The Motley Knight: A Fool's Errand (Part 1)

     Rain pounded the roof of The Bawdy Wench, keeping rhythm for the bard as he spun a golden song for his fellow patrons. The storm rattling outside was outperformed by the soulful satyr’s ballad of a far-off home that would never be glimpsed again. Even the most intimidating of the bar’s patrons shed a small tear as Tyro finished his song with a heavy sigh. As the satyr looked around, he saw the entire establishment staring with glistening doe eyes.

      It was more than he had anticipated. Nervously, he cracked a smile and winked.

      “It’s only a song,” he grinned. “I’ve never even been there!”

    Then came a cacophony of booing, in perfect timing with a roll of thunder that swept over the tavern as the rain intensified. A few tossed the remnants of their dinner at the singer as he hopped to his hooves. Bounding out of their midst, he deftly avoided the vegetables and hard-boiled eggs launched at his head. Had he been a man, they would merely have pelted his chest. He was like to catch them on his horns like cocktail olives.

      While his companion watched from a private table, the bard gave him an apologetic smile. There sat the king’s fool, Merryn Godrick. His hope for a quiet evening away from the torturous eyes of degrading nobles seemed dashed; but he couldn’t help but smile at his companion’s performance. Merryn knew all too well how fickle crowds can be. That’s why he and his friend had come to drown their worries mercilessly at the harbor town’s most celebrated tavern. As the crowd settled down, Merryn watched his friend hop into an empty seat and bleat a sigh of relief.

     Tyro the Gypsy: he was known by reputation, though accounts of him varied by brothel. Some insisted he was more horse than goat. Most were certain he was, in fact, a gypsy and kept a close eye on their coin. The satyr stood about four feet tall with frizzy chestnut hair flaring out beneath an ornate silken bandana. From beneath, unruly sideburns shot down and framed his round face with its upturned nose and mischievous brown eyes. His thick brown horns were ridged and spiraled around his temples and were adorned with golden rings at the tips. He seemed to take pride in his dress sense, his clothing being the only true valuables he possessed. This was evidenced in the fine tunic he wore, with its intricate patterns on the neck and cuffs. It was framed by an opened leather vest no doubt intended for a child. Swatches of elegant fabric were girt about his loins, leaving his shaggy goat haunches exposed.

     “Ours is a tough line of work,” he lamented and reclined in his seat, placing his haunches on the table. “Folks can turn on you in a second!”

      Merryn slid a frothy mug across the table to his friend.

      “Oh, brilliant!” he exclaimed, swiftly propping himself up to down his drink. It was nearly the size of his head.

     “Sing a song they like and you’re a hero,” he continued; “but when all is done, you get no respect. Not like knights – everyone respects a knight.”

     “Not all knights return that respect”, Merryn countered. He took a stern drink of his beer. It tasted less like swine piss than usual tonight. That was a plus. The fool was gifted in finding the brighter side of things.

     “The trials of palace life,” the satyr chuckled. “How is the Fool business? Do they pay you in bells?”

    “I cannot speak ill of the royals,” Merryn admitted. “I owe them this life of mine, such as it is. Why, if it weren’t for the queen” –

    “God save the queen,” Tyro raised his glass and took a long, deep drink. Merryn took this intermission as an invitation to nurse his own drink. The hour grew late, and the summer storm showed no sign of letting up.

    “You suppose Jervis would let us stay the night,” Merryn asked, peering out at the storm, then back at the innkeeper’s desk.

    “Who would dare refuse the King’s Fool,” Tyro smirked. Merryn returned a wry smile and went up to the counter. He was dismayed when his old friend Jervis informed him there was no room available.

    “I’m sorry, my friend,” he shook his luxious tan mustache. “Some nobles were caught in the sudden storm and sought shelter here. How could I turn them away?”

     “What nobles,” Merryn asked. Hag’s Bay was well outside the city and certainly no place for upper class well-to-dos.

     “Some ship-builder or such,” Jervis shrugged. “There was a young lady with him. She was hooded though – from the rain. They paid in gold – up front!”

    They must have been desperate to choose a spot like The Bawdy Wench. It seemed the nobles were still having their laughs at Merryn’s expense tonight. He thanked the innkeeper for his hospitality and was about to turn back to the table when he heard Tyro calling out.

     “Merryn! I’ve found us a room!”

     The gypsy had a nubile nymph on each side – and a lecherous grin on his face. They were giggling and admiring his horns. From the look of them, they were dancers. Most likely they were with a travelling show passing through the port. The fool could not beat back his smile.

     “Any port in a storm,” he thought.

