Tales From Cornwall: A History Of The Hubelaires

10. The Key To Cornwall

Although this present tale starts out with Cecil, Overlord of Cornwall, the Cecil series really ended with Feminine Magic; the Overlord here makes his farewell and the series takes a different turn. Those who did not care for the whimsy of the Cecil episodes ought to find the present chapter more to their taste; but I trust that those who enjoyed the Cecil tales will appreciate this episode, which closer to the sort of weird tale one expected from the author.

Cecil, Overlord of Cornwall, sat dreaming before the fire. Even in his prime, he had never been a large man and now premature age had shrunk him till only his eyes held the fire of youth that had once been his. On the other side of the fire sat his only child, Eric the Golden, who for some years had carried the burdens of Cornwall and thus learned the duties of Overlord against the day when his father should die.

“Have you ceased writing your history, Father?” asked the young man. “Years past you spent much time in the library; but latterly, when I visited you there, you were often asleep.

“The record of my life does not seem as important now as I once thought it,” Cecil replied. “Time was when it seemed necessary to leave a full documentation to the Hubelaires who will follow me. But after the death of your Mother it seemed I lost interest. There are a few blank pages remaining in the volume, which, perhaps, some bookishly minded descendant of mine may fill; but I will write no more. At the back of this book is a chart on parchment showing where Hubelaire treasures are buried in our castle. For one reason or another or for no reason I have never sought them. You should remember they are there and locate the treasures or pass the secret on to your son.”

The men were waiting for the wise physician to announce the birth of Eric’s child, who in turn, if a son, would some day rule over the land. Cecil had found this country of Cornwall a land of starved simple folk, horrific monsters, still more terrible giants and bands of marauding robbers. His wisdom, more than his strength of arms, had wiped out evil until Cornwall was now a pleasant place to live. On reaching manhood his son, Eric the Golden, had married Black Breda, Princess of Wales. It was an odd marriage, the man a flaxen-haired giant and the woman tiny, black-haired, with great love in her heart and the laughter of pixies in her soul. Now she was in labor, a cause of anxiety to her husband and father-in-law.

The Overlord stroked the golden key which hung pendant to a thick silken cord round his neck, and looked lovingly at his son.

“I am uneasy about this matter of Breda and her child,” he said. “Long years ago I came to this land from Armorica and, helped by a mighty magician, won victory over the Toad Men. My friend in this struggle between light and darkness made me Overlord of Cornwall and gave me this key. On it are graven words of a race long dead, so none now can read it, but the meaning of those words is simply this;

“Thus far the prophecy on the key has been correct. In one way or another I have held the land for you and for those who will come after you. We are at peace with those around us. For many years we have held our borders against those, who live by the sword. Our nobles rule wisely and our common folk are content. All have clothes on their backs, fire in their huts and meat in their kettles. “

“But last night I had a dream. Mayhaps it was only a false foreboding of evil, caused by my overanxiety concerning your lady and he travail, but it seemed to me that at least one of the Toad Men is still alive to do harm to me and mine. My friend with the club feet, who, as priest, married me and your mother Leonora, thought that one was still alive but considered him harmless. Still, it may be that evil never dies. You have heard me speak of this key before, but keep in mind the ancient words. Tell your son about them and have him tell his son. As long as we hold the key, we hold Cornwall; once it is taken from us, our land sinks back to the barbarism in which I found it.”

He would have said more, but was interrupted by the old physician, who walked to a place before the fire and stood rubbing his withered hands. At last he turned to Eric and, as though answering a question, said: “Your lady will live. Prince Eric, but she will bear you no more children.”

The golden-haired giant sprung toward him and shaking him roughly by the shoulders, cried: “What of the child? Is it a boy? Will he live? “

Lord Cecil leaned forward, hand gripping the arms of his ivory chair. The physician laughed mockingly. “Tis a boy and he will live, though when you see him you will think it better had he died. Through him the Brethren of the Toad Men who died untimely that night when Cecil the pauper helped the Devil kill us are revenged. “

The Overlord of Cornwall stood up. “Age made me lose my cunning and caution,” he muttered grimly. Turning sharply to his son he cried: “Hands off the man, Eric. Nothing must happen to you.”

