The Incorporated Knight

VIII – The Pastoral Palace

King Gwennon's palace was a cluster of buildings of logs with the brown bark on, save where it had peeled off in patches. The largest of these structures contained the dining hall and the throne room, as well as the private royal quarters.

Gwennon's throne was a massive armchair of wood stained black. The back and arms were carved in an intricate pattern of interlaced dragons biting one another's tails; their eyes and fangs were picked out against the sable background by gilding. The King himself proved a small, rotund, sleepy-looking, white-bearded oldster.

Eudoric quickly noted a sickly smell pervading the throne room. He soon discovered the source. This was a rack affixed to the wall, having a row of spikes on four of which were mounted human heads, pale and expressionless with half-closed eyes. Eudoric got an impression of being translated back to the earlier, ruder time that followed the fall of the old Napolitanian Empire.

Eudoric also saw whence the heads had been obtained. In addition to the usual chain-mailed swordsmen standing beside and behind the throne, one more guardsman leaned upon a broad-bladed ax. Before him stood a large, wooden, black-painted block with its top hollowed out in a shallow groove. A bucket rested on the floor in front of the block. Forthred whispered:

"Sir Eudoric, I like this place not."

"Nor I; but hold your tongue," muttered Eudoric. Eudoric had been escorted in by the four men-at-arms who had ridden with him from the border. A green-clad usher cried: "Your Majesty, I present Sir Eudoric Dambertson of Arduen, who saith he hath a message for you from King Clothar of Franconia."

The usher motioned Eudoric forward. Eudoric dropped to one knee.

"Rise, Sir Eudoric," wheezed the King. "Here, a simple bow were enough. We set no great store by fancy manners like unto those of decadent Franconia. Nay, we—"

"Nay indeed," interrupted another, rising from a curled-up posture near the throne. A tall slender person, black of hair and pale of face, this man wore a costume of vivid checks of red, yellow, and green, with a horned headdress. Little bells on the ends of the horns tinkled when he moved. "Nay forsooth, good Sir Eudoric! In Armoria, all is feasting and fun.

The jester collapsed in a gale of laughter. The King smiled in a puzzled way; the men-at-arms dutifully smirked. While Eudoric was not without a sense of humor, this faculty was not his outstanding talent.

He smiled thinly, since he could see nothing very amusing in the verse, especially with the headsman standing ready for instant duty.

Eudoric assumed that the man in the fool's regalia was the jester-minister Corentin, who continued: "And now, sir, what is your business?"

Addressing the King, Eudoric went into his well-rehearsed speech about King Clothar's wish to resume amicable relations. At the climax he produced the remaining bottle of wine: "... and in token thereof, His Majesty sends Your Majesty this little gift, in hopes that Your Majesty will reciprocate with a flask of your own delicious perry." . The King leaned eagerly forward, extending a pudgy arm. Before he could grasp the bottle, the jester snatched it, saying:

"Naughty, naughty! Ye know better than to drink from aught that your faithful taster hath not sampled.

Corentin drew the cork and put the bottle to his mouth. He downed several swallows and handed the bottle, now half empty, to his royal master. Eudoric observed these actions with surprise; of the several rulers whom he had known, none would have tolerated such impudence on the part of a subject. Corentin continued:

"Not bad! Count to a hundred, Majesty, ere ye guzzle, to see if your faithful jester be writhing in his death throes or hath already expired. Now, Sir Eudoric! Ere we accept your bona fides, explain why King Clothar should send a lone foreigner to discuss matters of such pith and moment, in lieu of a proper envoy with escort and credentials?"

Cautiously, Eudoric said: "Brulard, the minister, apprehended that such an embassy were likely to rouse the Duke of Dorelia's suspicions and lead to my detention, or worse. Therefore my credentials, now in the custody of your customs officer, say nought of my present mission; merely that I am a harmless gentleman seeking to extend his stagecoach routes and requesting kindly treatment by the powers through whose lands I pass."

"What is a stagecoach?"

Eudoric explained. The jester cocked his head, so that his bells gave a brief tinkle, and studied his visitor. "Dost truly wish to extend this service to Armoria?"

"I must first discover whether an extension to Letitia be possible and profitable; it was for this that I set out from my homeland. I fear the roads betwixt Ysness and Letitia be mostly tracks, wide enough for a horse or mule but not for the wheels of a vehicle. Improvements were costly; so, perchance, this were a project for the future."

Corentin gave a disdainful sniff. "It sounds like an impractical device. I am sure no Armorian gentleman would ride in one unless he were too old or ill to mount his mettlesome steed."

Eudoric changed the subject. "Pray, Sir Jester, tell me of the curious sacrifice of maiden to monster, whereof I've been told. Is this true?"

"Aye; mean ye the witch Yolanda? She came hither feigning a mission like unto yours; but we soon discovered she sought to cast a spell upon His Majesty—" (Corentin glanced at the King, who had finished his bottle and fallen asleep on his throne) "—and thus to seize the rule of Armoria. Clothar no doubt dispatched his sister upon this treasonous quest and not to talk of trade in wine and perry. Therefore are we wary of compacts with King Clothar. What proof canst give that ye be not about to hatch some similar stratagem?" The jester wagged a finger as if beating time, then burst into verse:

The pause gave Eudoric time to formulate a reply. He spread his hands. "You see that I am but one man, alone save for my squire. So I could not attack your kingdom by force, however nefarious my intentions, even had I the might of Sigvard Dragonslayer. On the other hand, I have no magical powers whatever."

"How know we that ye have no occult capabilities?"

Eudoric shrugged. "How can a wight prove that he have no wizardly skills? If I falsely claimed such abilities, you could demand a demonstration. But when I claim not to possess them ... well, Sir Jester, you see for yourself."

