The Ballad of Sir Dinadan (20 page)

"He didn't steal it did he?" Dinadan nodded. Bran-gienne closed her eyes. "Tramtris again?"

Dinadan grinned affectionately at her. "You know, the thing I like most about you is your wit. I never have to bore myself by giving explanations."

"I suppose I should feel honored, but since you've been riding with Tristram, it hardly counts. Your horses probably seem quick-witted in comparison."

"Yes, but I think you're even smarter than my horses," Dinadan said with mock earnestness.

"Merci du compliment!"
replied Brangienne, laughing. "Did you get your lyre back?"

Dinadan told her about the trial by music, and by the time he was done, she was wiping away tears of laughter. Dinadan let her get her breath, then said, more soberly, "Then something else happened. It's another reason I came back to see you. You see, once I'd gotten the lyre back, Iseult stopped me and said that she wanted to apologize to you, if I would tell her where you were."

"You didn't, did you?" Brangienne asked sharply.

"No, I'm not a fool twice. But I told her I'd give you the message."

"Were you followed?"

"Yes, by two guards with orders to kill you. They lost my trail, though." He looked searchingly at Bran-gienne. "Why did she still want to kill you? It could do her no good."

Brangienne frowned. "You don't understand Iseult's kind of woman. She is always in competition with every other lady, and any woman that she ever sees as having an advantage over her—like knowing a secret—she will hate until one of them dies. She wants me dead because of something rotten inside her, not because it will serve any real purpose—which I'm sure it won't. I imagine that everyone in England knows about her affair with Tristram by now."

"If they don't, they soon will," Dinadan said. He told her how Tristram and Iseult had escaped and how he had found them in their "Love Grotto."

Brangienne sighed. "Idiots, of course. How long do they expect to be able to stay there undetected? How long will their food hold out? And how near did you say it was to Tintagel?"

"Not four miles."

"They're a tragedy waiting to happen. One of those pointless tragedies that are told by second-class minstrels."

Dinadan lifted one eyebrow and looked down his nose at Brangienne. "I wouldn't know," he said austerely.

Brangienne giggled, but said, "No, I'll give you this much. If there was ever a musician with God's own gift, it's you. Nothing second-class at all."

A moment later, Mother Priscilla joined them. "Brangienne, if you're coming in, it is time for you to join the others in the refectory."

Brangienne leaped to her feet. "If I'm coming in? But of course I'm—oh, goodness, is it already so late? I'm afraid I must have left others to do my chores before dinner!" She turned to Dinadan. "I have to go now, Dinadan. Thank you for coming. I've had so much fun talking with you. Are you satisfied that I'm all right now?"

Dinadan grinned and nodded. "Yes, but I'm almost sorry for it. It means I have no excuse to come visit you next time."

Mother Priscilla said calmly, "You need no excuse, Sir Dinadan. You may come as often as you like. But now, it is time for you to go."

Dinadan had not been to Arthur's court in almost six months, and now that he had seen Brangienne, he began to long for Bedivere and Gaheris and his other friends there, so he pointed his horses toward Camelot. It was slow traveling, though, as he stopped at every likely tavern along the road to sing the new song he was working on—"The Ballad of Sir Palomides"—about how the noble Moorish knight had single-handedly defeated the two villainous brothers Helius and Helake. As a bit of history, it wasn't especially accurate, but Dinadan was pleased at how well he captured Palomides's honorable and generous nature, and surely a noble heart was something far more true than mere facts.

He was looking forward to sleeping in a bed in a quiet room when at last he came to Camelot, but it was not to be. The first person he saw upon riding through the castle gates was Bedivere, and the delight on his friend's face nearly brought a lump to Dinadan's throat. Then Bedivere spoke. "Dinadan! By all that's holy, it's wonderful to see you!"

"And likewise, Bedi—"

"You're just the person I've been wishing for!"

Dinadan's smile faded slightly. "For what, may I ask?"

"To go with me! I wanted you from the start, but you weren't here, and no one's heard from you in months. Kai wouldn't do it."

"Go where?" Dinadan asked warily.

"To Culloch's wedding, of course. The invitation came by special messenger just three days ago."

"Culloch's wedding! You don't mean—"

"That's right. Old Isbaddadon's finally given in."