With slow but certain step he moved toward the old physician. For that ancient there was no retreat save into the fire. Then they met, grappled, swayed and fell floorward, the Overlord underneath. The physician had one arm around Cecil’s body and one hand on his throat, but Cecil seemed content to have both arms locked behind the other’s neck. Eric tore a dagger from his belt and was bending to plunge it into the Toad Man when his wrist was caught in a grip that held him powerless. Turning, he saw a dark stranger who smiled and whispered: “Do not interfere. Your sire is a proud man and I know that he has wisdom to use the only manner by which he can win. He would not want either of us to interfere with his dispensing of justice. He is a true Hubelaire!”

Slowly and surely Cecil brought his face to the face of his adversary carefully he fastened to him, mouth to mouth, and tightly he held him, sucking the breath of life from his body. The physician twisted above him, strove to rise, to shake off his executioner, but slowly relaxed and at last, with a few tortured jerks, died. And as death came his body changed, almost instantaneously, into that of a giant toad, clad in human garments, but nonetheless a toad and very dead at that. The stranger separated the living from the dead, threw the toad into the flames and then knelt beside the Overlord of Cornwall.

“I should have come long before, my dear friend, he said, his voice husky with emotion, but I was busy with serious duties in Tartary and only today did I realize your danger. So I came on, the wings of light, barely in time to help you but not in time to save the boy. Now he is as he is and no one can make him different. But his father can hold the key, and after him mayhap, the boy can be made somewhat of. I am not all-wise, but I know there is still one of the race of the Toad Men left. Where that one is or in what shape I know not, but never will the House of Hubelaire be safe till this last one is destroyed. You have been badly hurt; methinks the poison breathed from that spawn of Hell will spell your doom. But all brave men pass sometime and you can be comforted in knowing that you pass bravely. I will escort your spirit to Gobi, where you will spend an eternity as you will, and no doubt that will be in a library.”

Thus Cecil, first Overlord of Cornwall, passed and Eric the Golden became custodian of the Golden Key and ruled over the land in his father’s stead. Messengers carried the broken bow and the flaming torch throughout the country and by the third day many nobles from near and far came to do the dead man homage. Even the Queen of Ireland drove stately in her golden chariot, and in silver chariots behind her sat three blind harpers who sang new songs in praise of the dead Overlord. But the simple folk sat unconsoled in their huts, wondering what now would happen to them.

It was not till after the funeral-guests had departed and the stranger had returned to Gobi that Eric had time to visit his wife and son. He had asked often about them and was always assured that they were doing well. Now, with the castle empty of visitors he went to the river and bathed till much of his grief and deep sorrow was washed from him in the snow water from the mountains. Then he dressed in his brave court suit and, humming a little song, walked back to the castle and to the room where his wife and child lay.

At the bed of Breda the Black, he dropped to his knees. It was a high bed, but he was a tall man and even with knees to the floor he could overlook his wife. He took her hand in his and knew, without asking, that Death had placed his cross on her forehead. She smiled.

“I am glad to see you, Eric, my first and last love, and it sorrows me that I will not be a long time with you. It seems to me that I am dying from nothing in particular save the lack of desire to live. My ladies tell me that I am now the Queen of the Overlord and mother of a new prince, but I saw the boy, just for a moment, though my ladies tried to keep me from doing so; and, knowing how you would feel, I have no desire to live. Speed me with your lips and burn candles for the peace of my soul.”

Thus Eric the Golden lost two of the dear ones of his life. But he rose bravely from the side of his dead wife, saying in muted voice: “I have a son and must live on for him and his future greatness. Someday he will carry the Golden Key.”

He told the ladies-in-waiting to lead him to the child. Fearful, they escorted him to the nursery, where the withered husk of an old nurse sat at the foot of a cradle inlaid with gold, ebony and ivory, a present from the Emperor of the Spice Isles in which Eric had been rocked years before. The father looked down on his son. The ladies faded from the room. Only the old dame stayed, rubbing her cold fingers.

“The boy has a large head,” observed Eric. “He should be wise as a man.“

“His head is large and shapely,” muttered the nurse.

“There is a good jaw there. When he fastens on an opinion he will hold it. He has a strong neck and will hold his head high as he travels through life.”

“His jaw is firm and his neck strong,” answered the nurse, though she had no need to.

Eric whirled around, took her by the shoulder and shook her. “What is wrong with the lad?” he demanded. “What is wrong with him?”

She made no reply, but sat with head down, sobbing.

