The Story of Silence Page 4

  Sleek flattened his ears but stepped lightly through the undergrowth around the basin. Cador moved his hand from the pommel of his sword to his breast. He couldn’t feel it through the mail and leather, of course, but he wore a medal about his neck, given to him by his mother before she died, stamped with the image of St Michael. He pressed his hand against his chest and through clenched teeth, began to pray. ‘Holy Michael, Archangel of our Lord and saint who vanquished Satan the Drag …’ He couldn’t quite get that word out, for the very real, very unvanquished dragon in the basin to his right had once again licked the air with its massive tongue. ‘Oh Lord,’ he tried once more, but his throat had gone quite dry. The dragon’s fangs, he noticed at this point, were large. Very large. Perhaps as long as his arm. ‘Help me, help me, help me,’ he croaked. ‘Please … Help me.’

  ‘Well! Since you said please, I’m happy to help. Haw!’

  Merlin’s voice, rough and cawing, grated at his ears and Cador glanced around wildly, expecting to spot the naked old man in the trees. But all that perched there was a crow, clicking its beak at him.

  ‘You think I’m fool enough to get close to that serpent’s den? Haw!’ the crow snapped, ruffling its feathers. ‘You can hear me, but I’m miles away. This bird has generously agreed to carry my voice. It’s an arrangement we have. Let’s see. You have a spear. Won’t do much good. But maybe it’ll distract her.’

  It took Cador a moment to realize that ‘her’ meant the dragon. ‘It’s a she?’

  ‘Yes, a lady. Haw! It’s a female. Some day it might even be a mother. That makes it all the more important for you to kill her. Battling a dragon takes great courage. There’s only one way to kill her, and that’s to get close. No arrow, not even a lance, can slay a dragon.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Cador said, clenching his teeth so they wouldn’t chatter. He rolled his shoulders back and gripped the shaft of the spear he’d just been told was useless. ‘So it sounds as if I oughtn’t to try to kill this dragon by myself. Rather, I’ll get back to King Evan and we can all go …’

  ‘Ah. No offence to you knights, but I’ve found that you have a tendency to avoid danger if you can. Quite understandable! It may even be judged a sign of intelligence! But I fear that if I let you go back to your king, he will want to gather an even larger army and make this into some sort of quest that might take months. And I have an interest in this dragon being vanquished much sooner than that. She tramples all the greenery and gobbles the mushrooms. Nothing left for poor hungry Merlin. Besides, you asked for my help.’ The crow hopped from one branch of the oak tree to another. Causing, Cador thought, an awful lot of noise.

  ‘No I didn’t. I was praying.’ He glanced to his left, where gorse grew in thick bunches, making a silent and swift escape impossible. With some reluctance, he glanced to his right. The dragon had extended more of its length from its hole and now its neck, long and sinuous, quested about the basin. Sunlight dappled down, setting its green scales sparkling. It looked almost to be made of liquid, it was so shiny and smooth, and in the way it moved, rolling like an ocean wave. Cador felt himself transfixed …

  The crow squawked at him. ‘Haw! Worst prayer I ever heard. Help me? Really. Now listen. You can charge. Maybe you’ll get lucky. But in all likelihood, you won’t. You have to get close.’

  ‘How close?’ Cador asked. The wind gusted through the trees, setting oak leaves flapping, and he shivered inside his mail shirt. The crow just bunched its feathers up and pulled its neck in, staring implacably down on Cador.

  ‘Inside the reach of her claws. Right up against her.’

  Beneath him, Sleek sidestepped and Cador reached out a gauntleted hand to rub the horse’s neck. He wondered if Sleek was bothered by the foetid smell of the dragon, which the gust of wind had not managed to dispel. ‘That’s very close,’ Cador said, keeping his voice low. He stared down through the branches into the basin. The dragon had, at least, withdrawn back into its lair.

  ‘You have to strike at her heart.’ The crow’s beak clicked.

