The result was that Secoh had become a fixture at Cliffside. The younger dragons (none of them over eighty years old) worshipped him. He told them tall tales about Jim's exploits—with himself mentioned whenever possible—and he led the youngsters into some wild situations.
It had taken their mothers to save them from eventual and certain disaster. Secoh had learned it did not work to bully dragon mothers, so the young ones were saved from the worst dangers.
Therefore—Jim told himself now—if the mothers knew about this patrol and allowed it, it could not be too dangerous.
"Safe from all my foes?" said Jim, picking up on what Secoh had first announced. "But it's night, now."
"The Young Dragon Patrol is on wing and watch day and night both, m'lord. Just like your watchman here on the tower."
"All night?" Jim stared. "And you say their mothers stood for that?"
"The youngsters have to take turns—they argue a lot about that," said Secoh. "One night a week only for each one. Besides, you proved to them, just lately since you fought King Arthur, that we dragons don't sink in water but float, and now even the older Cliffsiders aren't afraid of landing in a lake or river in the night-dark."
"Fought King Arthur!" Jim had not thought even Secoh's tales would distort the truth that much. Of course, it would make a better telling to dragons than his fighting alongside the King. Wink, still holding up his halberd, watching and listening, was looking shocked.
"—Fought together with King Arthur—crave pardon, m'lord," said Secoh hastily. "Slip of the tongue. Er—also, the patrol is, of course, guarding Cliffside, at the center of the watch."
That explained a lot. The father dragons would be all for it—"Good practice for the youngsters!" Jim could imagine the fathers booming.
"Oh, well," he said. The novelty would soon wear off for the young dragons and no harm would have been done.
"Good, then. Have the patrol keep an eye out for Aargh now, and if they see him, tell him I'd like to talk to him, when possible."
"At once, m'lord," said Secoh. "I'll just finish explaining the patrol to your george on watch—"
"I think he understands fully, now," said Jim.
"Oh?—oh, yes, m'lord. I'm on my way."
Secoh took to the air. Jim went back downstairs.
When he stepped into the Solar, there was only Angie there. The last wine cups and food had been cleared away by servants. The room, large as it was, seemed to have grown half again larger without the noisy presences of the Prince and the Bishop.
"What happened?" he asked Angie, who was laying out some of his armor and warmer clothes on the bed—with its curtains pulled back to give easy access.
"Oh, after the Prince lost his temper and stormed out," she said, "the Bishop waited for you a little while and then said he had to get back to his retinue and make sure everything was packed. He came to ask if you couldn't lend him four extra men-at-arms for the trip—since they'd be riding the woods by night and he's lacking one of those he came with: the one that got in a fight earlier with Frank Short."
"Four of our men-at-arms? What's going on here—put that thing down, Angie, and talk to me."
Angie deliberately finished laying out his triple-woven riding cloak with the leather waterproof outer layer. Then she turned and faced him.
"The Bishop's determined to go back to his seat at the cathedral in Wells tonight," she said. "When you were some time getting back from Carolinus—"
"Turned out I had to fly up to Smythe Castle and invite Brian. He and a knight who's guesting with him. They'll both be here for breakfast tomorrow—we can probably give Brian's guest a better breakfast than Brian can."
"Two more. That's Brian, all right, up and about two hours before dawn—I wonder how his guest likes it?"
"Probably not much—but Angie—"
"Also, the Bishop's left some empty rooms for new guests now—but as I was about to say, he took our advice about rats and fleas to heart. Remember, I told you he didn't come down to dinner? Anyway, he prayed and decided his duty was back at his bishopric, getting the rat-flea cleanup there started, no matter if he had to ride immediately by night or day. That's why he and his retinue are packing now."
"It wasn't anything to do with the Prince?"
"No. The Prince just lost his temper and stormed out first, as I said. Joan was up a little while ago—"
"Joan? Joan?"
"The Countess of Kent—and Salisbury. The one who came with the Prince. She told me he'd be all right in the morning. She's quite nice, actually."
Jim digested this last statement. Angie was not ordinarily so quick with her opinions.
"So what's all this with my foul-weather traveling outfit?" he asked. "I hope you don't think I'm going with the Bishop?"
"I thought you might want to."
"Of course I don't want to," said Jim. "It's his decision to take off in the night, not mine!" He prowled up and down the room. "Where's that French brandy?"
"In the bottom of the wardrobe, as always. A cup of tea would be better."
"I don't like tea! I like coffee, but we can't seem to get it in this damn, primitive world where everybody goes around risking their lives for some sense of duty! Dealing with them all's like handling dynamite…"
With his hand on the knob of the tall wardrobe door, Jim dropped it suddenly, leaving the wardrobe unopened, and turned to walk heavily back to the bed. He sat down next to the riding cloak.
"No," he said wearily to Angie, "you're right. Of course. I've got to go with him. A night ride through the wilds of Somerset—crazy! Outlaw gangs, night trolls… God knows what else! But I'm his host, and it was my suggestions that got him going."
While he had been talking, Angie had gone to the fireplace, swung the kettle in over the flames, and went on to get the tall, narrow bottle of brandy out of the wardrobe.
