The Ballad of Sir Dinadan (8 page)

"Hold!" Tristram said suddenly, pulling up abruptly. "Seest thou that knight? Is he not well-portioned?"

Dinadan glanced ahead of them, where a knight sat at the foot of a tree, holding a daisy and looking very abstractedly at the ground between his knees. "I couldn't say, Sir Tristram. Which portion did you mean?"

"It is a goodly knight. I shall salute him."

"What if he won't talk? I mean maybe he's taken a vow of silence or something."

Tristram noticed no irony. "Then I shall respect his vow, of course. After all, it is the same vow I have taken myself. Good morrow, friend knight! Beest thou friend or foe?"

The knight looked up dreamily, and seeing Tristram and Dinadan approach, blinked once or twice. His face lost a touch of its dreaminess. "I am a friend to all lovers," he replied slowly, "and enemy to all who scorn love."

Tristram took a sharp breath. "Why then, you and I are of one soul indeed! For I am the same as you, and as two men struck by love, we breathe with but one breath. Though I know not your name, I know that I am closer to you than I am to my own brother."

Dinadan's lips twisted wryly. "It's true," he commented. "He really is."

The strange knight stood. "Then come to my arms," he exclaimed. "I am Sir Lamorak de Gales, knight of King Arthur's table and slave to the most beautiful woman in the world."

Tristram had swung off his mount and started forward, but at this last word froze in his tracks. "Indeed, it cannot be so. For I, Sir Tristram of Cornwall, love the most beautiful woman in the world, the Belle Iseult."

Sir Lamorak looked squarely at Tristram. "I have heard of you, and indeed have long wished to meet with you and call you brother, but this is not the meeting I had dreamed of."

"There's a lot of that going around," Dinadan said.

No one paid any attention, and Sir Lamorak continued, "For though I love thee, I will allow no man to stain the reputation of my fairy love. No earthly woman can match her."

"That we shall see," Tristram said through gritted teeth. He drew his sword, and Sir Lamorak immediately followed suit. Dinadan realized with incredulity that the two knights were going to fight over whose lady was prettier.

"Wait half a minute," he interjected. "What about all that business about being a friend to all lovers and breathing the same soul and all that rot? You aren't really going to fight, are you?"

"Sir Tristram may retract his words," Sir Lamorak said. "Else I am sworn to defend my lady to the death."

"As am I," said Tristram. "I mean, as you may also retract also your ... your words, also, I mean not also but instead of me. Then, then also sworn am I to..."

It did not appear to Dinadan that Tristram was going to extricate himself from his speech, and so he turned his mount's head and rode on down the path, leaving the two knights behind. A moment later he heard the clang of swords, but before long he had ridden out of hearing, and he was alone again.

Two and a half weeks later, at the appointed meeting place, Dinadan rejoined Culloch, Bedivere, Sir Kai, and Wadsworth. To Dinadan's considerable surprise—and evidently also to that of Bedivere and Kai—Culloch bore with him the fabled Cup of Lloyr. It was a simple wooden flagon on which had been roughly carved the letters LLOYR. Looking closely, Dinadan thought that the carving looked altogether too recent for this cup to be of very great age. He glanced quickly at Bedivere and Sir Kai. "Was, ah, was either of you with Culloch when he achieved his prize?"

Bedivere shook his head slowly, his eyes meeting Dinadan's quizzical glance with a look of weariness. Sir Kai, standing beside Dinadan, said gruffly, "I'm sure you shall hear the tale soon. Until then, keep your thoughts to yourself, lad. You would not wish to prolong this quest, would you?"

Sir Kai was right. Even if the cup was fake, what would be the value of pointing it out? Dinadan heard the tale that very night, but the story did not make anything more clear, as Wadsworth's telling included such details as Culloch's fighting off three giants and leaping over tall pine trees and hurling rocks as large as cows. If anything, the fanciful account made things worse, because Dinadan could not believe that King Isbaddadon would accept either the tale or the cup as genuine.