  Without the sight of those terrible fangs and the horrible tongue, Cador felt his courage returning. What did this wizard, this dirty old man, know about fighting dragons? He gave Sleek one more pat on the neck, ruffling his grey mane, and said, ‘Conjuror or not, I must tell you that I have no intention of killing …’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  And with that teasing phrase, the ground beneath his mount’s hooves gave way, spilling Cador and Sleek down the side of the basin. The horse stumbled, nearly falling. Cador cried, ‘God in heaven!’ The horse found his footing, but, compelled by magic or some force of nature, continued his hurtling descent, with Cador as an unwilling passenger. He got his wits about him, raised his shield and couched his spear; how he wished he were back on the pitch at Winchester, tilting against a human opponent. But ahead of him loomed the dragon, all its hideous length spilling out of its lair, and who had ever jousted with a dragon?

  Sleek reared up as they reached the basin’s bottom, and Cador had to pull hard on the reins; the horse gave a terrible shriek but dropped his hooves to the ground, jolting Cador hard. The breath rushed out of him and then he sucked at the air, drawing in a lungful of foul vapour, damp and rotten, the effulgence of the dragon. He coughed; his lungs burned. He felt Sleek restless beneath him, threatening to rear once more, and so he dug his spurs into the horse’s sides, driving them both forward.

  Forward, towards the terrible beast, which had itself reared up, its head high above Cador, its belly – the scales there silver-grey-white – exposed. Cador spurred Sleek again, aiming them towards that underside, hoping they were moving fast enough that the dragon couldn’t lower its head to strike in time.

  He lifted his shield so that it would guard against the dragon above him. Another shriek echoed in the basin – not Sleek this time, but the dragon – a noise like ten falcons, shredding the air. Cador struck the serpent, his spear hitting the grey-silver scales of the serpent’s underside and bouncing off, as if he were jousting a castle wall. The impact threw his shoulder back, sent him spinning in the saddle, then out of the saddle, tumbling to the ground, knocking the breath out of him again. He rolled over, got his feet beneath him and watched Sleek gallop away. At least one of them was safe.

  ‘Told you,’ Merlin’s voice mocked, ringing in his ears. ‘Go for the heart.’

  Cador thought that if he ran, he might make it; his blow had stunned the dragon. A bit.

  Take that back. The dragon was merely swinging away to land a killing blow. Cador drew his sword and dodged as the neck flicked out. Snap of jaws on empty air.

  ‘Cut inside!’ Merlin insisted.

  Cador could summon no better plan, and so, instead of putting distance between himself and the dragon, as every instinct in him screamed to do, he steadied his sword and shield, and, as the neck drew back to strike, he rolled around a rock and darted past the clutch of claws, stepping against the serpent’s belly. He saw the wisdom of Merlin’s advice – this close, the serpent couldn’t wildly lash out at him. But the dragon began a questing descent with its neck, mouth open, fangs (they had to be as long as his legs) bared.

  Worse even than the fangs was the tongue: gore-coated grey, thick as his arm. It flicked out, once, twice, almost touching Cador, and he shuddered. Every breath he drew brought him the metallic tang of blood; the blood of his squire, the blood of those helpless horses, and who knew what other victims. He would take vengeance. He was a knight. And so he peered out from behind his rock and studied the dragon’s scales.

  The neck stretched up, too high for Cador to see the head (which was fine with him), so he looked at the underbelly, where the silver scales were tightly meshed as fine chainmail. Chainmail. That he knew. Chainmail had weaknesses. It was good against slashes, weak against jabs. Cador ignored the tongue as it flicked him for a third time. He had to aim well. Mail was weakest between links. He saw a few battered scales, perhaps where his spear struck, showing milk-white instea
d of silver, as if they’d been chipped. There.

  He raised his shield to fend off the fangs, leapt, and thrust his sword forward. His shoulder jerked as the blade made contact and he pushed, until the serpent pushed back – its weight crushing him. He fell and rolled away. The ground shook as the dragon collapsed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Naught but embers remained in the hearth; their orange-gold glow provided the barest of illumination, enough for me to see the silhouette of the empty wine pitcher, the dark hump of my stranger in their chair. It had grown so still, just Silence’s voice in the inn’s darkness. And now that had gone quiet, too. A mouse skittered across the floorboards, found some crumb and began to gnaw. That simple sound brought me back to myself: I had been in the sun-dappled forest, I had heard the shriek of an awful dragon in my ears. My stranger slumped, so still I thought they might have lapsed into sleep.