     That night, while the thunder rumbled, the fool and the bard shared a room with the ladies – sisters as it turned out. They were curious girls and wanted to know about the performers, where they had travelled and what songs and dances they knew. Lightning flickered dimly as they caroused by the light of the candles and the warm fireplace. Tyro played a few songs they knew from their homeland and the young nymphs sang along and giggled. Merryn had known that the singer’s haunches were very sensitive just past his cloven hooves, as he had witnessed similar scenes as this, and the girls rubbed and tickled him so that his singing was interrupted.

     “Now don’t wake our noble guests,” Merryn warned with a smile. “They might pay our good friend Jervis to toss us out on our ass!”

    “There will be no sleeping nobles here,” he said, stealing a kiss from a red-haired girl. “These are not the kind of beds they’re used to, and the sound of bugs in the walls will have them thinking they’re going mad by dawn!”

     “Aye, bugs that play the lute,” he rebuffed and tickled his friend’s haunches so he rolled right off his cushion. Again the girls giggled. “You mentioned dance, I believe.”

     A milky girl with hair like platinum answered keenly, “Aye.” She was more serious than the others – if only by little. Merryn stood with her by the fireplace.

     “I was trained in Leaping as a boy, when it was decided I had no other use but to be a fool.”

     His warm grin reassured her. He wasn’t seeking pity, rather imparting some form of wisdom.

     “The art of baiting, some call it”, he continued and took his stance. “It is a dance, but also a means of escape – or combat if necessary. One must be nimble…”

    He demonstrated for her, reacting to an imaginary bear. Tyro clawed the wool rug near the hearth and charged head-first at him to help Merryn illustrate his leaping. The fool somersaulted over the charging goat and landed deftly behind him. He sharply kicked the satyr’s rump, knocking him back. When Tyro circled around, Merryn stepped aside casually and kicked out the satyr’s leg so he toppled headlong into the breasts of his red-haired girl. This time she didn’t giggle.

    The silver-haired girl was greatly impressed. She applauded the fool lightly. The red-haired waif had to concede victory to Merryn as well. Tyro sat up, unphased, and the fool thanked him for his assistance.

     “You trained together,” Silver-hair realized. Tyro nodded.

     “I have heard of this bear-baiter’s craft,” she said, “but I never thought of it as art.”

     “Art is everywhere,” Tyro spoke in mock grandiosity. Merryn grasped his haunch and savagely tickled again to silence him.

     “My friend has a point. I never thought much of what I was learning either.”

     This demonstration seemed to satisfy the maidens, Silver-hair in particular.

     “Might you teach me this? We have the night. The storm won’t let up till the wee hours.”

    Merryn nodded, then paused. He realized he did not even know her name. Something may have been quickly uttered on the way up the stairs; but the storm and the noisy hall and the suddenness had drowned it all out. So Merryn asked her.

     “You may think me rude. All this time and I have not yet asked you your name.”

    “I was waiting for you to,” she replied, drawing closer. She sighed in a melodious whisper, “Melora,” and they took their positions. Melora followed the fool’s movements into the night. Tyro and the girls watched until they slowly blinked their eyes to sleep. By night’s end, the fool had become a teacher.

     “Where did you learn this,” Melora asked him.

    “From a wise man. Old Hallahan they call him. He said I had a knack for it – and how could I argue? I’m just a fool, he’s a wise man!”

    “You chose something you love over the life others expected of you," Melora said thoughtfully. "If that makes you a fool, then we are both fools.”

    For a moment, it seemed she would kiss him. Instead, she blew out the candles. A dim blue light peeked into the shadowy parts of the room. Merryn let the fire dwindle down as he found a place among the cushions piled on the floor from their nights’ revels. It seemed only Melora planned to use the bed she had paid for. Tyro and his tawny wench were snoring soundly. Merryn let their chorus lull him to sleep.

     It was midday when the fool awoke to find Jervis chuckling over the pile of them.

     “Begging your pardon, folks,” said the great, grinning mustache, “but it’s noon and the maid really must tidy up the room.”

   “NOON!” Merryn shouted. He must get a move on! If he was late to court he would never hear the end of it. As he scrambled to his feet, the young maids moaned sleepily, immune to the innkeeper’s entreaties. The fool poked at Tyro and pulled on his curving horns but the dozing bard merely turned to his side. Rolling his eyes, Merryn once again attacked the satyr’s hooves until he sprang up in alarm.

    Like a madman, Merryn was out the door with the satyr in tow. He dashed down the dirt road into the King’s Wood, annoyed by the jingling of those damned bells as he carelessly flopped on his jester’s cap. The storm had cooled the summer’s heat into a haze that cast a milky veil over the seaport. In his hurry, Merryn somehow veered from his course and found himself in a worn and foreboding part of the wood. No sooner did he realize he was lost than he heard a scream echo from somewhere in the forest. It sounded close.