"A neat philosophical point, Sir Eudoric," said Corentin. "Let me ponder it ..."

"Meanwhile," said Eudoric, "pray tell me, when is the maiden to be sacrificed?"

"Three days hence. Wouldst buy a seat on one of my benches?"

"Perhaps. Has not His Majesty offered a reward for him who slays the monster?"

"Indeed he hath. Wouldst attempt that feat yourself?"

"I came not to Armoria with that thought in mind; but still, the prospect tempts me. What is this reward?"

"The traditional guerdon, as ye know, is the hand of the maiden and half of the kingdom. Alas, the realm is already bespoke by His Majesty's heir, his nephew Prince Patern; but the hand of the Princess Yolanda, the maid in question, is yours—if the twain of you survive."

"Not so swiftly!" said Eudoric with a wry grin. "How know you that I be able and willing to wed? Or that the maid and I should find each other pleasing?"

" Tis the lot of youthful princes and princesses to be wedded all the time to others of their rank, regardless of their personal liking. And good my sir, ye think not, I trust, that we would let the baggage go free as a masterless enchantress? Should ye both survive, ye shall wed, like it or not. If either balk, we will clap you up until silence and solitude do soften your obduracy.

"I confess that King Gwennon and I, his minister, find ourselves in a somewhat difficult strait. Albeit we most earnestly wish to rid ourselves of the monster, we would not wish to make a mortal foe of King Clothar, when he hath taken the primary step towards reconciliation. Yet we most particularly will not leave this dangerous, presumptuous enchantress at large within our kingdom."

"What makes you think that wedding the dame to me would render her less dire?"

"First, as a husband, ye could call upon the law if need be to keep her under discipline. Second, 'tis widely known that enjoyment of amorous intimacies doth diminish magical powers. Third and lastly, if ye slay the monster, we shall know that ye be a man of such might and valor that ye can easily master this forward wench." Corentin changed to a wheedling tone. "Besides, Sir Eudoric, methinks ye'd leap at a chance to marry into a royal house that vaunts itself the greatest in the world, notwithstanding that others dispute the claim. Why, with the adroitness ye've already displayed in your dealings with us, ye'd soon be a duke, or at least a count!"

"That is as may be," said Eudoric. "At least, if I vanquish this merdragon, you'd have your proof that I am no wizard."

"How so?"

"Who, facing a deadly peril, would eschew the use of magic to save himself, if he possessed such power?"

Corentin snorted. "Ye are too shrewd by half! If ye survive, we had better hustle you out of the kingdom forthwith, lest ye scheme it away from us! If it transpire that ye do but cozen us with crafty lies, yonder stands the cure!" He nodded towards the headsman and intoned:

Corentin brayed one of his raucous laughs. Eudoric looked doubtful, saying: "I had no intention of wiving. Until now I have fared well enough without a wifely fardel." It was a flat lie, he knew, but he made it sound convincing.

"Dis take you!" cried Corentin. "What more wouldst have, besides the hand of a rich and mighty ruler's sister? The moon? Or Maglaun's ever-filled purse?"

"A thousand Franconian marks, or the equal in your coin, would suffice."

Corentin gave a falsetto shriek, jerking his head so that all his bells jangled. "A thousand! Art mad, like a buck hare in spring? Ye'd clean out the treasury, as would a horde of mice do in a granary. Between the princess and the fame that will accrue to you from the feat, ye need nought more. No Franconian nobleman would bargain in this base commercial vein."

Eudoric smiled. "I am no Franconian. Permit me to remind you that, if the princess be devoured, you will never get a treaty with King Clothar, no matter how beneficial to your sovran and his realm."

Corentin uttered a word in Armorian that Eudoric did not recognize but guessed to be an obscenity. The jester said: "Well then, we will offer ten golden Armorian crowns. The crown weighs a trifle less than the mark."

"Ten? Good my jester, this is one of your better jokes. Ten would scarce support our return to the Empire. Make it nine hundred, then."

"Ridiculous! I will offer twenty, and not a sesterce more."

"Then I fear I must return to Letitia empty-handed ..."

An hour later, they had settled for one hundred Armorian crowns. The jester said: "Ye wite, ye shall have the full amount only if the beast be slain. If ye do but send it fleeing wounded, ye shall have but the half, since we know not whether it will return anon."

"Very well, Sir Jester. And now for the means. I must have my sword, if you will kindly command these border guards to return it to me; but one weapon seems hardly adequate. In the royal arsenal, is there a dart-throwing catapult that I might borrow?"

"Catapults? Nay, sir; we manly Armorians use them not. The effete Franconians may resort to such ignoble gins mechanical; but we are true men—-" (he thumped his chest) "—and rely upon our strong right arms."

"Then I hardly suppose you would have one of those Serican thunder tubes? I have seen one, a most fell weapon."

"Nay, we've never heard of such things. We could, howsomever, lend you a sturdy hunting spear."

"Better than nought," grumped Eudoric. "And now, may I see our agreement in writing?"

"Oh, very well, very well. Here one trusts the word of a gentleman. Pol! Go fetch the scrivener."

When the scrivener came in with pen, ink, and an armful of parchments, Eudoric said: "Two copies, I pray. Do you not use that new stuff called paper? They say the Sericans invented it, and it's much cheaper than parchment."

"We brave Armorians think little of newfangled things," sneered Corentin.

The scrivener scratched away, sometimes holding poised his plume while Eudoric and the jester argued over the wording of a sentence. At last Corentin stepped to the throne and roughly shook King Gwennon by the shoulder. "Wake up, Your Majesty! Here is a brace of documents for the royal seal. And now, whilst we are at it, let us set the terms of this wine-and-perry treaty ..."