"Or couldn't think of any more lame-brained chores for the silly sod to do. No, Bedivere, I'm with Kai this time. I want nothing to do with it."

Bedivere looked astonished. "But after all, Dinadan, you were with him at the start, even before I was. Don't you want to see how it all ends?"

"No."

Bedivere stared. "Well, haven't you ever felt even the least bit guilty about leaving the boy the way we
did?"

"Not the least bit."

"Well, I have. Oh, I know it was the right thing to do, but I can't help thinking he might have been done years before this if we'd stayed with him. So you won't do it for Culloch?"

"No."

"How about for me? I don't want to go back there alone."

Dinadan looked at Bedivere for a long time. Finally he sighed. "The problem with being friends with a silly ass is that sometimes you end up doing silly things with him."

Bedivere smiled with sympathy. "Maybe it won't be so bad," he said hopefully.

Of course the wedding was as bad as anyone could have imagined, and worse. It began with two weeks of nightly feasting, which to their immense gratification Bedivere and Dinadan missed. They arrived the day before the wedding, to be greeted by a gruff Isbaddadon and an excited Culloch. It didn't take long though to see that Culloch's excitement related not to the next day's wedding but to that evening's final feast. "Izzie is having all the men dress in black! Get it? As if it's a funeral instead of a wedding! Isn't that the funniest thing you've ever heard?" Then he laughed loudly and explained the joke to them all over again.

Bedivere and Dinadan chose not to attend these revels. As a result, they were the only two clear-eyed males present at the wedding the next morning. Being alert had its drawbacks, though. When it was time for the wedding to begin, and still no one had seen Culloch, it was Dinadan and Bedivere who ended up rousting the groom out of bed, splashing him down with cold water, dressing him in the best clothes they could find for him, then supporting him during the ceremony itself, which began all of two hours after it had been scheduled. By that time, at the altar, Lady Olwen was ready to spit fire, and even Isbaddadon, hardly in better shape than Culloch, was looking angry.

The priest intoned a long speech in words that sounded vaguely like Latin but weren't ("Pure gibberish," Bedivere said later. "Fellow probably couldn't say more than two Latin words to save his life"), then switched to English to ask if Culloch took this lady to be his wife. Culloch answered with a faint snore. He had fallen asleep on his feet, leaning against Dinadan and Bedivere.

"You clodhead!" screamed Olwen. She drew back her left arm, made a very unladylike fist, and belted Culloch in the nose. "You drunken blot! You pig-faced, foul-smelling offal!"

Culloch rocked backwards, and Dinadan and Bedivere had to brace themselves to hold him up. King Is-baddadon clutched his head with both hands. "Yes, my love," he said, "but do you need to yell?"

"You, too!" Olwen shrieked. She tried to hit her father with the other fist, but that hand was holding a bouquet, and all she managed to do was shove a handful of flowers up the king's nose. With a squawk like a turkey pullet, Olwen threw down what was left of the bouquet and stomped away.

Everyone was silent for a moment. Then the priest looked timidly at the king. "Well then, I suppose it's off?"

Isbaddadon turned red. "Off? I should say not! My boy Culloch here has worked for three years and more for this! Am I Olwen's father or not? Am I king or not? On with the wedding!"

Dinadan and Bedivere glanced at each other in astonishment, and the priest gasped. "But, without the bride—"

"I'll answer for her!" the king declared. "Where were you? Oh, yes. 'Do you take this woman?' All right. She does!"

"Oh ... ah ... well then, Culloch, do you ... um?"

Culloch hiccuped and started to sag, so Isbaddadon stepped in for him, too. "He does!"

"Well then, I—dear me, I've lost my place—oh, I pronounce you ... er ... man and wife."

The assembled guests gave a half-hearted cheer that died quickly. Dinadan glanced at Bedivere again, then shrugged and gave Culloch a push toward Isbaddadon. "Go ahead, lad. Kiss the bride. You coming, Bedivere?"

The two knights left Culloch in Isbaddadon's arms and strode firmly away. They didn't speak until they had saddled their horses and left Isbaddadon's castle behind them. Finally, Bedivere took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said, "Sorry I talked you into coming, Dinadan. That was appalling. I've never seen the like."

