* * *
They dined rather thinly that night, on coarse brown bread and cheese which Britomart produced from a pack at the back of her saddle. They slept in cushiony beds of fern, three inches deep. The next day they rode in the same arrangement. Chalmers rather surprisingly consented. He explained: «The young lady is certainly very. uh. verbose, but she has a good deal of information to offer with regard to the methods of this Busyrane. I should prefer to continue the conversation.»
As soon as they were on the road Britomart pulled up her visor and, leaning cowards Shea, rolled her eyes. «You must be weary, my most dear lord,» she said, «after your struggle with those giants. Come sit and talk. I love to hear —»
Shea grinned. «Overdoing it a little, old girl. Better start again.»
«You must be weary — Hola, what have we here?»
The track had turned and mounted to a plateau-like meadow. As they emerged into the bright sun, a trumpet sounded two sharp notes. There was a gleam of metal from the other side. Shea saw a knight with a shield marked in wavy stripes of green drop his lance into place and start towards him.
«Sir Paridell, as I live!» snapped Britomart, in her policewoman’s voice. «Oft an ildoer and always a lecher. Ha! Well met! Gloriana!» The last shouted word was muffled in her helmet as the visor snapped shut. Her big black horse bounded towards this sudden opponent, the ebony lance sticking out past his head. They met with a crash. Paridell held the saddle, but his horse’s legs flew out from under. Man and animal came down together in a whirlwind of dust — Shea and Chalmers reached him together and managed to pull the horse clear. When they got Paridell’s helmet off he was breathing, but there was a thin trickle of blood at his lips. He was unconscious.
Shea gazed at him a moment, then had an inspiration. «Say, Britomart,» he asked, «what are the rules about taking the arms of a guy like that?»
Britomart looked at her late opponent without pity. «Since the false knave attacked us, I suppose they belong to me.»
«He must have heard I was travelling in your company,» piped Amoret. «Oh, the perils I go through!»
Shea was not to be put off. «I was wondering if maybe I couldn’t use that outfit.»
Paridell’s squire, a youth with a thin fuzz of beard on his chin and the trumpet over his shoulder, had joined them. He was bending over his master, trying to revive him by forcing the contents of a little flask between his lips. Now he looked up. «Nay, good sir,» he said to Britomart, «punish him not so. He did but catch a glimpse of you as you rode up, and mistook this dame for the Lady Florimel.»
* * *
A flush of anger went up Britomart’s face. «In very truth!» she cried. «Now if I had no thought before of penalties, this would be more than I needed. Sir, I am Britomart of the Companions, and this Paridell of yours is a most foul scoundrel. Strip him of his arms!»
«What about me?» asked Shea insistently. «That tournament —»
«You could not ride in the tournament in a knight’s arms without being yourself knight, fair squire.»
«Ahem!» said Chalmers. «I think my young friend would make a very good addition to the knights of your Queen Gloriana’s court.»
«True, reverend sir,» said Britomart, «but the obligation of knighthood is not lightly undertaken. He must either watch by his arms in a chapel all night, and have two proved knights to vouch him; or he must perform some great deed on the battlefield. Here we have neither the one nor the other.»
«I remember how my Scudamaur —» began Amoret.
But Chalmers broke in, «Couldn’t you swear him in as a kind of deputy?»
«There is no —» began Britomart, and then checked herself. «’Tis true, I have no squire at present. If you, Master Harold, will take the oaths and ride as my squire, that is, without a crest to your helmet, it might be managed.»
The oath was simple enough, about allegiance to Queen Gloriana and Britomart in her name, a promise to suppress malefactors, protect the weak, and so on.
Shea and Chalmers pulled off Sir Paridell’s armour together. His squire clucked distractedly through the process. Paridell came to in the middle of it, and Chalmers had to sit on his head until it was finished.
Shea learned that a suit of armour was heavier than it looked. It was also a trifle small in the breastplate. Fortunately Paridell — a plump young man with bags under his eyes — had a large head. So there was no trouble with the well-padded helmet, from which Britomart knocked off the crest with the handle of her sword.
She also lent Shea her own shield cover. She explained that Paridell’s engrailed green bars would cause any of half a dozen knights to challenge him to a death duel on sight.
They had eaten the last of their provisions at lunch. Shea had remarked to Chalmers on the difficulty of getting a bellyful of adventure and one of food on the same day. So the sight of Satyrane’s castle, all rough and craggy and set amid trees, held a welcome promise of food and entertainment. Unlike that of Caultrock, it had portcullis and gate open onto the immense courtyard. Here workmen were hammering at temporary stands at one side.
The place was filled with knights and ladies, most of them familiar to Britoniart and Amoret. Shea quite lost track of the number he was introduced to. In the hall before the dinner trumpet he met one he’d remember: Satyrane himself, a thick bear of a man, with a spade beard and huge voice. «All Britomart’s friends are mine!» he shouted. «Take a good place at the table, folks. Hungry, not so? We’re all hungry here; like to starve.» He chuckled, «Eat well, good squire; you’ll need strength tomorrow. There will be champions. Blandamour of the Iron Arm has come, and so have Cambell and Triamond.»
FOUR
At ten the next morning, Shea came out of the vaultlike castle and blinked into the morning sun. Armour pressed his body in unfamiliar places. The big broadsword at the side was heavier than any he had ever handled.
The stands were finished and occupied by a vocal swarm of gentlemen and ladies in bright clothes. At their centre was a raised booth under a canopy. In it sat an old man with frosty-white hair and beard. He held a bundle of little yellow sticks.
«Who’s he?» asked Shea of Britomart, walking just a step ahead of him across the wide courtyard to a row of tents at the opposite side.
«
They had reached the row of tents, behind which grooms held horses. A trumpet blew three clear notes and a mounted herald rode right past them. Behind him came Satyrane on a big white horse. He had his helmet off, and was grinning and bobbing his head like a clumsy, amiable bear. He held a richly carved gold casket. As he reached the front of the stands, he opened it up and took from it a long girdle, intricately worked and flashing with jewels. The trumpeter blew another series of notes, and shouted in a high voice:
«This is that girdle of Florimel which none but the chaste may wear. It shall be the prize of the lady judged most beautiful of all at this tourney; and she shall be lady to that knight who gains the prize of valour and skill. These are the rules.»
«Some piece of rubbish, eh, folks?» shouted Satyrane and grinned. Shea heard Britomart, next to him, mutter something about «No manners.» The woodland knight completed his circuit and came to a stand near them. A squire passed up his helmet. From the opposite end of the lists a knight came forward, carrying a long slim lance, with which he lightly tapped Satyrane’s shield. Then he rode back to his place.
«Do you know him?» asked Shea to make conversation.
«Nay. I ken him not,» replied Britomart. «Some Saracen: see how his helmet ends in a spike and crescent peak and his shoulder plates flare outward.»
The trumpet sounded again, two warning notes. The antagonists charged. There was a clang like a dozen dropped kettles. Bright splinters of wood flew as both spears broke. Neither man went down, but the Saracen’s
