Good Martyr's Eve 1

Thunderstorms pummeled the keep that Good Martyr’s Eve, and Sir Vincent dreamed of the dragon again.

Steam billowed from the beast’s tremendous nostrils, in this vision, steam cresting with curling flames. Resplendent, this massive creature, no doubt spawned in Hell, and certainly without mercy for its victims. Scimitar-sharp talons a man’s arm in length adorned each of its scaled digits; fangs of broadsword length dripped poisonous ichor with every noxious exhalation. In these dreams the dragon swooped down, monstrous veined wings flapping, blotting out the full moon, and left massacre in its wake.

This vision that plagued the knight never varied. Always, always: the worm, the innocent, the slaughter. Occasionally he would see the horrid spectacle from differing angles; in more than one dream the beast ended its feast with a gloating stare, mutating its lizard-like maw to a malicious grin, well aware it was being dreamed and of who was dreaming it. These nightmares especially jolted the old man awake, soaked in salty sweat, trembling, a scream caught at the inside of his lips, not wanting to scare his gentle wife awake.

Off and on across two-score years had Sir Vincent visions of this monster. Whether safe in his keep, or whether on the trail, or on the hunt, or in the Holy Lands during the Crusade, the dream assailed him repetitively like a rude guest. Many were the counsels he kept about them, and many were the schemes he attempted to overcome them. He guzzled a concoction of bat-wing and spider eggs at midnight at the request of a Carpathian witch; still the vision came. A Gaul with one eye and the quickest blade he’d ever seen suggested the slaughter of an albino goat before sleep; still the dream visited him. A company of Turkish sailors even went so far as to drink the night away silly with him; and still, besotted and heavy with mead, the dragon leered at him.

Nothing he attempted, not even a pilgrimage to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem nor the blessing of the English Pope rid him of this accursed plight. And so Sir Vincent, in his fifty-ninth year, his flesh-and-bone sepulchre slowly failing him as he feared his wits were, resigned himself to fate to watch over and over and over the slaughter of one certain and distinct fair maiden by this demonic and brutal beast.

Our story begins now, after a particularly vicious week-long duel with the dreams, culminating with these storms on Good Martyr’s Eve, as Sir Vincent sat at breakfast with his beloved wife Elsayne and took her counsel with dread seriousness for the first time in their lengthy matrimony.

It was not really to his surprise that, upon confessing his troubles, she had been well aware of them. What was extremely surprising, however, and more than a little bit disconcerting, was that her face and her eyes gave away the content of his nightmares. And to confirm, her words: “Dear husband, for innumerable nights I have awakened to your screams warning, too late I fear, the lady of the oncoming dragon, and the cries of your helplessness to prevent her slaughter.”

“It is true, all too true,” he cried. Then, taking her soft pale hands in his, veined and knotted, he asked simply: “What am I to do, Elsayne?”

Her response, immediate, heartfelt and loving, struck him in its power: “Save the lady, Sir Vincent!”

“But how?”

She shrugged as if he was asking how to saddle his horse or sharpen his shortsword. “You must save this lady,” she concluded, innocently.

“But I know her not!” he protested.

“Find her out,” she responded.

“But I never see her face in the dream!”

“It is no matter, my Lord. Seek her out. Save her. Slay the worm.”

Sir Vincent harrumphed and took immediate leave of the marital bedchamber, seeking respite in the servants’ quarters. He seized Helm, the Master Servant, and charged him with the following instructions, sworn in the strictest of confidences: “Watch over me as I sleep, and at the slightest discomfort in my drowsing form, awaken me at once!”

Helm changed the color of spoilt milk at this command, prompting the old knight to swear an oath to the Blessed Lady herself that no harm would come to he that followed his orders so explicitly.

So that very first night away from Lady Elsayne, for the what could easily have been the ten-hundredth time, the vision came down upon him.

Vincent woke roughly with strange arms about his chest, and nearly bloodied the faithful servant merely obeying his word by stirring him. The dream still lay hold upon him, as thick but unseen cobwebs one has walked through inadvertently.

Hazy memories clung about him, ephemeral, and he grasped at them, wrestling in the near-dark of the Master Servant’s quarters. The face of the maiden faded swiftly, but now, under Elsayne’s charge, he remembered details lost in the passion that normally followed his awakenings. A fine woven basket this maiden carried, overflowing with some fruit. The winding stone footpath she followed, leading in its unhurried way towards a river. The lady’s gentle singing voice. Trees still laden with dazzlingly colorful foliage, golds and greens and coppers and juicy reds. Autumn. His vision occurs in Autumn.

Two nights ago passed Good Martyr’s Eve. The ecclesiastical celebration the Friday before the autumnal equinox. If his dream was to be taken as prophetic, time indeed was short for the maiden.

He fought for more information, almost a physical combat, frightening Helm. Nothing further came forth. The Master Servant prematurely awakened him long before the dragon itself made its dreaded appearance.

The maiden’s song echoed through his memory. He swore he heard it still ringing through the stone hallways of the manor. Bits and pieces . . . a beautiful melody, though unfamiliar to him . . .

Or was it? He hummed the tune as best as his raspy vocal chords could give it voice.

“My Lord Sir Vincent,” Helm stammered hesitantly, “are we preparing for a trip to the Islands?”

The knight stopped mid-note, shale grey eyes fixed upon his valet.

“The song, My Lord,” the man explained. “Me Waerwinnicke nanny would sing it to me all day long as she went about her chores. During her chores for the Martyr’s Feast, I mean,” he added, mostly to crowd out the odd silence that hung in the air.

Waerwinnick! It had been over a dozen years since Vincent had trod those hills, as vassal to King Anric during his wars with the Celts. Waerwinnick could be the scene of his nightmares. The trees, the hills, the river . . . perhaps he crossed that maiden’s path in an earlier life.

“Suit up, Helm! We ride for Waerwinnick!”

“When, my Lord?”

“Now!”

“Now?”

“Aye!”

“My Lord, Waerwinnick is a big country.”

Vincent leapt to his feet, and just as quickly into his tunics. “It is indeed, Master Helm.”

“If I may be permitted to ask a question, Lord – ”

“Permission – or lack thereof – doesn’t seem to hamper you, Helm. Where’s my sword?”

The Master Servant fetched Sir Vincent his shortsword. “If memory serves correctly, sir, Waerwinnick is a rather large country, with north and south mountain ranges, at least three separate distinct forests, a long coast, marshes . . . ”

“Get to the point, man!” The knight, fully clothed and partially armored, headed out the heavy oaken door of his bedchamber.

Helm summoned his courage: “Where in Waerwinnick are we headed, Lord?”

Vincent stopped under the archway to the corridor. Torches still smoldered in the half-light of dawn; the night still silent and drowsing outside the castle walls. “Point well-taken, Helm,” Vincent mused, pulling at his graying beard. Though doubt may have been part of his makeup, hesitation never was. He arrived at a decision, based partly on reasoning, partly on the fleeting dream-images clinging yet to his wakened mind. “Prepare me a horse, cool-weather gear, six day’s rations, full combat armor and weaponry. I’ll bring along you and that squire . . . ” he snapped his fingers in search of a name to the boy’s face . . .

“Guillaume, sir.”

“Yes! The boy will assist me when I do battle with – ” he abruptly cut himself short.

Helm hovered around Vincent, anticipating final orders. “There will be battle, my Lord?”

“You heard my orders, Helm.” Vincent departed the chambers in haste. “Be it done as I say!”