He watched her in silence as she made the tea, spiked it with brandy, and brought it to him. The first sip he took tasted hot and good. He looked up at her.
"I've got to go," he said simply.
She bent down and kissed him.
"Dear Jim," she said.
Dressed, armored and otherwise equipped, Jim stepped down at last into a courtyard that looked something like a small portion of Hell and a large portion of an army headquarters facing instant battle. The air was heavy with smoke from wood burning in the overloaded cressets that gave the courtyard light for this unusual readying. In the cold air, the smell of steaming horses brought from their warm stable and the smell of excited men mixed with the odor of the smoke.
In the midst of all this the Bishop bulked even larger and more pugnacious than usual, in a mail shirt over his outer clothing and a helmet with a nasal guard—neither in disagreement with his usual authority, since the only thing about him that could possibly be considered to have potential as a weapon was his walking stick, and that had no edge to it. It was the use of edged weapons—the shedding of blood—that Church teaching forbade those committed to its work.
He stood leaning on that stick now, grimly watching what was being done. The red light of the flames from the overloaded cressets in the surrounding walls glittered on his mail shirt, but he said nothing. Not for him to give the orders. His leading man-at-arms had the responsibility for that. But if any man of God had ever looked ready to meet the armies of Evil, it was he.
He broke his silence, however, at the sight of Jim, equally bundled, equally armored—but with sword and dagger at his knight's belt.
"Sir James!" The Bishop opened his arms wide in welcome. "They told me you would go with us! I could ask for nothing more in this hap—" and Jim found himself enfolded by a pair of powerful arms and his cheek impressed by an equally powerful kiss. "By the by, Sir James, I found time to bless your chapel before you returned, today."
"My deepest gratitude to you for that, my lord," said Jim. He was grateful. He and his people had been working to refurbish Malencontri's chapel, which the previous occupant
of the castle, Sir Hugh, had befouled, and the local people would now be very relieved by the Bishop's action.
Jim did his poor, latter-day best to return the customary osculatory compliment, although aware he fell short of the Bishop's energy and determination. Something nuzzled at the back of his neck. He turned to look and saw his warhorse, Gorp—saddled and ready, right down to the lance standing upright in its boot—and at the same time felt something else slither down past the back of his neck and end up in between his shirt and his undershirt. Only one creature in Malencontri could make himself so paper-thin.
"Hob!" he said sternly. "You're to stay here—to take care of m'lady, and everything else!"
"Theoluf can defend the castle and m'lady as well as I can," said the breathy little voice of Hob in his right ear. "My duty is with you, m'lord!"
Jim sighed inside himself.
"—my lord," the Bishop's chief man-at-arms was saying, "all is ready."
"Then we ride!" shouted the Bishop, and together, with the bishop leading, Jim at his side, but half a horse's length behind him… and all of the rest following after, they rode out of the light of the cressets, through the unusually open great gates on to the briefly noisy drawbridge, and into the darkness and different sounds of the late fall night.
Jim was not superstitious in the sense of fearing some evil beyond the norm for these times that the darkness might confront them with. The Bishop certainly was not superstitious (in Jim's modern sense of that word), and possibly those in the service of the Church with him were not either. But almost everyone else in the entourage, particularly those of the common sort among the latter riders—for they were all mounted, necessarily—showed a tendency to crowd together.
But still, as their eyes adjusted to the night and they were able to consider the numbers and the strength of their party—to say nothing of the fact they had not only a Bishop with them, but a heroic Knight-Magickian as well, the gloom ceased to be quite as fearful. They relaxed, spread out and began to talk together in low voices, all but covered by the jingle of horse-harness.
Jim spoke to the Bishop, in case the other should be feeling like conversation. But the Bishop's answers were short and showed no such need or desire. His attention was clearly all on his own thoughts and what waited to be done once he was at their destination.
Jim reined Gorp back a few feet from the prelate and lost himself in his own thoughts.
At the pace the Bishop was setting—a sharp trot—they would have to stop at intervals to rest their horses. Still, they should reach Wells in about eight hours. He could grab four hours sleep, get up, eat something and, hopefully, be back at Malencontri in another eight hours.
With luck he could be home by late afternoon the next day. Out on his feet, of course, but alert enough to do what he should have gotten done already: starting the staff at the job of hunting down every rat and flea on the premises, and setting up a quarantine on anyone wanting to enter the castle in the future.
Also, they would need to set up some exterior shelter to quarantine anyone arriving, once the plague became active here—Angie's suggestion about fleas and pennyroyal had been a good one, if there was any quantity on hand or in the castle. Maybe Angie would already have set all these necessary projects to work by the time he got back…
In any case he was stuck with his Bishop delivery first. Actually, they were now too large a body to run into much in the way of trouble. It was true most of their way was by narrow forest paths—and sometimes no path at all—but the moon was now up, a full moon already on the wane, but bright enough in a night sky with few clouds. Few outlaw bands would be foolish enough to attack.
There still remained the night-trolls, who could and would band together swiftly for a sufficiently large prey.
