Brian was absolutely certain that he could ride—not merely tomorrow or the day after, but this particular day itself. Furthermore—he began unthinkingly to take charge and issue orders—they should start getting the horses groomed and packed immediately. Jim would have to lend him a few things. What had happened to the helm and body-armor that he had been wearing up in Cumberland when he got wounded? What about his weapons? And he would need some changes of linen and other things.
"I've got them all," said Jim.
"Oh?" said Brian. "But we must certainly take them—and you will need the like."
"I only planned to take one sumpter-horse," said Jim.
"I think we can put it all on one without straining the animal," said Brian, a little impatiently. "We can ride with the spears, harkye."
"I know," said Jim. "I guess one horse can manage everything."
He put his quill pen back into the inkhorn he had clipped to his doublet before coming down, and folded up the sheets of greyish paper he had been noting on.
"Must you write everything down?" said Brian, who could barely sign his name. He instantly checked himself, smiling awkwardly. "I pray you forgive me, James. I am ill-mannered. It is this impatience in me to be ahorse."
"That's all right, Brian," said Jim. "As for writing it down, it helps me be sure that I've remembered everything."
"But I gave you such a small list of things needed!" said Brian, out of the innocence of a memory which life had trained early, late, and often, to remember word-perfect what was said to it, and to repeat it again, word-perfect, some days afterward if necessary.
"We magicians are like that," said Jim. "I'll send up some servants and you can start getting yourself ready to go. Did you have breakfast?"
"Hours past," said Brian.
The sunlight coming through the arrow-slit in Brian's room agreed with the same sunlight Jim had just seen coming through the Solar windows, to indicate that the sun had not been up much more than an hour. But he did not put it past Brian to wake and breakfast two hours before that.
"Well, we'll get together downstairs, then, soon," said Jim, and went out.
He made his way down to the Great Hall, meaning to ask for Dafydd. But he found the archer already at the High Table, by himself and once more at the never-ending work of a fletcher, carefully balancing and trimming his arrows.
"Good morning to you, Dafydd," Jim said, sitting down across the table from him.
"Good morning, Sir James," said Dafydd. He leaned across the white tablecloth and his voice lowered until it was barely a murmur, while his hands went on with their work.
"James, I have been thinking, look you now. There are some things I would wish to tell you from what I have been told about Lyonesse. Would to it that the good Carolinus appear to us once more to speak of this; but we cannot hope for it. It was in my mind to speak to you when I should first see you this morning. But since I have thought it will be best if we wait until we are away from the Castle."
Jim also lowered his voice.
"If you think it's something really important, Dafydd," he said, "we had probably better talk about it here and now, just you and me. Away from here, we will not only have Brian, we will have Rrrnlf with us and for all I know, his hearing may be so good that he can hear, no matter how secretly we try to talk. I assume it's something secret?"
"That is even so," murmured Dafydd. "Can we speak here without any overhearing?"
"Yes," said Jim. "I can take care of that."
He lifted his voice.
"John Steward!"
He waited. Dafydd waited. But John Steward did not appear. After a little while, however, May Heather came out of the Serving Room.
"Please you, m'Lord," she said. Her jaw was slightly swollen on the left side and there was a bad scratch on her nose, but otherwise she looked her usual cheerful, energetic self. "Mistress is gone from the Serving Room and there's no one there but me. Can I do summat for you, m'Lord?"
"Well, you'll have to take over John Steward's duty for the moment," said Jim, and he was ready to swear that at the words, May Heather grew two inches.
"It's an honor to me, m'Lord!"
"Tell everyone else in the Castle except Sir Brian or my Lady that I'm discussing a magic matter with Dafydd ap Hywel. I want none of the servants going blind or deaf on me. So tell them all I've magicked the Hall here and they've got to stay out of sight and hearing of the two of us here to be safe. I charge you—see everyone stays at a distance—and guard yourself also."
