had stopped by the castle, hoping to earn a few pennies with his songs.

“All rags and patches, poor thing,” said Eleanor, “with a pet squirrel on his shoulder. The squirrel would take nuts right out of your hands. And he sang beautifully.”

“The squirrel?” asked Gawain.

Eleanor poked him in the ribs. “No, not the squirrel. The minstrel,” she said. “And he told us”— she paused impressively —“that a dragon has been sighted in the southern part of the forest.”

“A real dragon?” exclaimed Gawain. “I thought they were only in the old tales.”

“No,” said Eleanor smartly. “A stuffed dragon. What is wrong with you today? Of course a real dragon. Whoever finds the beast and slays it will be a hero. Everybody is talking about it. Sir Tristram is having his armor refurbished, and the castle blacksmith is sharpening his sword.”

Gawain kicked a cobblestone viciously with one red leather shoe. “I hate being a page,” he grumbled. “I wish I were Sir Tristram, riding out to battle the dragon. It’s not fair.”

Eleanor brushed dust from the skirt of her blue gown.

“Well, why don’t you?” she asked.

Gawain glared at her. “Because I’m not a knight,” he said in an exaggeratedly patient tone of voice. “Because I don’t have a horse. Or armor. Or a sword.”

“If you slay the dragon,” said Eleanor, “it would be a great deed and Lord Charles would make you a knight. You would have a suit of armor and a silk banner all your own. You could have a dragon on it. They would call you Gawain the Dragon-Slayer. You’d have everything you’ve been waiting for.”

“But how?” said Gawain. “I can’t kill a dragon with my bare hands. Or a slingshot. That’s all I’ve got.”

“There are swords in the castle armory,” said Eleanor. “All kinds of swords. You could borrow one.”

“That’s stealing,” said Gawain.

“Not if you put it back afterward,” said Eleanor. “You get the sword and meet me by the back gate at midnight. Then we’ll find the dragon.”

Gawain shook his head. “You can’t go, Eleanor,” he said. “A true knight would never let a lady go on a dragon quest. You’re supposed to give me a favor — a handkerchief or a hair ribbon or something — and then wait for me to come back with the dragon’s head.”

Eleanor looked stubborn. “If you don’t let me go with you,” she said, “I won’t tell you which road to take through the wood. You’ll never find the dragon if you go alone. So you might as well give in.”

Gawain argued, but Eleanor refused to budge. At last it was agreed that the children would go together — provided, Gawain insisted, that Eleanor promised to stand back out of the way when the fighting began.

“I’ll embroider a tapestry for you when it’s all over,” Eleanor called over her shoulder as she hurried back to the ladies’ solar. “If you don’t mind having your dragon look a bit like a cow.”

That night Gawain lay on his pallet with the other pages in the anteroom of Lord Charles’s bedchamber. He was afraid to fall asleep. If I do, he thought to himself, I might sleep right past midnight. Then Sir Tristram will find the dragon first and kill it before I do, and I will never be a hero.

He reached under the pallet to feel the hidden sword. He had sneaked it out of the castle armory that afternoon, concealing it under his cloak. It was a fine straight sword with a good balance, not too heavy, the hilt engraved with a pattern of silver leaves. There was a leather scabbard to go with it and a belt with a silver buckle.

At last Gawain judged that it must be midnight. The castle was asleep. He could hear muffled snores from the room next door, where Lord Charles and Lady Margaret slept in a carved bed hung with red velvet curtains. An owl hooted outside the window. Softly, trying not to rustle the pallet’s straw stuffing, Gawain got to his feet. He wrapped himself in his cloak, slipped on his shoes, and picked up the sword. Quietly he crept out of the room and down the stone stairs.

Eleanor was waiting for him by the back gate. She held a lantern in one hand, hiding its light with a fold of her hooded cloak. They slid back the bolts on the gate. The iron made a horrid screeching sound, and Gawain and Eleanor held their breath, waiting for someone to shout, “Who’s there?” But all remained quiet. Silently they opened the heavy wooden door, passed through it, and set out on the road to the forest.

“This is it,” Eleanor said. The lantern, with its single lighted candle, shone dimly on a narrow leafy trail. “The second path to the right off the south road. That’s what the minstrel said.”