"I was at a knighting ceremony a bit like that once," Dinadan replied. "Doesn't make it any less profane." After a moment he added, "On the bright side, the couple seems very well suited, don't you think?"

"Culloch and Isbad? Ay, they could have been made for each other."

"At any rate, they deserve each other." Dinadan made a face. "Love! The whole business is insane."

Bedivere glanced at Dinadan curiously. "Have you never met anyone you loved?"

"Don't think so. And it's something I'd remember, isn't it?"

"One would think," Bedivere said, his eyes still on Dinadan. "You know. I looked about the crowd at the wedding, but I never saw that lady we brought there that first day. What was her name?"

"Brangienne," Dinadan replied. "She's not there anymore." He grinned. "That may be the only good thing about that farce back there. It'll make a great story to tell Brangienne."

"Then you know where she is?"

"Oh, yes. She's well away from that madhouse, in a secret place."

Bedivere looked a question, but Dinadan avoided his eyes. He had already betrayed Brangienne's location by one careless comment, and he would not do it again. At length, Bedivere said, "You know, I had always thought that you and Brangienne were kindred souls."

Dinadan laughed. "We are, a bit, but how you could tell that from our first meeting is a wonder. You remember how we quarreled. For years, I thought she hated me."

"But she doesn't?"

"Oh, no."

"And you? How do you feel about her?"

Slowly, Dinadan turned to look at Bedivere. "You mean ... you thought...? Oh no, Bedivere. There's been no talk of that sort of thing. No, really!"

"I see. Then she loves someone else?"

Dinadan almost laughed, remembering where Brangienne was. "No, I really don't think so," he replied.

Bedivere raised his eyebrows. "But you've not ever considered marrying her?"

"No, never."

"And has she ever considered marrying you?"

Dinadan blinked. "Now, how would I know that?"

Bedivere's voice was gentle. "By asking yourself if she has ever shown any interest in anyone but you. By asking yourself if perhaps the reason she has never married anyone else is because she loves you. By asking yourself how you would feel if she married someone else."

Dinadan's mind whirled, but he didn't speak.

"You say," Bedivere continued, "that Brangienne is in hiding. Why is that?"

"Oh," Dinadan replied, glad to have a question he could answer. "There is a powerful woman—never mind who it is—who won't rest until Brangienne's dead. The same one who sent those soldiers the time we first met her."

"Ah, so you're hoping this woman will come to think that Brangienne has already died?"

"No, not exactly. We just..." Dinadan trailed off. "But that's brilliant, Bedivere! All we have to do is convince her that Brangienne is dead, and she can have her life back! I don't know why I didn't think of that before! Thank you!"

Bedivere grinned. "I take it you're leaving me now?"

"Nothing personal, of course. It's just that now I know how to wrap this whole business up. You don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all. But Dinadan? Think about what I said, won't you?"

Dinadan nodded briefly—as if he could help thinking about it now that it had been spoken!—and wheeled his horse. He had to go one more time to Cornwall.

When Dinadan got to Cornwall, he made a wide circle around Tintagel and rode straight to the "Love Grotto," coming at it from the opposite direction. The hideaway was so well concealed that it took a few hours to locate it again, but at last he looked over the edge of the cliffs into Tristram and Iseult's retreat.

It was a mess. The furniture had been smashed, the carpets torn to bits, and all had been burned. The candlesticks and plates had been pounded into metal lumps and left to char in the fire. The painted words "Love Grotto" had been smashed off of the rock with a hammer. Brangienne had been right. They had not remained hidden long.

Dinadan climbed down the rocks and examined the room more closely. The fire was cold, and the ashes had been matted down by rain, from which Dinadan deduced that this had happened at least several days before. He found no bodies, though, or any other sign that the lovers had been destroyed along with their furnishings. He turned back to the wall to climb back to his horses and had taken his first step up when he heard a whisper of sound behind him. He started to turn, but he was too late. A powerful hand closed over his mouth, keeping him from making a noise. Strong arms pulled him back to the ground, and a sharp point pricked the skin just below his right ear.

"Who are you?" came a hoarse whisper. Dinadan tried to answer, but the hand over his mouth muffled his voice. "What? Speak up!" the whisper demanded.