May Heather gulped.
"Yes, m'Lord, I will tell it so. I will say everything as you order."
"When I'm ready to have you all come back," Jim went on, "I'll go into the Serving Room and bang on one of the pans or pots there with the handle of my dagger. When that's heard, it'll be safe to return."
"Yes, m'Lord. I'll go right away and make sure everyone's at distance!"
May Heather turned and bolted off into the Serving Room, turning just before she was out of sight, toward the passage along the other side of one of the two long walls of the Great Hall.
Jim watched her go, waited to give her time to go up and down the passage, herding anyone there out, and then gave his attention back to the tall bowman.
"Now, Dafydd," he said in a low voice, but not as quietly as they had been speaking before May had come in. "What did you want to tell me?"
"It is of a danger into which we may go," said Dafydd. "For, as we of the Old Blood know, any whosoever enter Lyonesse as Carolinus bid us do, must face the chance of never again being permitted to return to land above the waves."
Chapter Seventeen
Jim stared at the bowman.
"You see why I did not wish to mention it aloud," said Dafydd quietly, finally. "Our wives are not much of a mind to see us go, even now. If they could think that the return of any one of us might be decided not by our skill or luck, or even the favor of God, but by chance as at a dice table, I think perhaps their words would be stronger yet."
Jim nodded.
"You're right," he said in a voice as low as Dafydd's. "But are you saying it's really a matter of pure chance—it's nothing that anyone can control in any way?"
"So far as I know," said Dafydd. "That was why I wished to discuss it well away from the Castle. Those of us who go should do so knowing that risk is there. It may well be that Carolinus knows means by which this can be avoided, but he did not tell us, and I have only what I have known since childhood. Not that the people who told me had been to Lyonesse, but the story had been known of for many years; and the names remembered of some who have never been permitted to come back."
"But they could have met with an accident, or something?" said Jim.
Even if what Dafydd told him was merely an ancient tale, rooted in someone's imagination, in the fourteenth-century minds of Dafydd and Brian it could raise havoc. Also, he most thoroughly agreed that "havoc" alone was not the word for what the tale could give rise to in the equally fourteenth-century minds of Geronde and Danielle.
Come to think of it, Angie also would be disturbed. Not from a superstitious point of view, probably, but simply because of the rumor of some unknown danger in the place to which he must go.
"You must know something more about this, Dafydd," he said. "Who would not permit one or more of us to come back?"
"I know nothing more," said Dafydd. "But I know it to be true. The story of a Companion left behind has been told too many centuries, about too many people. We of the Old Blood Under the Waters do not willingly go into Lyonesse, look you."
Jim stared at him, but Dafydd's expression did not change.
"With what you've told me," he said, "I can't do a thing. I don't have any idea what kind of protection even magic might give us in this instance."
"As for your magick, now," said Dafydd. "It will work in the Drowned Land of my people, I have been told, because we are men and women there. But the tales also say that the Art of human magickians will not av
ail in Lyonesse. For though those there seem to be human—yet there is a difference. It is a Kingdom apart."
Jim nodded slowly.
"I believe you," he said. "And I don't know of anything I can do to protect us."
"Nor can I think of anything you can do, and I did not expect you to," said Dafydd. "But, in fairness, you must needs be told, as will Brian when he goes with us." He paused, looking at Jim. "There is another matter," he said.
"What are you trying to tell me, Dafydd?"
"There are old stories," said Dafydd, "of changelings. Babes who have been taken by the Fairies and Fairy babies put in their place. There was no other sort of child left in Robert's cradle when he was taken, nor have I ever myself seen such, or seen unmistakable sign of any such things as Fairies."
He looked seriously at Jim, who nodded understanding.
"Yet it can be that such exist," he continued, "and that there was some reason a changeling was not left in Robert's place. Others have sworn they had clear evidence that such creatures exist. What such creatures are, and why it is they wish for doing such a thing, I know not. I only say what has been told to me, that those who do this are powerful, and evil in their designs."