“Are you sure?” Gawain asked. He peered doubtfully into the trees. “It doesn’t look as if anything has passed this way in years.”

“It’s exactly what he said,” Eleanor said firmly. “I have a very good memory.”

She lifted the lantern and stepped forward onto the trail, her cloak sweeping the branches. Gawain followed. The little path wandered endlessly through the forest, twisting between bushes and trees. They walked for what seemed like miles and miles. The night began to fade, from dark to dimness, from black to pale gray. Then the sun rose and a faint light began to glimmer through the leaves. Eleanor blew the stub of the candle out.

“My feet are tired,” she said.

“This trail is leading nowhere,” said Gawain. “I don’t think your minstrel knew what he was talking about. Him and his squirrel. And I’m thirsty. Do you hear running water?”

Just off the path to the left was a clear trickling stream. Both children bent to drink. The water was cold and sweet. The ends of Eleanor’s braids dipped in it and dripped on the grass.

Gawain sat back, dropping the sword at his side.

“Should we keep going?” he asked. “Or turn around and go back to the castle?”

Eleanor squeezed the water out of her hair. Then suddenly she caught her breath. “Look!” she said, pointing.

There, in the soft ground on the other side of the stream, was the print of a great clawed foot.

“A dragon footprint!” Gawain whispered. “And it’s fresh. It must be very near.”

They crossed the stream, balancing on a fallen tree trunk, and ran to the site of the footprint, crouching down to examine it more closely.

“It must have stopped for a drink,” Gawain said. “Just like we did.”

“There’s another print,” said Eleanor, pointing.

“Broken branches,” said Gawain. “It went this way. Come on. Stay behind me.”

They pushed their way through the underbrush, following the trail of tracks, crushed grass, and broken branches. Eleanor’s skirt tangled in the brambles, and Gawain’s sword kept banging against the trunks of trees. At last, almost between one step and another, they stumbled out of the woods and into a wide grassy clearing.

There before them, flashing gold in the morning sun, stood the dragon.

It was much larger and more frightening than Gawain or Eleanor had expected. It had a long heavy arrow-pointed tail, smooth golden wings folded over its gleaming back, and three heads. One head, angrily awake, was glaring directly at the children. Its eyes were a piercing blue. The other two heads were curled low on the dragon’s shoulders. They seemed to be fast asleep.

Gawain’s legs felt as if they were made out of soft putty. His mouth was dry with fear. But he wanted to win his knighthood, and he knew it was up to him to protect Eleanor. He drew his borrowed sword — it looked much smaller and flimsier now than it had in the castle armory — and stepped bravely forward.

“Dragon!” he shouted in a voice that sounded wobbly and strange. “Dragon! Prepare to meet thy doom!”

The dragon snorted. It sounded crusty and annoyed.

Eleanor, behind him, gave a little shriek. “Gawain!” she shouted. “Look out! Dragons can breathe fire!”

But the dragon breathed out no incinerating flames. Instead, as Gawain ran forward, sword held high, it swung out its tail with a quick twist. The sword catapulted out of Gawain’s hand and soared high into the air, tumbling end over end, and finally plummeted into the center of a blackberry thicket. Gawain looked after it in dismay.

“For heaven’s sake, young man,” the dragon snapped. “Whatever is the matter with you? No breakfast? Got up on the wrong side of the bed?”

The dragon lowered its head so that it could look Gawain directly in the eye.

“Time hanging heavy on your hands, so you decided to try a spot of murder and mayhem?”

Gawain heard Eleanor’s voice behind him. It shook a little.

“You . . . you can talk,” she said.

“What did you expect?” the dragon asked sarcastically. “Grunts? Moos? Twitters? Mindless babble?”

Eleanor stepped forward to stand beside Gawain. “I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t think.”

“Humans seldom do,” the dragon said in a disgusted voice.

“Well, everyone knows what dragons are like,” Gawain spoke up defensively. “Gallant knights are always fighting them in all the legends. Look at the story of the dragon and Saint George.”

“Saint George,”
the dragon repeated coldly. “A hoodlum. A brain like a pea.”

“And what about the princesses?” Gawain said. “Dragons are always kidnapping princesses.”