He was wrong. Either King Isbaddadon was not very observant, or he didn't care, because when they had returned to the king's home with the "Cup of Lloyr" the king only ordered the cooks to prepare a banquet. As for Wadsworth's tale, Isbaddadon's only response to it was to laugh uproariously and clap Culloch heavily on the back a few times. Culloch, his face buried in a plate of boar meat, sauce dripping in globs from his chin, hardly seemed to notice. Bedivere held his head in his hands and looked old. Dinadan looked away with distaste, and his eyes met Lady Brangienne's. She was gazing steadily at Dinadan and was not at all embarrassed when Dinadan noticed her stare. She nodded gravely at him, and Dinadan nodded back. He didn't like her, of course, but he needed to be civil; he wanted to ask her a few questions later.

Dinadan didn't know when he'd find her alone, though. King Isbaddadon was supposed to give Culloch his next task the following morning, and then they would be off again. Luck was with him, though. At midnight, his lack of appetite at dinner having caught up with him, he made his way to the kitchens and found her waiting there.

"Well, it's about time you got here."

"Did we have an appointment?" Dinadan asked, surprised.

"Not officially, but when else were we to talk?"

"Are we having a secret tryst, my lady? Because I'll have you know I'm not that sort—"

"Don't be an ass," Lady Brangienne said impatiently. "Where the devil did you dig up that silly cup? Any fool could see it's a fake. Aren't the knights of the Round Table supposed to be honorable and trustworthy or something like that?"

"We knights of the table had nothing to do with it," Dinadan snapped back, nettled. "That was all Culloch's doing, while we were looking for the cup separately."

Lady Brangienne digested this information for a moment, then said, "Yes, I can see that. Whatever your numerous faults, you aren't a fool, and only a fool would try to pass that off as an ancient cup. But still, I didn't notice you objecting to the fraud."

Dinadan shook his head slowly. "I think it bothers Bedivere more than he shows. But as for Sir Kai and me, you're right: we don't object at all. Answer me this: is it worse to end a stupid task falsely or to continue a stupid task honestly?"

Lady Brangienne paused, considering this. At last, a tiny smile beginning at the corner of her mouth, she said, "It's a close race, isn't it? All right, I suppose I understand, even if I don't like it. I'm glad you and Bedivere didn't plan it, anyway."

She started to leave, but Dinadan held up his hand and touched her sleeve. "Wait!"

Lady Brangienne looked at Dinadan's hand for a second. "Yes?"

"I need to ask you something. Didn't you say that Sir Marhault was killed fighting for the King of Ireland and his daughter Iseult?"

"That's right." Her face grew forbidding at the memory.

"And Tristram killed him, right?"

"That's what I said. Why are you—?"

"So why is Tristram in love with Iseult?"

Lady Brangienne looked carefully at Dinadan. "How did you hear that?"

"Tristram told me himself. I ran into him while I was out."

"He told you?" Lady Brangienne rolled her eyes. "He is
such
a moron." She frowned suddenly. "You didn't mention me to him, did you?" Dinadan shook his head, and she let out a breath. "Good. Don't. I don't want him to know where I am." And with that, she turned on her heels and strode briskly away, leaving Dinadan alone, more confused than ever.

Culloch's next task, which was announced the following morning, was much like the one before. He was to seek out and find the Magic Picnic Basket of Guidno, which could miraculously refill itself as soon as it was emptied, so that no picnic party should ever be short of food. Culloch's eyes had gleamed at the very thought. Bedivere had pleaded with King Isbaddadon to assign a task that would actually help someone in need, but it was no use; and leaving behind the minstrel Wadsworth, who had caught a chill, the four knights rode away. Sir Kai was disgusted, Bedivere despondent, Culloch delighted, and Dinadan preoccupied. His mind was busy with something besides the search for the perfect picnic.

For Dinadan had his own quest now. There was some mystery surrounding his brother Tristram and the Irish princess Iseult, and that mystery somehow touched on the person of Lady Brangienne, who wished it kept secret. He was not sure why he felt compelled to discover the truth, but he intended to find it nevertheless. The only place he could think of to investigate was in Cornwall, where King Mark held court at Tintagel Castle, and where most of the stories about Tristram took place. So, as soon as the knights were out of sight of Isbaddadon's castle, Dinadan suggested that they separate again, and when the others agreed, he headed in that direction. After all, he reflected, there were probably as many magic picnic baskets in Cornwall as there were anywhere else. He'd try to remember to ask around.