With great, strong, shaking but tender hands, Eric took off the baby clothes and then, white-faced and silent, replaced them and still wordless left the room. In the hall the ladies stood rigid against the walls as though waiting to be struck. He paused, looking from one to one. “Tend to the lad carefully and see that he is fed on Goat’s milk,” he said. “I go to bury his mother, and when that is done I will come back and provide for my son.”

On the morning of the third day he dressed in leather hunting clothes, took the child from the nursery and rode away without escort into the dark forest. The babe slept, but by noon cried lustily for want of food. Just then a woman walked from the greenwood and paused in front of Eric’s horse. He, looking down on her, saw that she was young, deep-bosomed, flaxen-haired and in all respects comely.

“Who are you? Why do you stop me? What can I do for you?” he asked kindly.

“I am Freda, wife of Olaf the Dane and mother of his child. Our war vessel, The Swan, wrecked on your rocks two suns ago and I was the only one to reach shore. I found a hut and slept. Last night, in a dream, I saw you coming with a babe who hungers for a mother, as I hunger for my dead child.”

Wordless, Eric handed her the baby. Wordless, the woman seated herself on the grass, opened her kirtle and nursed the little one. Eric, from his saddle, looked down on them and wondered if here was not a gift of God, sent to aid him in his sore distress. Finally the babe slept. The woman cradled him in her arms and said quietly, “The child has a lovely face.”

Eric looked at the woman and babe without answer.

“A strong chin and a powerful neck,” she continued. “With proper care he will become a fine man.”

“Hand me the little one,” commanded the Overlord of Cornwall, “and do you seat yourself behind me on the horse. The boy is yours to care for. I will take you to my hunting lodge, where there will be servants to wait on you and men-at-arms to protect you, for this baby, if he lives, will some day be Lord over all Cornwall. You are a good woman and thus you will have a home and safety. Your care of the child will be rewarded, if a woman can be paid for such kindness to a child.”

As time passed Eric found work to busy him. His father had cleaned Cornwall, but now the son put a polish on the land till it was a country anyone would be proud to live in. One day a month he rode to visit his son, and the rest of the time he tried to forget him, which was very difficult. When the boy was three years old Eric called to the castle an old forester who had a flair for training dogs.

“From now on, Russell, you will train a prince instead of wolf-hounds. My son has a strong jaw. He must be taught to use it. He must learn to hang to a rope and never let go until he desires. Teach him how to use his body correctly, to arch his neck and how to move about. Every day rub his body with oil. I will have a wise man teach him in the use of words, and after that in all wisdom. He can learn to write. When he is six we will put him on a pony with special harness and saddle. By the use of a cunningly devised bridle he can learn to guide the pony, and, as he grows older, he will ride a horse. Do you know about the lad?”

“I have heard talk about him but paid little heed of it. It seemed to me that things could not be as bad as ‘twas said.”

“It is as bad or worse. But the boy has a fine brain and talks very well for his age; so far he does not realize — he has seen no other children — he does not know.”

“Someday,” said the forester boldly, “he will know, and then he will not thank you for keeping him alive.”

“Who am I to kill my own son?” Eric replied. “All of us have something wrong with us, with our minds or bodies. The boy is not to blame — no one is, save the old physician who was slain too late by my father. Let the future tell the story! The lad has a strong jaw and a fine mind. These must carry him where he will go. It is for us to help him make the most of what he has. Do as I told you and remember you have in your keeping the next Overlord of Cornwall.”

From that time a new life began for Balder, for thus he was named, that naming having been the desire of Breda the Black while she was carrying him. Eric pondered over the irony of such a name, and thought it should be changed, but wished not to depart from the desires of his dead love. Balder the Beautiful, the beloved, perfect god of the Northlands. What a name for such a child!

The boy learned to hold things in his mouth,death-gripped. He learned to ride the pony, guiding him with his jaw. Freda cared for him. Russell trained his body and a very wise old man taught him wisdom. By the time he was twelve he had learned all the ancient could teach him and could gallop on a war horse. Eric knew the time had come to bring him home to the castle and begin teaching him the duties of Overlord, which he would have to assume some day. His body grew large and strong and he could do what any other fine boy could have done with a similar body just that and nothing more. But, because he had to depend on it, his mentality had developed far beyond his age.

An artificer in leather made him a harness so he could sit beside his father in the banquet hall. There, except that he had to he fed, he seemed to be like any other young prince, and, as those around him were accustomed to his care and had a great love for him, they never mentioned the tragic difference between him and other young men. He was mostly happy, appearing to enjoy life, as is the due of youth.