  I leaned close, taking a lungful of air, and I swear, dear listener, I swear I tell you the truth, that I smelled for a moment the sour sweat of a terrified knight, the rotten stink of a corpse-eating serpent, right there in the inn. Then Silence stirred and stood up, and the sourness I smelled was nothing but spilled wine, and the rot was just the odour of the night-soil pot.

  ‘It has grown quite late,’ they said.

  ‘But …’ I fumbled for something to make them sit back down. ‘How is this the start of your story?’

  ‘Evan was so pleased with my father, he let him choose any woman to be his wife.’

  ‘Ah! A love story? This is where you begin? So we have only reached the start!’

  My beautiful stranger rubbed at their eyes. ‘I can’t tell a story to save my life. They’re all like dreams. They make perfect sense in my head, utter gibberish when I try to explain. God keep you. Good night.’

  I grabbed their arm – an arm as strong and firm as oak – and said, ‘You can’t leave. I must have … I must hear … please. Tell me your story.’

  They pulled away from my grasp easily and said, with a voice that sounded amused, though it was too dark to tell if they smiled, ‘Very well. I’ll return, but I must use the jakes first. And check on my horse.’ Their footsteps barely made a sound; a brief gasp of fresh air marked their departure. Alone in the dark, I feared they would not return.

  Isolde pushed open the kitchen door; carrying a taper in front of her, she peered down at me. ‘What’re you doing, still awake?’

  ‘Could you tell me of the person who has lately been talking with me? Silence?’

  Isolde settled one hand on her hip. She wore her night cap, a grubby beret from which a few strands of her brown hair straggled out. ‘Silence. Leave that one well enough alone.’ She stared at me, her brown eyes level and grim.

  Couldn’t she spare a modest hint? A he or a she? A man or a woman? No. That one. ‘I’m in the midst of hearing a most unusual story, and I find myself wondering if it is true.’ I offered her my best smile. ‘Do you know anything about Silence?’

  ‘If I do, it’s not for me to say.’

  ‘Fair enough, mistress. But what about Earl Cador? Do you know his story?’

  ‘Which part?’ she said.

  I hoped that Silence would be a while with their horse. ‘Ah. The part about the dragon. And what follows.’

  ‘Who doesn’t know the story of Cador and the dragon!’ she said, her voice full of scorn.

  I settled on a stool and gestured for Isolde to do the same. ‘I am not from these parts,’ I said.

  ‘What parts are you from, not to have heard of Earl Cador?’

  I shrugged. Every piece of the earth that I have visited (and I’ve visited quite a few) thinks it is the most important. It does no good to dispel them of this notion. ‘I’m from nowhere. So Cador killed the dragon. And then …’

  ‘Cador killed the dragon, all by himself. And King Evan, may God keep him, was so pleased that he told Cador he could have the pick of any woman of the kingdom, so long as she wasn’t promised to another.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A most generous gift from the king.’

  ‘King Evan is known for his generosity. Have you not heard of his feasts? Of the gifts he gives to his faithful knights?’

  I held up my hands in surrender. ‘Mercy, mistress. King Evan is known far and wide for being generous. And most just.’

  This earned a grunt in reply. ‘Justice is different to fairness.’

  ‘You possess wisdom as well as beauty!’ I said.

  She leaned across the table towards me. ‘I am no beauty, you liar. I never have been and I never will be. Your flattery does you no good. So just tell me what you want, and I’ll decide if I ought to give it to you.’ She reached down and placed a log on the fire. The flames took to it hungrily, casting enough light that Isolde blew the taper out.

