Good Martyr's Eve 3

[Part 1 of the story here, and Part 2 is here.]

Sharp metallic clangs, reverberating through stone corridors, gradually and painfully dragged Sir Vincent from his stupor. Slowly dim surroundings coalesced around him, though quickly the old fox’s eyes grew accustomed to the dark. He found himself imprisoned in a dungeon, Sir Caemryn’s no doubt. Shirtless, and chained to a cold, damp wall, both arms outward as would be in a crucifixion. The awkward position made his legs throb and his knees, already weakened from age, trembled. The blow to his head swelled into a hard lump, and this lump’s soles purpose for existence was to administer jabs of pain whenever he moved his head in the slightest.

Helm and Guillaume were not present.

A long time passed; perhaps an hour, maybe two. Vincent dozed.

The dragon returned this time in his dream. Its descent upon the maiden was brutal as ever, its razor sharp fangs neatly slicing her open, its lascivious tongue lapping up her innards. But then, for the first time, the beast spoke. Its baleful gaze found Sir Vincent, centered on him with nasty interest, and its bloody beak opened:

“Time’s a-wasting, Vincent,” it leered. “By festival’s eve she’s meat.”

Vincent started, awakened to find his cell occupied. Osprey was there, as were a half-dozen of his men. The Lord of the Castle was also there, seated, short sword at side, clad in dark green tunic over silver ringmail. Even in patient observation the man carried himself as regally as anyone Vincent ever served for or with.

“Lord Caemryn,” he began, dignified despite his painful position, “I must be released at once! Surely your man has informed you – ”

“My man has informed me you were camping out on my estate heavily armed,” Caemryn interrupted casually, almost bored.

“I am no threat to you!”

Caemryn smiled. “I should think not, given your present state.”

“I swear to you, Sir Caemryn, I bear you no ill will. You must let me leave, with my men. I swear on the True Cross that I’ve personally touched in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre – ”

“So you’re been to Palestine?”

Vincent paused to get his breath. The sands fell from the hour-glass, and the dragon was licking his maw in anticipation. “Yes! I served with Richard in the campaigns along the East Coast! Acre, Tyre, Sidon! I was there, my Lord!”

He sensed a subtle shift in the room: the manner in which Osprey’s men held themselves, as well as the Captain and Sir Caemryn. Their lazy manner firmed up in a combination of respect and uncertainty, and a good amount of wariness.

Caemryn held silence a long while, lost in thought. Then, “I, too, served with Richard Lion Heart.” He smiled distantly as if reliving lost memories. “Perhaps our paths have crossed before, Sir Vincent. Maybe, in the breach of battle, on those heat-drenched and blood-soaked desert plains, maybe I’ve saved your life without even realizing it.”

“Or me, yours.”

Abruptly the Lord of the Castle rose to his feet. Osprey was up and at his side instantly, awaiting orders. “Captain,” Caemryn announced loudly, “I’ve come to a decision. Release Sir Vincent at once! Any man who fought at my side in hell deserves better treatment in purgatory!”

Quickly the men-at-arms released the old knight, who nearly fell from the wall but for Osprey’s nimble arms. After a moment rubbing his chafed wrists and kneading his legs back to life, Vincent accepted a new shirt offered him by the Captain. A minute later he was dressed and back on his feet.

“My Lord, thank you. Forgive me my misdeed of carrying arms upon your estate – ”

“Consider it forgotten!”

“My men?”

“They are being released as we speak.” Sir Caemryn eyed with amusement the older man’s struggle with boots, then belt and the harness for his short sword. No offer of assistance was given; nor would it have been accepted. The Lord of the Castle watched in admiration as the knight moved with single-minded determination.

“May I ask of you a question, Sir Vincent?”

“Certainly, my Lord!”

“Is it true what you told my man, Captain Osprey?”

Vincent looked up, puzzled. “Everything I say is true, my Lord. I do not lie.”

“Then you are chasing a dragon?”

“Indeed I am. And I have precious little time to act.”

A troubled look clouded Lord Caemryn’s face. “Sir Vincent, I am still confused over this dragon matter.” When the old knight paused, he continued. “Have you seen this dragon?”

“Yes, I have, my Lord.” “Where?”

A sudden look of enlightenment fell upon Vincent. “In my dreams, sir. I have nightly visions of the beast.”

“You . . . dream . . . of the dragon?”

“I do,” he said, with much solemnity.

Sir Caemryn burst out in laughter, great huge choking guffaws, contagiously and a little nervously spreading to Osprey and his men. Vincent, still paused in his activities, looked about from face to face, uncertain, unsure of what the object of this man’s laughter was.

“Sir Vincent, you are quite a work of man!” After a few awkward moments, Caemryn’s laughter subsided. “Really, chasing dreams.”

“But, my Lord, these are – ” words failed him “ – quite vivid dreams!”

Another round of laughter ensued, though briefer this time. In a show of good faith, Caemryn actually helped strap on Vincent’s scabbard for him. “Oh dear, you are quite entertaining, Sir Vincent.”

Uncertainly, the old knight said, simply, “Thank you.”

“I fear that if I should chase my dreams I’d be searching for a dark-haired maiden to walk arm-in-arm down a winding lane in Kent.”

“Yes, sir.” Vincent chuckled good-naturedly, turning to leave, and saw Helm and Guillaume being led toward him from an adjacent corridor. He hastened his step, hoping to still catch some of the day’s light to keep the search ongoing.

Then he paused.

He paled.

A wave of nausea overcame him. Slowly, he turned back to Caemryn. “What did you just say?”

“I’m sorry?”

“A dark-haired maiden, m’Lord?”

“Yes,” Camemryn mused, “hair the color of the sea at midnight.”

“And this woman, in your dream . . . ”

“Sir Vincent, you are looking quite pale! Are you ill?”

“Does this woman, in your dream, does she – sing?”

The Lord of the Castle smiled. “Yes. A most delightful tune from my youth.”

“When the maidens would prepare for the Martyr’s Feast?”

“Indeed.” A look of true concern washed over Caemryn’s face. “Sir Vincent?”

Vincent could hardly speak. “A maiden . . . in Kent?”

Lord Caemryn was befuddled a moment, then grinned. “Yes. My dream, Sir Vincent. A maiden – more like a Lady – walking down a winding pathway from a castle in Kent. A cloud overhead, and then – ”

“Then the dragon!” Vincent was horrified.

“I never dream that long.”

“But does the dragon snatch her?” Breath came difficult to the old knight.

“I never dream that long, Sir Vincent!” Caemryn was alarmed, as Vincent seemed to be going into some strange form of apoplexy.

“Dear God, what have I been doing all these years!” Vincent cried. “My own pride has led me astray in the false pursuit of my dream!”

But of the chaos that followed – of the old knight’s new-found strength, of the daring if blunt escape from the Waerwinnicke castle, of the breathless, restless flight back to Kent, and the inevitable confrontation with the worm –

That is a tale best left told for another night.