They were short on magic baskets in Cornwall, it seemed, but Dinadan had no trouble locating Tristram. Nearly everyone had heard of the great, love-lorn knight in golden armor who would not reveal his name because of a vow. Surely there was never a knight that traveled incognito so publicly. And so it was that after only five days of searching, Dinadan rode up to a stone hermitage in the woods, where a harried-looking young Benedictine monk greeted him and, when asked if he knew Tristram, jerked his head at the stone building and said, "Inside. You can take him with you, if you want."

Dinadan grinned. "I see. Has he been vowing silence at you?"

The monk sighed. "He never stops. Heaven help women everywhere if he should take a vow of chastity." Dinadan laughed aloud, but the monk frowned and shook his head briskly. "Oh bother, I've done it again. I'm supposed to be learning patience in my solitude, and there I go snipping at someone."

"Don't let it worry you," Dinadan said, swinging down from his horse. "I'm sure your patience has been well exercised since Tristram arrived. How long has he been here, by the way?"

"More than a week," the monk said. "Almost as long as I have." Dinadan looked a question, and the monk explained. "My name is Brother Eliot, from St. Anselm's Abbey up the road. This little anchorage is a part of the abbey. We monks get sent here sometimes to pray and fast and meditate and so on when we need ... need to be reminded of the seriousness of our calling. I got two weeks this time."

Dinadan chuckled. "Got a bit frivolous, did you?"

"It's not that," Brother Eliot said. "It's just that Father Abbot is a very ... a very properly mournful father, and he dislikes it when the brothers appear to be enjoying their tasks too much."

"And what is your task?"

"I'm one of the junior cantors—a musician."

Dinadan's smile broadened. "Are you really?" he said, patting his rebec where it hung from his saddle. "We shall have to sing together. But first, I need to talk to your guest."

Brother Eliot's face lit up, and he said, "He was asleep just a moment ago. Is that a rebec?" Dinadan nodded, and the monk said, "I have only seen one, but it made such a sweet sound, I have never forgotten it." He looked eagerly at Dinadan, who needed no further prompting. He took the instrument down, tuned it quickly, then played a wistful melody he had been working on during his rides alone. Brother Eliot closed his eyes and shivered with bliss. When Dinadan was done, there were tears in the monk's eyes, and he took several long breaths before he spoke. "I wish ... I wish..."

"What do you wish?"

Brother Eliot looked down guiltily. "It is nothing. I am a very young brother, and there are many things that I do not understand, but I ... I do not see why we have no such instruments in the choir. Surely such beauty would be best used in praise of God. How much better it would be to play such music to a sacred song than it is to play it with tales of bloodshed and wrath!"

Dinadan pursed his lips. "You mean, like in stories of knights?" Brother Eliot nodded, and Dinadan said mildly, "But I
like
stories of knights."

Brother Eliot looked guilty again. "Yes, there is a certain ... pleasure.... But think of what good could be done! Why, imagine if the minstrels who sang of Sir Gawain should turn their talents in praise of the noble defenders of the church in the Holy Lands!"

"Who?" Dinadan asked.

"The Crusaders! They who fight and die to recover the Holy City Jerusalem from the infidel in faraway lands!"

"Why?" Dinadan asked. Brother Eliot looked confused, and Dinadan added, "I mean, why do they want Jerusalem?"

"It's ... it's the Holy City. Where Our Lord walked. We good Christians must defend it, of course."

"Oh," Dinadan said, his mind suddenly focused on an idea for a verse. Brother Eliot started to speak, but Dinadan shushed him. "Hang on a minute, I think I have a song for you." He fingered the strings for a moment, words dancing in his head, and then he straightened. "Right, then. A song for the Crusaders. Ready?"

Brother Eliot nodded eagerly, and Dinadan ran the bow over the rebec's strings and sang:

"What must the infidel have thought,
Beholding those corsairs?
How bravely the Crusaders fought
For lands that were not theirs.

"How utterly, completely mad
To fly to the defense
Of cities they had never had
And haven't wanted since."

Brother Eliot was quiet for a moment, then said softly, "Perhaps the Crusades are not the best subject after all, friend ... I'm sorry, I don't even know your name."

"Dinadan. And I'm sorry to make light of your idea. It was ill done of me, but once the idea had started, I could hardly stop. I'm afraid that I, at least, could never write convincingly about the Crusades."