"Hmm," said Jim. He felt the pressure of questions that would not quite formulate themselves. He was still busy deciding how to ask them of Dafydd, when the bowman went on.
"The second matter I wish to tell you of," he said, "is that early this day, before you were down stairs—a man in chain armor over-dressed with a green tabard and a dark-green hat with a feather, rode to your gate, with three men-at-arms."
"All bore what seemed to be something not too different from the Royal arms—yet it was not the Royal arms. The men-at-arms wore helmets, carried swords at their sides, and rode horses almost as well as the Gentleman in the tabard."
He paused to drink, and so did Jim; then Dafydd went on. "They were challenged at the gate, but claimed to have a message for you, and asked for you. On being refused, they left the message with the Lady Angela, and rode off to the east. You have not mentioned this, so I thought I would."
Jim stared at him.
"I didn't know anything about it!" he said. Then, suddenly realizing this might sound as if he felt Angie had acted improperly, he quickly added, "—But I'm sure if it was something important, she would've told me. Maybe, I'd better go and ask her about it—"
He broke off suddenly.
Somewhere in the courtyard out beyond the front door of the Hall, a voice had been raised. A very angry voice, and a very familiar one. Brian's voice. It was impossible to make out what the voice was saying. Jim had not wanted Brian on his feet so soon; and the last thing he wanted was for any of the people of the Castle to upset him.
"Maybe we better go out and see what's bothering Brian, first," he said, getting to his feet. Dafydd was already on his, his unstrung bow over one shoulder and his quiver full of arrows over the other.
Brian's voice grew louder and more intelligible as they approached the door. Once outside, they could see him plainly at the entrance to the stables, with Blanchard standing beside him, and the Stable-Master apologetically facing him with hat in hand. Other stable-hands stood by behind the Stable-Master—a good distance behind—and the Castle Blacksmith was just reaching them.
"James!" said Brian, as Jim and Dafydd reached him—not merely here at the stables on his feet, but acting as if he had never had any reason to be off them. "Here's a pretty thing! Blanchard was ready to throw a shoe, and no one did anything about it until I led him out from his stall!"
"Crave your pardon, m'Lord," said the Master of the Stables, turning to Jim with relief on his face. "But the great horse being so savage to footmen—as is only right, of course—none of the lads wanted to go into his stall, so they did no more than put fodder over the wall from the next stall for him. I would have taken him out myself, today, for exercise, but what with other matters—"
"There should have been no other matters!" thundered Brian. "Blanchard should be your first and only care, when he is here, outranking as he does all other horseflesh—"
He broke off abruptly, glancing at Jim in sudden embarrassment.
"—With the exception of your good Lord's warhorse, Gorp, of course!" he said, loudly "The shoe must have loosened in that bicker of ours up in Cumberland. But now—it must be fixed immediately. Immediately!"
"It's no use, m'Lords," grunted the Blacksmith, now standing bent-kneed with Blanchard's right front hoof up between his knees, and working on it, knife in hand. "He's cracked a hoof, that's what he's done. Not a great crack, Sir Brian. I'm paring it back now, but I have to go cautious so I don't do harm rather than good. Some things cannot be rushed, m'Lords. Until I shape this hoof with a knife, we cannot think of putting a shoe on it."
"The Saints give me patience!" said Brian. But he turned away from Blanchard, who was standing unconcerned on three legs while the Blacksmith worked. "Oh, it seems a messenger came for you, James."
"So I was just told," Jim answered. "Who's got the message?"
"The Lady Angela has it—I believe, up in your Solar," said Brian. He lowered his voice, "A written message, James!"
"I see," said Jim. "I'd better get up there right away. Brian, shouldn't you be sitting down, back in the Great Hall, saving your strength for the trip?"
"If we have a trip," said Brian gloomily. "If we ever get off before sunset."