“Not any dragon
I
know,” the dragon said. “What would a dragon want with a princess? They’re dull creatures. They whine. They wear silly shoes.”

It raised one golden claw and made a twirly motion in the region of its ear.

“And they’re always fussing with their hair,” it said.

Eleanor shot Gawain a triumphant look. “I told you so,” she said.

The dragon waved its claw in an admonishing fashion.

“A dragon,” it said, “is polite and considerate. Tolerant, unassuming, and impeccable in the matter of personal hygiene. Brave and industrious, gentle and modest . . .”

At that moment, there was a loud sound of crashing in the bushes and the noise of pounding hooves. Into the clearing burst Sir Tristram, mounted on his white charger. He looked magnificent. His armor glinted in the sun; the scarlet plumes on his helmet fluttered in the wind. His sword was drawn and waving overhead.

“Dragon!” Sir Tristram bellowed. “Prepare to die!”

The dragon briefly rolled its eyes heavenward. “Not twice in one morning,” it muttered. Again it lifted its golden tail and swung it neatly to one side. It knocked Sir Tristram off his horse. The white charger came to an abrupt halt and, after one horrified look at the dragon, turned tail and galloped rapidly off the way that it had come. Sir Tristram landed with a jangle of clashing metal. He tripped, stumbled, tried to recover his balance, and fell clumsily on his own sword. The blade pierced his thigh between the heavy plates of armor. He gave a howl of outrage and pain.

Gawain and Eleanor rushed to help him as he struggled to get to his feet. Blood dripped into the grass.

“Villain!” Sir Tristram was shouting at the dragon. “Unprincipled beast! Pewling blackguard! Monster!”

“Oaf,” the dragon snapped back. “Bully. It serves you right.”

Then, ignoring the knight’s furious bellows, it turned to the children. “I suppose I cannot in good conscience let the idiot bleed to death,” it said. “Help him out of that ridiculous metal suit.”

Sir Tristram sank back down on the ground. Eleanor pulled off his helmet. His face had gone pale. The children helped him stretch out in the grass and wrestled to undo the buckles and straps that held on his armor. The wound was a deep slash in his right thigh. It looked painful.

“Wash it with clean water,” the dragon directed. “Then pack the wound with old moldy bread — there’s some in that basket — and wrap the leg in bandages.”

“Moldy bread?”
repeated Eleanor.

“I bake,” the dragon said. “Whole wheat.”

“That can’t be right,” Eleanor said. “Moldy bread? That awful blue stuff? It might kill him.”

The dragon sighed and shook its head. “That blue-green fuzz that you humans have been so foolishly throwing away,” it said pompously, “is a most valuable organism. Eventually one of you will doubtless figure out that it produces a disease-combating substance.”

“Just do what it says,” Gawain whispered. “It seems to know what it’s doing.”

“I do,” the dragon said. It glared at Gawain down the length of its golden nose.

Obediently Eleanor found the basket and packed Sir Tristram’s wound with moldy bread. Then she tore her cloak into long strips and wrapped the leg gently in cloth bandages. Gawain brought Sir Tristram a drink of cold water, carried in his helmet. The knight drank thirstily. Then he lay back in the grass and closed his eyes.

Gawain and Eleanor sat down beside him. Gawain, for the first time, glanced around the clearing. At one end, there was a lean-to built of sticks. It contained several baskets, a table made of stacked flat stones, and an assortment of leafy plants in pots.

Gawain turned to the dragon. “Do you live here?” he asked.

“Not permanently, young man,” the dragon said. “And just as well,” it said. It looked pointedly at Sir Tristram. “I was attempting to commune with nature. I was camping.”

Gawain looked puzzled.

“I was
trying,
” the dragon said plaintively, “to escape from the stresses of modern life.”

Eleanor sighed. “What do we do now?” she said. She gestured toward Sir Tristram, now soundly asleep with his mouth open. “We can’t get him home,” she said.

“You will have to stay here until he heals,” the dragon said in resigned tones. “In two weeks or so, barring any other unexpected visits.”

Then it said more cheerfully, “We will have an exciting time. You can tell me all about yourselves. And I will teach you to bake.”