  I looked down at the table. Ashamed. She was no beauty. She must have had a bad case of the pox when she was young; her face bore the scars, and the disease left her skin mottled, so that she looked like a bowl of porridge with currants. I thought of telling her that true beauty lies beneath the surface, but I didn’t want to risk my space at her hearth, so I simply said, ‘Which woman did he choose?’

  King Evan led his knights and lords out of the woods of Gwenelleth. They were a diminished company, it is true, but joyous at Cador’s success. The one remaining squire rode in the vanguard, Evan’s banner hoisted aloft once again, the evening breeze making it stutter. They had bickered over whether to bring the whole of the serpent back to Winchester, or at least a part. Lord Fendale had wanted to take the head, but the stench was so foul, they decided to leave it in the forest. In the end, Lord Fendale extracted one fang to hang as a trophy in the castle’s great hall.

  So they rode, the squire at the head, King Evan behind, flanked by the Duke of Greenwold (who still thought they had killed a wyvern) and Lord Fendale, the fang lashed to his saddle. Cador rode further back still, though the king often turned to urge him forward, to tell them again of how the dragon had writhed, of how Cador had charged, of the killing blow to the heart.

  But Cador waved them off. His mind was full of the battle, true, full of the king’s generous promise. But he was troubled by Merlin – he had mentioned the old wizard in his retelling of the story, explaining that Merlin had given him the insight into how the dragon might be slain. But he hadn’t mentioned Merlin’s promise, nor his prophecy, and he mulled these now.

  And it should be said that Cador was not feeling well. Indeed, as the day lengthened, his normally ruddy cheeks grew pale, waxy, and he took on almost a greenish tinge. By noon, though the breeze kept the air cool, Cador was sweating, and when the Duke of Greenwold approached to ask how he fared, he touched the young man’s arm and found that his skin was hot as fire.

  ‘My lord!’ the duke called to the king. ‘Young Cador is ailing! I fear it is the dragon’s foul vapour; he breathed more than his fair share.’

  The king drew near and laid a hand on Cador’s cheek. ‘How hot he is!’ He turned to one of his knights. ‘Take him on your horse; he cannot ride on his own.’ Indeed, Cador had slumped to the side, listless. The other knights took him down gently and settled him in front of the first knight, two to one horse. And then they rode, as swiftly as they could, to Winchester.

  They rode through the afternoon and into the dusk, lighting torches and riding on, their horses frothing at the bits. Cador burned with fever and his breath came in rattling gasps and the king, hearing each tortured inhalation, urged greater haste until they arrived beneath Winchester’s walls at last.

  A litter bore Cador to a chamber where a fire roared in the hearth. The king, still in his riding cloak, his black hair coated with dust from the road, called for the best physician to be brought, now, now, not a moment to be wasted.

  It was nearly dawn when the best physician came, a slender young woman named Roswyn. She wore a simple dress of dark blue, embroidered with white loops and knots down the bodice. Her hair was tightly done up and hidden beneath a coif. She
curtsied to the king, holding her skirt out to one side only, as her other hand clutched a bag of remedies.

  The king’s steward bustled in after her, carrying a tray of vials and jars of ointment. He managed a bow and said, ‘My lord, King Evan, may I introduce to you Lady Roswyn, daughter of Renald, the Earl of Cornwall.’

  ‘Ah! Roswyn. The only daughter of Renald, if I am not mistaken. And his only child.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said the young woman, curtsying again.

  King Evan nodded, for even in this time of distress – for he was truly concerned about young Cador – he was thinking of land, and inheritance, and how Cornwall had no heir …

  ‘Roswyn is the finest physicker I have ever known,’ the steward blustered. He set the tray down next to the bed where Cador lay and peered at the knight. ‘Blessed Mother of God!’ he exclaimed. ‘He looks near to death!’

  Roswyn drew near to the bed as the steward backed away. Dawn broke and grey light seeped into the chamber. ‘He seems to have breathed in foul air,’ said Roswyn, leaning one ear to the knight’s chest. ‘I can hear a rattle that bodes nothing good.’

  ‘Have you not heard what happened?’ the king said. ‘He slew a dragon, all on his own. It was a dreadful serpent and filled the whole forest with its stench.’