Good Martyr's Eve 2

[Part 1 of the story will be found here.]

Urgency compelled Sir Vincent to meet the trail early in that afternoon, during the hottest part of day. Under normal circumstances this timing would not be of his preference, but time was not his ally. He desired to get as much ground behind him before camping down for the night. With the aid of Helm and Guillaume, he expected to cover thirty or so leagues before nightfall, or about a third the distance to . . . well, Waerwinnick, the land of his dreams.

Following a quick farewell to his beloved wife (who was a bit confused over the immediacy of the journey but, aware of its purpose, gave it her blessing) the trio and their five horses burst through the keep’s western gate and tore up the path through the English forests, settling dust and silence in their wake.

Their object lay in the direction of the setting sun, the vast Waerwinnicke countryside. Where exactly Sir Vincent knew not; the sense that he had no choice but wander onto the stage seen so many times in his nightmares was so overpowering he trusted it implicitly. He simply would know where to go once he got there.

There was little use in explaining this to his companions. Vincent neither recognized the need nor felt the desire to do so. They were only along to facilitate his journey. No questions were required of them; theirs was only to obey.

The moon set early that evening, leaving the three engulfed in complete blackness within the thick forest where they set camp. Helm and the boy kept the fire bright and raging through most of it; Vincent found a medium-sized rock to lay his head against and soon slumbered noisily before he even digested half of the Master Servant’s quickly cooked roasted pheasant.

“Is anything wrong with my Lord?” the boy, Guillaume, asked Helm quietly and uncertainly, as the two watched the old knight fight his imaginary opponent. Muffled curses and shouts of warning soon crescendoed to a scream – and then Vincent slept silently, if not peacefully.

“Is there anything right with him?” Helm wondered.

The horrible dream revisited Vincent several times that night – a sign he later took to mean the confrontation was nearing. With the sky a deep purple-black an hour or so before dawn the old man woke with a hitch, and could not get back to sleep. Nor did he want to. In the vision the beast had turned its dripping fangs upon him and clamped down.

An early start would be the only necessary course of action, he decided. The confrontation would be tonight. Good Martyr’s Eve. The feast festival of his dream. He woke the others, and as the first rays of the new sun spilled over the forest, they mounted their horses, sleep, breakfast and camp long behind them.

Vincent ran the horses till, white froth at their mouths, they approached collapse. Now noon, the sun blistered high above them, hammering down still with summer strength despite the obvious deathly signs of autumn all around them. He forced an hour’s rest, and spent it reconnoitering the valley where they’d stopped.

Vague feelings of recognition fluttered about him: the forest, with its trees bare and jagged; the soft whispers of the sea some miles off to the south; the soft grass beneath his feet; the chilling bite carried by the breeze; the brilliant azure sky unmarred by clouds. He almost expected the beautiful maiden to come forth from the brush humming her melody; almost expected the demonic reptile to swoop down upon him from the mountainous heights above.

But those gossamer thoughts did not solidify, did not clarify and surface for him. Was he all just being too imaginative? Perhaps letting himself be silly, like a little girl? Might this be a sign of old age – was he going daft, like his father and his father’s father before him? In the bright sunlight the nightmare seemed very, very far away, and indeed Sir Vincent was tempted to think this all folly.

Then: A scream! A shout! The clang of metal! These noises brought him out of his reverie, and the old knight dashed back towards camp.

Drawing his short sword, Vincent leapt across the brush bordering the path he’d wandered down, bellowing a great mad war cry as he exploded through the forest and into the clearing.

My destiny, my dream nemesis, he thought disjointedly. I come to slay thee now!

Vincent stopped, almost tripping and falling upon his own sword. He regained his balance and surveyed the situation before him.

Camp was surrounded by a dozen men, all with swords, all armored. Professionals. Men-at-arms, possibly garrisoned at a nearby Waerwinnicke town. All appeared mean and undeniably tough and willing and able to begin as well as end a fight. They had taken the camp, completely subdued Helm and Guillaume (both of whom avoided his gaze, completely and dreadfully miserable unarmed, bound, and seated on the hard ground), seized their overtired mounts. Sir Vincent, regaining his breath as well as the full attention of these men after a long moment, addressed who he believed to be their leader.

“I demand to know the meaning of all this!”

One of the men, a little older than the rest, a little bigger, a lot uglier and probably more nastier, stepped forward. “I am Captain Glyn Osprey, Commander of the Guard of the forest of Sir Caemryn Ysaille.”

“Sir Caemryn who?”

“Sir Caemryn Ysaille, of whom whose forest you and your men are now trespassing in.”

Vincent stared, dumbfounded. “I know not this man!”

“Indeed that is irrelevant to your situation.”

“Indeed it is not!”

“Aye, but it is.” Osprey took a step towards the old knight. Neither man had re-sheathed his sword. “Now good sir, I must insist you put away your weapon and accompany me.”

“Accompany you where?”

“To Sir Caemryn’s keep.”

“But I know not this man!”

“Yes, we’ve already established this fact. And to whom might I be addressing?”

As an act of good faith the old knight sheathed his sword. “I am Sir Vincent of Kent, and those bound men are my Master-at-Arms and my page.”

Osprey nodded to his men, who brought Helm and Guillaume to their feet, though they remained tied. “You and your party are a long way from Kent.”

“’Tis true as you say.”

The Captain surveyed the armaments and armor laying scattered about the camp. “You and your party also look as if you’re preparing for some serious business.”

“Indeed we are.”

When nothing further forthcame, Osprey asked, “Might I, as one who effectively has your party in custody and am negotiating your surrender, might I inquire as to the purpose of your heavily-armed visit to Sir Caemryn and his woods?”

“Master Osprey, neither Sir Caemryn, nor his woods, are our objective.”

“And what, I should wonder, is?”

Sir Vincent puffed out his chest and stood tall, and gazed out into the west. “I have come to slay a dragon.”

This statement apparently held overwhelming amusement to Osprey’s men, most of whom could do little to contain hearty bursts of laughter. The captain, still impatient but now very curious, approached the knight after silencing his men with a murderous glare. “Sir Vincent, where is this dragon to be found?”

“I believe it is near, though I know not where. Specifically where, that is.”

“It is in Sir Caemryn’s woods?”

“It may be, indeed.”

An devilish grin played lightly across the captain’s saturnine features. “I have not seen any dragons. Lately, that is, Sir Vincent.”

“Then I should think you quite fortunate, Master Osprey.”

The captain decided he’d had enough mirth for an afternoon. Glancing upwards and pointing towards the forest before them, he remarked, casually, “Say, is that the dragon you’re looking for?”

And Sir Vincent turned violently, drawing his sword with such blinding speed that the captain was utterly amazed. But this did not prevent Osprey from clocking the old knight in the back of his unhelmeted head with all the force the younger man could summon. Sir Vincent hit the ground hard and journeyed to a land where there would be no dreams, only darkness..