Grummore woke at dawn, his breath steaming in front of him and the snow crunching under foot as he climbed down from the wagon to relieve himself. When he finished, he looked across the valley and found himself walking toward the hill overlooking the village. His breath came hard with the effort, and with his wooden leg sinking in the snow he found a determination he hadn’t felt since youth. He was soon working up a sweat, and reaching the top of the hill turned to look back over the valley where it spread out below.
A blanket of snow covered the fields, and ice reflected off the length of the watercourse. The distant mountains rose up in long, gentle slopes painted with a rose-flushed hue as the sun crested the horizon.
This makes it all worthwhile—this is what they mean when they say it’s a good day to die.
Low over the horizon, a half-slipped moon stood in a cloudless sky. He saw a flash of silver to the left of the moon, and while before he might’ve mistaken it for a bird, he was certain it could only be the dragon.
He looked down at the camp and he saw Geoffrey crawling out from under the wagon. He stood behind the wagon, searching the sky, and Grummore grunted to himself. He had no doubt the dragon was stalking him, but it was more than that. The beast could have swept down and snatched him at any time, and yet it waited, watching.
The beastie’s taunting him. Letting itself be seen, purposely wearing him down—like a relentless enemy laying siege to a castle.
Grummore watched it—a speck in front of the moon—until he lost sight of it in the distance, and grunted in admiration. He turned away to look out over the valley again. He felt no fear in seeing the beast; no fear in facing it in battle, and he wondered why.
Is it because I’m at peace with myself and the world around me?
He had never fully appreciated the beauty of God’s handiwork before, not as much as he did at this moment—even with all that Bedivere tried explaining to me in the past—and he supposed that was because today might very well be his last.
Perhaps it’s not such a bad day to die after all, he thought, looking up at the sky once more.
Not since Barnham Down where Arthur’s armada first made shore having battled Lancelot in Benwick, had Grummore felt this way. Then, it was a heart pounding madness that didn’t end until the leeches cut his leg off.
He heaved a heavy sigh, making his way back downhill.
I never expected to live this long. That’s the problem. But I married, raised a son—and then Ector—and I can go to my death satisfied. It’s more than any man could hope for.
As Grummore approached the campsite, he saw Ector stirring the fire back to life. He’d heard Ector and Geoffrey talking through the night in hushed whispers about going to the dragon’s lair; they meant to take whatever treasure they could find.
It wasn’t like Ector to think of treasure, and where he might’ve said something to me about it before, he knows the difference between dying, and dying penniless, is more than just two coins on your eyes.
Grummore remembered Geoffrey’s story of how the dragon killed the other man, knowing it might be Ector’s fate, if not his own.
“Are you ready then?” Geoffrey asked. “We’ll want to go afoot so’s not to attract the beast with the horse’s scent.”
“Give me a bit of time,” Ector said testily, walking out toward the edge of the camp.
It’s the fear of it all he’s feeling, Grummore told himself. It was only natural, he knew. He’d felt it himself a thousand times. Grummore watched Ector searching the sky, and nodded in approval. The lad was preparing for every eventuality, and he was glad to see that.
Forewarned is forearmed. Bedivere used to tell me that.
There was the sound of drums, and singing, and Grummore looked toward the village lane where he saw the villagers approach the fenced enclosure leading a cow. They were singing prayers, and Hosannas, and he supposed they’d seen the dragon flitting about just as he had. Rather than waiting for the dragon to attack, they were willing to make it an offering. He wondered how long these people had been worshipping the dragon.
It would’ve made more sense to simply leave the valley.
He turned to ask Ector what he thought about the whole thing, but Ector was walking toward Bayard’s apprentice, who was standing off to the side with Bayard, watching.
Grummore smiled, thinking it was time the lad took an interest in women. He told himself it didn’t matter what type of woman she was, but he knew that was untrue.
Tell that to the old Merlin, a voice said somewhere in the back of his mind.
He turned back to the villagers and watched as a man stepped forward with a leather pouch. He dipped a bulrush inside and painted the animal’s forehead with blood. Grummore noticed it was the same man from the night before. He listened to the creature lowing piteously—it’s as if the beast understands its fate—while the villagers led the animal out to the enclosure and tied it to the pillar in the middle of the pasture.
“I see the villagers have brought out their sacrifice,” Bayard said, holding his staff with an effort. He seems to be limping a little more today than he was yesterday, Grummore noticed, and he supposed maybe it might have had something to do the with the cold, or sleeping on the ground, or any one of a dozen little ailments a man’s body is prone to once they reach a singular age.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Bayard said in apology.