But already they had left behind most of the thick, continuous forest of the territory surrounding Malencontri and were passing through more open land—natural meadows interspersed with no more than brief patches of trees. In the bright moonlight such terrain was much less favorable for trolls, who liked the cover of darkness. Jim relaxed and his mind wandered off onto other problems.
With an extermination policy on the fleas and rats in the castle, quarantine on those from outside—and a ward he could set up around the whole castle's perimeter, to block any cracks or holes by which more fleas and rats were getting in—they should be about as safe from the plague as was possible in this world.
He thought briefly about offering to set up a ward around the Bishop's seat at Wells, and dismissed the idea. The Bishop undoubtedly would not—could not—accept such unchurchly aid. In addition, such a warding, plus Malencontri's, would almost certainly call for more magical energy than Jim's account with the Auditing Department could supply.
In any case an offer like that would be better to come from Carolinus… an image of the excruciatingly painful buboes that would swell on the naked bodies of plague victims until they burst came to Jim's mind, making him briefly sick inside, until he managed to forcibly jerk his thoughts to other things.
First of these, and touchiest, was the matter of the Prince's request to use Malencontri as a private place to discuss his plot concerning the King with Sir Mortimer—
Jim woke suddenly to the fact that the Bishop had held up an arm, signaling a rest halt. Pushing their horses at this rate made such rests necessary, unless they were going to ride the animals to death.
But, Jim saw, the Bishop could not have chosen a better spot.
It was a small rise—hardly more than a knoll—with half a dozen tall elms on it, the shade of which had evidently killed off anything much in the way of underbrush between them. But its greatest recommendation was the fact that all around it was a belt of grassy open ground, and only beyond this, at distances of at least half a bowshot, were there trees thick enough to hide any attackers who might want to creep up on them.
A hum of pleased conversation broke out among the retainers as they obeyed the order of the Bishop's chief man-at-arms to dismount and lead their horses in among the elms—a routine precaution in case they were being followed by outlaws with bowmen among them, waiting for a moment when they would relax their vigilance. A man wounded by an arrow could always ride, even if he would need to be tied on his steed. A horse in the same state had to be left behind—and they had no spare mounts.
But the hum broke off as the howl of a wolf rose from the wood they had just ridden out of a moment past.
The Bishop opened his mouth to order them all back to courage.
"It's all right," said Jim quickly, keeping his own voice down, "I know that wolf."
He raised his voice.
"Fear not!' he told the rigid members of their group. "You all know Magickians can talk to animals."
That was not quite true, of course. Jim could talk to Aargh only because Aargh could talk in human language to him. Carolinus seemed to manage the skill all right, but so far Jim had had only limited success, and that only with horses. The trouble seemed to be that most animal communication was in no way verbal but in body language. "I'll go have a word with the wolf," he added.
Surrounded and followed by a dead silence, he headed Gorp off toward where the howl had come from. Gorp went without protest, being by this time almost as familiar with that particular howl as Jim was—though the other horses were white-eyed and having to be reined in by their riders.
But as he had expected, he had hardly ridden deep enough into the trees to be hidden from his watchers when he heard a harsh voice behind him.
"So, now it's half-grown dragons you send to say you need me! What is it this time?"
Jim turned Gorp about and faced Aargh, the English Wolf, bulking larger than ever in the moonlight penetrating between the two large elms on either side of him.
"There's a sickness called the plague in England now—"
"I've heard talk of it. It's no matter to those of us who go on four legs."
"No, you animals are immune. I'd forgotten I'd
sent a message for you. What I had in mind then was that you might be able to tell us if it'd reached this far west and was maybe making people sick anywhere in Somerset. But now something else has come up. The Bishop needs to get home as soon as possible—"
"And you were hoping I'd guard all you two-legs through the fearful night to where he wants to go?"
"Not exactly," said Jim—Aargh had a knack for getting under his skin. Jim sat hard on the temper beginning to simmer toward a boil within him. "I was thinking of something a cautious wolf might not mind doing—like going ahead to see if there're any outlaws or night-trolls waiting ahead to jump us, and then bringing back a warning."
"You did, did you? Well, this cautious wolf has better things to do—except in the case of what you want happening to tie in with what he wants to do anyway. As it happens there's something—lots of somethings—that I don't recognize afoot here in my territory, they act almost as if they're gathering around this little army of yours. In short, I'm going in your direction, anyhow."
I'll bet that's all there is to your being here! thought Jim, ironically, a sudden warm wave of affection for the grim-voiced wolf washing away the irritation he had felt a moment before. Aargh had always been more assistance than he would admit. Then part of what Aargh had just said came back to him. "What do you mean—somethings you don't recognize?"
"I mean they act like nothing I know. They come to the top of the earth, then go away again. But they're somethings I never scented before. It's as if it was more than one scent mixed with another—or more than one other. My nose has never tasted the like before. But they're in my territory and I gave them no leave to come here. I'll find them and have them out—the scent's been following you."
"Following us? Us? Why?"
"Are you asking me to answer that, James?"
"No, no, of course not, Aargh!" said Jim hastily. Through the single cloth layer of his undershirt, Jim could feel Hob's slim body trembling. "What's the matter, Hob?"