On his twenty-first birthday he was sitting in the library reading a manuscript which held him thrilled. A little dark man joined him and asked, “What are you reading, my dear Balder, which seems to make you smile and frown as you turn the pages?”

“This,” the young man replied, “is the history of my grandfather, Cecil, First Overlord of Cornwall. I smile as I read of his very remarkable life and I frown when I realize that there are some unwritten pages at the end of the book, and on them should be placed the tale of his later years.”

“You can write. Why not finish the history?”

“What benefits me if I can write, if I know not what happened? All I know is that I am his grandson; how he spent his late years or how he died I know not of, for non has ever told me the story.”

“I will tell you about those days,” the little man said, “and as I talk you can write the part of my narrative you deem of import. Then we will come to the end of the tale and the finishing of the last page. Your grandsire was one of the great Hubelaires and was my good friend. Now this is’ what happened — ” and he told Balder all concerning the last days of Cecil. As he wrote, Balder thrilled at the tale of the ending of his grandsire. Finally on the bottom of the last page, he wrote “The End” and, looking up to thank the narrator, was astonished to find him gone from the library. He closed the book just as his father entered the room.

“This is your birthday. Balder, and it is time for you to wed,” Eric told him, “The times are troublesome, and more and more it becomes difficult for us to keep peace and preserve the land in its Golden Age. Marriage with a princess of a neighboring land, Wales, Scotia or Ireland, would help; and mayhaps your son would rule in peace and security. I think that it could be arranged.”

Balder smiled sadly. “It would be better for you to marry again and raise a son,” he replied. “Mayhaps some princess, bookish-minded, would marry me for what I have above my neck, but what lovely lady would want me for the part below?“

“You have a strong neck. Balder, a powerful jaw and a fine mind,” said the Overlord. “The time may come when such attributes will take a man far in this troubled world. In the future a man may rule by such qualities rather than because he can fight and overcome by brute strength. Your grandsire was not much of a warrior, but he had a clever mind. Had he lived he would have gloried in your knowledge of the books in his library. It would be wise for me to look around and see if a suitable marriage can be arranged for you.”

This was not easily accomplished. In all the lands near Cornwall men were still settling disputes with the poleax and broadsword. All the kings were kind and sympathetic, and when Eric looked them in the eye, made no reference to the peculiar disability of Prince Balder, but for this and that and the other reason found that a marriage between him and one of their daughters could not be arranged. Then, just as Eric decided that his undertaking was impossible, messengers came from a land far away, offering the hand of a princess in marriage, a beautiful lady who would bring a dower of great wealth. They brought presents and a picture of the lady, and quietly said that she knew about Prince Balder but that made no difference. Eric sent gifts in return and before the year came to an end the princess arrived and with great pageantry was married to Prince Balder.

That afternoon the Overlord visited his son. “As I told you, these are troubled times,” he said. “The King of Wales has sent me messengers saying enemies from the north have come in long ships and are harassing his shores. He pleads for help. Since I am compelled to leave Cornwall, you must rule in my place against my return. So, around your neck, I place this cord of twisted silk from which hangs the Golden Key. Guard it well and remember the ancient verse:

“When the enemy is driven back, or better still, destroyed, I shall return. Meanwhile, I regret the necessity of leaving you at this time when you should have nothing between you and your bride save thoughts of love-a-daisies.”

“Go without fear. Father, and return when the time comes,” Balder replied. “And while you are gone nothing shall happen to the Key. My bride, Marylyn, will help me in all things because she seems as wise as she is beautiful.

Thus Eric rode away, followed by his men-at-arms, archers and pike-men, and, after their leaving, the drawbridge was raised. But Freda, the nurse and Russell, the forester were fretted, and talked long into the night about their beloved Prince and his ascent into manhood and the responsibilities so suddenly thrust upon him.

Princess Marylyn went to the bedroom of her husband and, closing the door, locked it while Balder lay on the bed and feasted his eyes on her beauty — but not for long.

“I am puzzled that such a beautiful lady as you could deliberately mate with such a man as I,” he said sadly.

“I married you because I wanted to,” she replied, laughing.

“But why should you want to?” he asked.