Grummore shook his head slowly.
“Ye’ve seen this tofore?” Grummore asked after a moment.
“If you mean have I seen folks trying to appease the beasts that haunt them with gifts of sinful husbandry? Yes,” Bayard smiled. “It always starts this way, with cows, or goats—the old, the lame and sick ones—but they don’t have that many cows here, do they? Are you going to stay and wait for the dragon then?” he asked after a moment.
“No.”
“No?”
“Geoffrey an’ Ector ‘ave it in mind t’ go overthwart an’ endlong— t’ the beast’s lair.”
“They know where the lair is?” Bayard asked, and turned to look at Ector talking to his apprentice.
“Aye. Geoffrey’s been in it,” Grummore said.
“In it? He’s a brave man,” Bayard said with a slow shake of his head.
“Why’s that?” Geoffrey asked, coming around the wagon. “The beast was nowhere to be found at the time.”
“But you left your scent behind,” Bayard pointed out.
Geoffrey laughed. “I gave her more than just the smell of me. I pissed in her lair!”
“Her?”
“Aye,” Grummore said, poking the fire. “‘E’s a she.”
“I’ve known dragons to fly hundreds of miles searching out the scent of a single man.”
“You have?” Geoffrey asked.
Bayard nodded.
“And? What then?”
“Why, killed him of course.”
“For going into their lair?”
He nodded again.
Geoffrey laughed, smiling. “Well, then it’s a good thing you’re here, isn’t it?”
“As long as she comes here instead of searching you out—I mean once she realizes you’re here.”
“Do you think she’ll come looking for me?”
“That depends.”
“On what?” Grummore asked. It might explain why she hasn’t attacked him.
“On whether or not he took anything.”
Geoffrey was silent for a moment.
Grummore laughed. “The man’s a cominal rogue! Pilling’s all what he knows!”
“Well, I guess that depends on what you mean by taking anything,” Geoffrey said slowly, looking at Grummore who voiced his doubts with a grumbling sigh.
“If by taking anything you mean some of the old bones and armour laying about, then no, I didn’t. But if you mean anything like a tooth or a claw—or maybe if she was moulting and lost a scale or two and I chanced to pick one up? But what if I hid it close by, intent on picking it up later? Would that be worth chasing me down?”
“Maybe not,” Bayard said, laughing quickly, ignoring Grummore as he stared up at him in disbelief. “But tell me, did you really go into her lair and pass water?”
Geoffrey looked down at the ground, nodding slowly.
He looks like a boy caught with his hands in his pants, Grummore thought.
“Did you steal anything?”
Again, Geoffrey was silent.
“Certes!” Grummore said quickly.
“What did you take?” Bayard asked.
“Just some pieces of shell—but Ector took them from me,” he was quick to add.
“Dragon Shells? If I told you they’d help to slay the dragon, would you get them for me?”
“I’m thinking a man could live a comfortable life for the rest of his days with a handful of Dragon Shells.”
“I’d gladly pay you for them.”
“How much?” Geoffrey asked, a smile crossing his face.
*
Grummore paused for a moment, looking up at the rise and watching in silence as Geoffrey, Ector, and the girl set off for the dragon’s lair. He turned to look at Bayard beside him, watching the strange trio.
“T’is a fool’s errand ye’ve set them on,” Grummore said.
“Young men think old men fools, but old men know young men are,” Bayard said. “I wouldn’t say it’s a fool’s errand, but without something of the dragon’s, there’s little magic that can be done.”
“An’ what sort o’ magic d’ ye ‘spect from ‘er?”
“I’ve seen men able to lull the beasts to sleep with potions and incantations; it makes it easier to slay them when they can’t resist you,” he added with a grin. “The girl hasn’t quite mastered that particular spell yet, but the question here is, what are you planning to do?” he asked casually, sitting on a small stump near the fire and poking at the embers with a stick. He tossed another piece of wood on the fire, looking at Grummore sideways.
“Aye,” Grummore said. There was gruffness in his voice as he thought, I’ll probably die here today.
He looked up at the sky—now a brilliant blue with the half-slip of the moon high in the eastern sky—and then looked at the whiteness of the hills around him. He stomped off to the wagon, kicking at the snow and leaving his strange trail behind him—all the while thinking how much he hated the snow. He picked up his shield, silently hanging it from a nearby tree.