Jim glanced at the sun. It was no more than three hours into a long summer day.
"Well, I'll go up to the Solar," Jim said. "I ought to be down in a few moments. Brian, you can't do anything here to hurry things up. Go to the Great Hall, sit down at the High Table, have a cup of wine, and see if you don't feel better."
"I can drink wine now, can I?" Brian said, lighting up.
"You can," said Jim. "Not much, though! Magically, I gave you some extra blood while you were sleeping last night, but you're still short of what you should have."
"May Saint Brian, my name-sake, ever remember you!" said Brian, and started toward the Castle. Dafydd went with him while Jim hurried on ahead, in through the long Hall, through the Serving Room—where he remembered to stop and bang on a large pot a couple of times—and up the stairs—the long, long, winding stairs—until he came panting to the door of the Solar.
He leaned against it for a second getting his breath back, then opened it and went in. Angie was sitting at the table with her elbow on its surface and her chin supported on her hand, looking out the window, thoughtfully.
"Angie, you've got a message?" Jim dropped into the chair opposite hers. Her gaze came back from the window.
"Yes, dear." She pushed what appeared to be several pages of parchment across the table-top toward him. "Do you want to try reading it?"
Chapter Eighteen
Jim snatched up the parchment, which turned out to be a single large page, folded accordion-style.
Centered on it was a single paragraph, small by comparison, written in an unsure hand. At the bottom was a seal in red wax.
Jim stared at it. He might not recognize most coats of arms, but this was the crest of a member of the Royal family—the lions statant gardant (crowned), plus the fleurs-de-lys which Edward III had added to his arms when he had begun laying claim to the throne of France—both of these were immediately recognizable.
Certainly, however, it was not the Great Seal, used for important and historic occasions; nor even the lesser Seal, for official purposes. Still, it was similar enough that it could only be the arms of a member of the Royal family.
He went back to trying to read the writing. As done by the scribes of this time, the letters with their ornate club ascenders and other flourishes were difficult enough for him, particularly in Latin. This, however, was in English; and by someone who had been trained to write, but not well. It was still what would be considered a readable hand for the time. But when Jim tried to make out the words, the letters seemed to form one long unintelligible chain before his eyes
.
"Angie?" he said, handing the paper to her, "can you read it?"
"I already have," said Angie. She took the paper and read aloud.
"To our loyal and good friend, Sir James le Dragon de Malencontri, my dear and continued love for you, Sir James, and my wish that in God's name all is well for you. For me it is otherwise. For the love you bear me, come immediately to me at Windsor, that together we may frustrate that wicked woman, Agatha Falon, who puts me in dire straits, and from which no one but yourself can save me. As you love me, bring your closest friends and come at once.
Angie stopped reading. Jim stared at her.
"Is that all?" he said. "It looked like there was a lot more written there than that."
"There is," said Angie. "But it's pretty much the same message, over and over again."
She laid the parchment down exactly at mid-point between them on the table, and her eyes met Jim's.
"Did the messenger have anything to say to you?"
"No," said Angie. "I told him you had already left, with a sumpter-horse, before daylight. I said I didn't know where you were going. I didn't tell him about Robert or about anything else."
"You didn't write any kind of an answer, then?"
"The Prince would've considered my writing an answer presumptuous—an unauthorized prying into his private affairs—you know that," said Angie. "But in any case, I didn't want to put anything on paper; just in case you wanted to ride after him and tell him I had been mistaken—or you'd come back unexpectedly—or something like that."
"I wouldn't want to do that," said Jim. "And you did the right thing, of course. I can't help him, now, we've got to find Robert first."
Angie breathed out slowly.
"I knew you'd say that!" she said. "But I wanted to hear you say it. Do you think this business of the Prince will get us in more trouble?"
"How can I tell?" said Jim, gloomily. "I don't even know what he's upset about. But you think the messenger believed what you told him?"