The Knight

I stroked Gylf’s head and waited for one of them to speak until Ulfa said, “I understand. Go on.”

“She and Ossar stayed there with Bold Berthold and me. She was afraid of Seaxneat. He had treated her badly, and I believe she thought he might hurt Ossar when they came home. A couple of days ago, I went out to hunt and saw one of the Angrborn—”

Old man Toug said, “Where?”

“By the river, quite a way upstream. I thought I ought to warn Bold Berthold and Disira, so I went back to the hut. It had been burned, and at first I thought the Angrborn had done it. I found footprints made by men our size, though. One had walked with his toes turned in. I thought that was Seaxneat, and I still do. I heard Ossar crying, and found Disira’s body—she’d been hit with an ax. That’s easy to say, easy for me to talk about in here, where I don’t have to see her. But it was pretty horrible. I didn’t like to look at it, and I don’t like to think about it.”

Ve whispered something to Ulfa. She nodded and said, “He’s afraid to ask you, but he’d like to know why you took Disira to a hut, if you’re a knight. Aren’t you supposed to have a big house?”

“Because I’m not a wealthy one,” I told Ve. “Not yet, anyhow. But I’m a slow one, sometimes, and way too fond of talking, which isn’t the way a true knight ought to be.” I put my hand on old man Toug’s shoulder. “Not so long ago you wanted to kill me.”

He nodded reluctandy.

“I broke your bill, and could have killed you with the head of it. I didn’t.”

“I ‘preciate that.”

“You say you want to be my follower. I’ll be loyal to you as long as you’re loyal to me, but no longer.”

He nodded. “I got it.”

We left after that, I motioning for him to come with us.

Chapter 13. Caesura

Side by side we went down the village street, through fields, and into the forest; and Gylf trotted ahead of us, exploring every thicket and clump of brush before we reached it. Soon the path narrowed, and I went before old man Toug with an arrow at the nock; but even then, Gylf ranged ahead of me. Near Gle

Springs well from their roots, for in their quest for water those roots crack rocks deeper than the deepest well. Wildflowers, small ones so delicate you ca

To tell the truth, I was afraid I was going to choke up, so I said, “Now I see how it is that the air in Aelfrice seems full of light. This air looks full of light too.”

“Ah,” said old man Toug, “this what Aelfrice’s like?”

“No,” I said. “Aelfrice is much more wonderful. The trees are bigger and of incredible kinds, strange, dangerous, or welcoming. The air doesn’t just seem to shine, it really does.”

“My boy can tell me ‘bout it, maybe, if I get him back.”

I asked whether he had given his son his name because he wanted his son to be like him, or because he wanted to be a boy again; and now I ca

Not long after that, a white stag, already in antler, darted across the path; Gylf did not bay on its track, nor did I loose an arrow. We both felt, I would say, that it was not a stag to be hunted.

“Cloud buck,” said old man Toug.

“What do you mean by that?”

“What they call ’em,” said old man Toug, and nothing more.

The land rose and fell, gently at first as it does in the downs, then more abruptly, making hills like those among which I found Disiri. The trees sank their roots in such stone as a dog, a boy, and a man might walk upon.

At last we climbed a hill higher than any we had seen before, and its crest was bald except for wisps of grass; from its top I could make out, to the north, peaks white with snow. “Not far now,” old man Toug told me.

Gylf whined, and looked back at me. I knew he wanted to talk, but would not talk as long as old man Toug was with me; so I told old man Toug to go forward until he could no longer see us, then wait until we caught up with him. Naturally he wanted to know why, but I told him to do it or return to his wife and daughter, and he did it.

“They know,” Gylf cautioned me.

“The outlaws?”

He nodded.

“How do you know that?” I asked him.

“Smell it.”

Thinking about what he said, I remembered your telling me dogs could smell fear. I asked Gylf if they were afraid, and he nodded again. “How did they find out we were coming?”

He did not answer; as I got to know him better, I came to understand that it was the way he generally reacted when he did not know the answer to a question (or thought the question foolish). Probably they had lookouts. I would have, if I had been their captain.

“Thought you wouldn’t catch up,” old man Toug said when we overtook him.

I told him we had wanted to see whether he would tell the outlaws about us.

“You and the dog did?”

I nodded.

“Kill it straight off, they will.”

“I suppose you’re right, if he finds them before we do.”

“I seen a knight once that had one of them shirts of iron rings for his dog, even.”

“I’ll try to get one for Gylf, if he wants one,” I said, “but from here on I want you to stay back with him, and make him stay back with you. I’ll go first.”

“You only got eight arrows. I counted ’em.”

I asked how many he had and ordered him to stay well in back of me. After that, I told Gylf to keep back and to keep old man Toug with him.

Until now, I have been recounting what I did and what others did, and reconstructing what we said. Now I think I had better call a halt to that, and explain how I felt then and later, and why I did what I did. I have been a general, sort of, and I can tell you that good generals march hard, but they do not march night and day. There is a time for marching, but also a time for halting and making camp.

I went forward alone, as I told you, with my bow strung and an arrow already on the string, listening to the murmur of the many, many lives that made up that string—to the noise of the people, if I can say it like that. To life. Those men, women, and children who made up Parka’s string knew nothing about me, nothing about my spiny orange bow, nothing about the arrow they would send whistling at some outlaw; but they sensed all of it, I think, sensing that their lives had been drawn tight, and the battle was about to start. There was fear and excitement in their voices. They sat at their fires or did the work they did each day; but they sensed that there was going to be a battle, and how it came out would depend on them.

It was not much different for me. I knew that I would probably have to fight half a dozen men, and that they would have bows, too, with plenty of arrows, and swords, axes, and spears. If I turned right or left, I would save my life; and Gylf and the man with him would know nothing about it unless they turned too, because they would both die when they got to the outlaws. If I turned back, they would know but I would save their lives as well as mine. Saving the lives of the people with you is supposed to be the big thing, and killing the people who are trying to kill you (and them) does not really count.