He stepped back, looking at it, a small smile touching his lips at the memory of himself as a young knight hanging his shield up in the branches of a large oak tree, hoping to challenge any bachelor knight who happened to chance by.
That’s how I met Bedivere. The first made of Arthur’s knights and the last to die—except for me, he told himself. He wondered what the dragon would do when it saw the shield, and then he looked at the cow tied to the pillar and thought the shield was the perfect message to send a dragon.
Maybe I should sit on my horse and wait, like a true knight would? If I make a stand and face the dragon people will see I’m not afraid—they might think I’m a crazy old fool for trying to defend a cow—but they won’t look at me as a coward for having survived a battle everyone else died in.
And as much as he may have believed that, a part of him wondered if anyone cared anymore.
He doubted it.
He climbed into the back of the wagon and began sorting through an accumulation of twenty-three years’ worth of travel. He tossed hunting equipment and furs to the side, finally opening the huge trunk that lay on the bottom of the wagon. He hadn’t opened it in years. He told himself he couldn’t afford to be distracted by the nostalgic musings of his youth.
I need to make an impression—not only on the dragon—but the people in the village.
He tossed his saddle out of the wagon, along with the rest of his armour. It was tarnished and spotted with rust. He climbed out of the wagon, laying the armour out on the snow carefully. The once brilliant red cape was now threadbare and faded; the gold piping seemed as white as the snow. The heavy iron cuirass— the thorax— was ancient judging by what they wore these days, he knew, but it was already old and outdated when he considered what Modred’s army was wearing at Camlan Field.
I look more like a Roman soldier than a knight.
He looked up at the limp dragon flag, pulling the pole out of the hole, thinking it was a sad way for a man to treat his lance.
“T’day’s as good a day t’ die as tomorn,” Grummore said softly.
“I’m certain it is,” Bayard agreed, watching the old man make his preparations. “But what if the dragon only maims you?”
Grummore laughed, pulling the saddle over and sitting on it. He picked up the cuirass and began rubbing at the rust spots with a rag, looking at Bayard as he toiled. He spat on the leathern underside, working it in. At last, heaving a sigh, he put the armour down and looked at Bayard before speaking.
“I’ve been brast an’ broached, mischieved an’ mis-sayed—all but to-shivered an’ left fer dead— an as much, I’ve been abashed an’ assotted at the hands of love. I’ve sided m’self ‘mongst the truliest flowerhood of Arthur’s best knights. I’ve cast bread with Gawain an’ his felonious Orkney knights on the one eve— only t’ be laid out through the lusts o’ that miscreant, Gaheris overmorn. I’ve stood apparelled in festive garb with Bedivere an’ Percival; amounted an’ rode endlong an’ overlong with Galahad an’ th’ other Grail knights. It once fortuned me t’ see Tristan win the tourney-day at Camelot an’ win the queen’s coronal—then hie off with Launcelot’s kinsman, Lamorack de Gales, only t’ be aslayed grievously at the behest of King Mark ‘cause ‘e dared love the queen Isolde. I’ve chased overthwart an’ endlong searchin’ for the Questin’ Beast.
“I’ve nae been adoubted I’d die an early life—an’ rode out with a mad pricking t’ sit atop the higher hills the day I saw Camelot fall. I’d liefer have died at Barnham Down than see that great house all aflamed. T’was all forecast by the Merlin aforethen—even Launcelot’s rashin’ to the Queen an’ savin’ ‘er from ‘er pyre—an’ wot ye well how I saw Arthur’s relief as that great flower of Christendom did so—for after that day, we fought the war we none could avoid with Modred forcing the King’s hand t’ yield. T’was Bedivere told me how Arthur smote his evil-born son a-pating the likes of which nae man could survive. Think ye then I’ve nae died within-forth each day that passes me by, knowin’ all I’ve loved an’ lost ‘as been laid to waste?”
Grummore smiled. “Be ensured Bayard, I’ll ride out with a mad pricking, all foining an’ dashin’ about ‘til I’m forfoughten an’ forwounded, but I’ll nae avoid the mal-fortune what follows; I’ll nae have it leched about I did’na do my duty as a knight of the Table Round!”
“God save you from the fool you are, Sir Grummore. There's no need for you to die when there’s magic about,” Bayard said.
outstanding m'man ! the salamanders have spoken !
ps.. a little slice of Canadiana 'memoir styling' for ya.. 🦎🏴☠️
https://thomasdarcyodonnell.substack.com/p/christmas-dazed
.. that mountain shot musta set me off..
But th writing ! Truly stout stuff !