Лайон Спрэг Де Камп Array - The Incomplete Enchanter

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She was speaking: «Then I declare I am the lady of this good knight who has been overthrown, and since he has a lady he may enter.»

The warder looked worried and scratched his chin. «The point is certainly very delicate. If you are her knight — and yet his lady — how can she be your lady and he your knight? Marry I warrant me this is a case Sir Artegall himself could not unravel. Enter, all three!»

Shea spoke up: «Beg pardon, miss, but I wonder if I could arrange to go in as your friend’s man?»

«That you may not, sir,» she replied haughtily. «She shall be no man’s lady till I restore her to her husband; for this is that Lady Amoret who was foully stolen from her spouse’s arms by Busyrane, the enchanter. If you wish to be her knight, you must even try Sir Hardimour’s fate against me.»

«Hm-m-m,» said Shea. «But you’re going in as Sir Hardimour’s lady?» They nodded. He turned to the latter. «If I had a horse and all the fixings, Sir Knight, I’d fight you for the privilege of being Miss Britomart’s man. But as it is I’ll challenge you to a round on foot with swords and without armour.»

Hardimour’s scarred face registered an astonishment that changed to something like pleasure. «Now, that is a strange sort of challenge —» he began.

«Yet not unheard of,» interrupted the statuesque Britomart. «I mind me that Sir Artegall fought thus against three brothers at the Ford of Thrack.»

Chalmers was plucking at Shea’s sleeve again. «Harold, I consider it most unwise —»

« Shh! I know what I’m doing. Well, Sir Knight, how about it?»

«Done,» Sir Hardimour unbuckled himself from his chrysalis of steel. He stepped forward, his feet feeling uncertainly on the smooth grass which he was used to crossing in metal shoes.

Hardimour stamped and swung his sword a couple of times in both hands. He shifted it to one and moved towards Shea. Shea waited quietly, balancing the épée. Hardimour made a couple of tentative cuts at Shea, who parried easily. Then, feeling surer of his footing, Hardimour stepped forward nimbly, swinging his sword up for a real clash. Shea straightened his arm and lunged, aiming for Hardimour’s exposed forearm. He missed, and jumped back before the knight’s sword came down, gleaming red in the setting sun.

As the blade descended, Shea flipped it aside with a parry in carte, being careful not to let the heavy blade meet his thin épée squarely. Hardimour tried again, a forehand cut as Shea’s head. Shea ducked under it and pricked Hardimour’s arm before he could recover. Shea heard Chalmers’ quick intake of breath and an encouraging word from Britomart, «Bravely done, oh, bravely!»

Hardimour came on again, swinging. Shea parried, lunged, missed again, but held his lunge and drilled the knight’s arm properly with a remise. The slim steel needle went through the muscles like butter. Britomart clapped her hands.

Shea withdrew his blade and recovered, keeping the épée flickering between them. «Had enough?» he asked.

«By Gods wounds, no!» gritted Hardimour. The sleeve of his shirt was turning dark red, and he was sweating, but he looked thoroughly grim. He swung the sword up in both hands, wincing slightly The épée flickered out and ripped his now dripping shirt-sleeve. He checked, and held his sword out in front of him, trying to imitate Shea’s fencing position. Shea tapped it ringingly a couple of times, gathered it up in a bind in octave, and lunged. Hardimour saved himself by stumbling backward. Shea followed him. Flick, flick, flick went the thin blade, Hardimour’s eyes following it in fearful fascination. He tried to parry the repeated thrust, but could no longer control his big blade. Shea forced him back zigzag, got him into the position he wanted, feinted, and lunged. He stopped his point just as it touched the smaller man’s chest. Hardimour put a foot back, but found no support. His arms went up, his sword whirling over and over, till it went plunk into the moat. Sir Hardimour followed it with a great splash.

When he came up with a green water plant plastered on his forehead, Shea was kneeling at the edge.

Hardimour cried: « Gulp. pffth. ugh! . help! I can’t swim.»

Shea extended Chalmers’ staff. Hardimour caught it and pulled himself up. As he scrambled to his feet, he found that villainous épée blade flickering in his face.

«Give up?» demanded Shea.

Hardimour blinked, coughed up some more water, and sank to his knees. «I cry craven,» he said grudgingly. Then: «Curse it! In another bout I’ll beat you, Master Harold!»

«But I won this one,» said Shea. «After all, I didn’t want to sleep with the crickets, either.»

«Right glad am I that you shall not,» said Hardimour honestly, feeling of his arm. «What galls me is that twice I’ve been put to shame before all these noble lords and ladies of Castle Caultrock. And after all, I must stay without.»

Chalmers spoke up. «Hasn’t the castle some rule about admitting persons in distress?»

«I bethink me this is even the case. Sick or wounded knights may enter till they are well.»

«Well,» said Shea, «that arm won’t be well for a couple of months.»

«Perhaps you caught a cold from your ducking,» advised Chalmers.

«I thank you, reverend palmer. Perhaps I did.» Hardimour sneezed experimentally.

«Put more feeling into it,» said Shea.

Hardimour did so, adding a racking cough. «Ah me, I burn with ague!» he cried, winking. «Good people of the castle, throw me at least a cloak to wrap myself in, ere I perish! Oooo-ah!» He sank realistically to the ground. They got him up, and supported him, staggering, across the drawbridge. Britomart and Amoret followed, the former leading the three horses. This time the warder made no objection.

THREE

A trumpet blew three notes as they passed through the gate in the portcullis. The last note was sour. As the travellers entered a paved courtyard littered by heaps of dirty straw, they were surrounded by a swarm of little page boys in bright-coloured costumes. All were chattering, but they seemed to know what to do. They attached themselves two by two to each of the new arrivals and led them towards the door of a tall, greystone building that rose from the opposite side of the court.

Shea was taken in tow by a pair of youths who gazed at him admiringly. Each wore medieval hose, with one leg red and the other white. As he mounted a winding stair under their guidance, one of them piped: «Are you only a squire, sir?»

« Shh! » said the other. «Have you no manners, Bevis? The lord hasn’t spoken.»

«Oh, thats all right,» said Shea. «Yes, I’m only a squire. Why?»

«Because you’re such a good swordsman, worshipful sir. Sir Hardimour is a right good knight.» He looked wistful. «Will you show me that trick of catching an enemy’s blade sometime, worshipful sir? I want to slay an enchanter.»

They had arrived at the entrance of a long, high room, with a huge four-poster bed in one corner. One of the pages ran ahead and, kneeling before a cross-legged chair, brushed it off for Shea to sit on. As he did so, the other reached around him and unbuckled his sword belt, while the first ran out of the room. A moment later he was back, carrying a big copper basin of steaming water, a towel over his arm.

Shea gathered he was expected to wash his hands. They needed it.

«In the name of Castle Caultrock,» said the little Bevis, «I crave your lordship’s pardon for not offering him a bath. But the hour of dinner is now so near —»

He was interrupted by a terrific blowing of trumpets, mostly out of tune and all playing different things, that might have heralded the arrival of the new year.

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