“Because of that key you wear around your neck. Many years ago a Prince of Darkness, aided by your grandsire, destroyed the Toad Men who, for some centuries, had lived in the castle of the Hubelaires. Only one escaped, my father. The day you were born, Cecil the Overlord killed him in a most horrible and pitiless manner. I am the last of my race. Through my legerdemain I arranged this marriage, and it was not hard to do. Your father, though he can fight, is nothing but a good-natured fool above the neck. The message from Wales was just one phase of my plan, as your father will find only when it is too late. My spirit-men surround the castle. Late tonight, after I am rested, I will place a candle in the window. Then the silken cord will be around my neck and the Golden Key will lie between my breasts. When my spirit-men see the flame of the candle they will swarm into the castle and kill everyone. Then they will overrun this land, slaying all, rich and poor, and once again we shall rule in Cornwall. The Prince of Darkness and your father will learn all this, but too late.” She laughed merrily and ended, “That is why I married you, you poor dolt!”

Taking him in her lovely arms she raised him from the bridal bed and rolled him over on the floor. Then she took off her bridal dress and silver shoes and Balder knew that she spoke the truth, because her toes were long and webbed,like those of a toad. Savagely she tore the silk cord from his neck and hung it around her own white throat. Setting a lighted candle on the chest at the foot of the bed, she lay down to rest and was soon asleep, for she had nothing to fear — nothing to fear from such a bridegroom.

Balder, the far from beautiful — save that of him above the neck lay helpless on the floor. He thought of Cornwall, the land of the Hubelaires, where peace had reigned for so many years; and he knew that he, and he alone, stood between the simple, happy folk and a terrible death. Because there was nothing to say he said nothing. He simply waited, realizing that though he had lost the key, none of the spirit-men would know it until the candle stood in the window.

There was naught for him to do save wait. His bride, the so beautiful Marylyn, with the body and arms of a Venus and the feet of a batrachian, lay drowsing on the bed. At last, she slept, one fair arm slid over the side of the bed and rested, hand on floor. Then Balder knew that fate had delivered her into his power. Very carefully he rolled his body over, and then over once again, a trick he had learned on the meadow grass. Now his face was but a few inches from the Toad Woman’s wrist. He arched his neck, that strong bull-like neck, and opened his mouth. Suddenly he grasped that wrist and fastened on it with jaws that for years, once fastened, had never willingly let go.

The Toad Woman screamed from pain.

Jerking, he pulled her off the bed.

She beat him with her free hand, but he only held her the tighter, shaking her arm as a terrier shakes a rat. Her blood covered his face but he held her with ever more firmly clenched jaws. She dragged him across the floor, trying to reach the candle with her free hand and set it in the window. Once and again she almost touched it, but each time, with a powerful, convulsive movement, he pulled her back to the floor. Each was blood-spattered from her torn wrist. As the conflict continued she grew weaker and with a moan of exhaustion and frustration, she lay quiet and Balder knew that she had lost consciousness He had been waiting, hoping that this would happen. Unlocking his jaws he jerked upward and secured a new hold on her upper arm. She woke only to scream and faint again. Now, exerting all his strength, he reached her neck and clamped his jaws on it, just below her chin. Almost losing consciousness himself, he thought dimly: “All I have to do now is to hold fast.”

Tighter and tighter he held her. Closer and closer his teeth clamped on that lovely white column; at last he knew that he lay fastened to a corpse. He opened his jaws, worked his mouth down the silken cord, now covered with blood, and finally came to the Golden Key. He closed on that with his mouth and, satisfied with the knowledge that his land was safe, he fell asleep.

The next morning, Freda the nurse, tortured by unnamable fears, persuaded Russell the forester to take men-at-arms and break open the door of the bride chamber. There on the floor lay a giant toad, one foreleg torn and broken and the neck horribly mutilated, the body already swollen with putrifaction. Beside the dead toad lay Prince Balder, his face and body red with dried blood. For a moment all stood in amazement at what they saw. Then Russell bent over Balder, touched him gently, waking him.

“Cornwall is safe!” Balder said with a smile and went to sleep.

Freda fastened the Key around his neck with her apronstring, and Russell picked him up and carried him to his room, where they washed and nursed him. In due time he was able to tell the full story of that night battle. Later, Freda retold it to Eric, Overlord of Cornwall, who had returned in haste, suspecting treachery, when he found Wales at peace.

Eric listened patiently till the ending of the tale.

“My son did very well,” he said proudly. “Considering that he has neither arms nor legs to fight with, he did very well.”

“He has a strong jaw,” said Freda the nurse.