    Doffing his cap, Merryn followed the fading trail into a gully. There, a young maid stood face-to-face with an enormous greymalkin. The great, striped grey cat smiled from ear to ear, flashing its saber teeth as it shimmered the air around it. Parts of it seemed to vanish and reappear at will – an attempt to disorient its prey. It stalked, growling, and shone its luminous green eyes at the maiden as it shimmered in and out of view. In moments, it would be upon her. She knew not which direction the beast would come from.

     Suddenly, there was another form – a man. From the tree line, Merryn leaped between the girl and the creature so that its gaze was suddenly fixed on him. He baited the beast, matching its shifting stride with his own agility. He nimbly avoided swipes from the creature’s claws as it hissed and growled. The young maid cowered but regained her wits and backed out of the clearing while the beast was distracted by the leaping acrobat.

     Merryn sprang back onto a large boulder so that the girl was quite impressed. The hungry greymalkin did not share her admiration. With a look of renewed hate, it snapped at the taunting fool as he swung a tree branch at its face. He kicked dirt toward its eyes, anything to hold the beast’s attention. If it shifted once more, it could be gone half a league in a heartbeat. It could easily catch the damsel again.

     Somersaulting over the greymalkin, Merryn landed behind it as it snapped its morbid-grinning fangs. Sensing he was behind it, the creature blinked and was suddenly facing the other way, and was now behind Merryn. He could feel its breath down the nape of his neck as it materialized behind him. Barely looking back, Merryn clutched his jester’s cap and ripped off a bell. In the same motion, he flung it, so the beast was distracted by the sudden sound as it prepared to pounce on him.

     Merryn darted out of the way. The cat stared back toward him. He ran down the gully, blindly it seemed. In a moment, the beast was in front of him. With an underhand throw, he shot another jingle bell against the stones. Again, the cat lunged toward it. Merryn darted through the opening he had created.

     The cat wasn’t distracted long. Merryn hid behind a jutting rock. He felt the cap tucked inside his shirt. One bell left. He clutched it desperately, listening for the low growl of the greymalkin. Suddenly, he was aware it was above him, leering down at him with the mad glow of its piercing green eyes.

     It opened its mouth to lunge upon him. Merryn flicked the last bell into the gaping maw. The sudden impact made the creature recoil. Its eyes bulged as it gagged, making disgusting hacking sounds punctuated by the subtle jingling of the bell. The cat thrashed madly, blinking across the stony gorge as it convulsed.

     Merryn watched as the beast twitched and hacked up its jingling cough. In panic, it turned tail and was soon gone. All was quiet. Merryn took a deep breath of relief and sank back against the rock. From another vantage point, the young woman emerged to greet her champion.  They met in the bottom of the gully.

    “You are brave, ser,” the maiden said, finding her footing. She wore a drab cloak over her shoulders, but her regal dress was visible now. Merryn realized that this was the noble girl the innkeeper had mentioned. She was traveling at strange hours it seemed – alone and in disguise.

    “Not half so brave as a highborn girl venturing into the King’s Wood. Hunting greymalkin is poor sport for ladies,” he joked. The girl pulled back her hood. There was no need for it now. She was lovely, with golden hair that fell in ringlets about her shoulders.

     “Do I know you, ser,” she asked quizzically. “You do seem familiar.”

     Merryn did not speak. He reclaimed his cap from within his coat, where he had stuffed it. When the maid saw it, a smile of recognition shone across her face.

      “You’re the king’s fool!”

      “Aye. Call me Merryn, if it please you. Merryn Godrick.”

     “Lady Elaine,” she nodded her introduction. She then presented a full curtsy to the lowly fool. A pleasant smile beamed where moments ago there had been dread and panic.

     “You would know of my father, I believe. He is Lord Osmund, the king’s Master of Ships. He will wish to reward you no doubt. You saved the life of a Lady – and his only daughter.”

     “Where is your father,” Merryn asked her. Elaine sullenly slid her hood back over her golden hair. It seemed a sudden shyness had seized her.

      “I did not mean to become separated, but the greymalkin confused me with its shimmering until I found myself lost in this gully. If I do not rejoin him he will be sick with worry. I must go.”

      “Alone? I would think you’d had enough of that,” he chided her. Elaine smiled slyly.

      “Our party is small but they will be looking for me. We make for the castle town. Are you headed there as well?”

      “I fear it will be dusk again by the time I reach it.”

      “Well then, allow me to be your excuse.”

     Back on the road, they met up with Tyro. He had gotten turned around as well. Luckily, satyrs are children of the forest and he was able to make his way back to his friends. Osmund and his men were met a little up the road. Some of them were at the tavern the night before and recognized the bard when he approached.

      “Elaine,” her father embraced her.

      “Father, this is my rescuer,” she presented the fool. “He saved me from that beast.”

      “You have my thanks, Sir. Ride with us. We make for the castle.”

     One of the men called out, “Ain’t he the king’s fool?”

     “Fool or not, he showed great courage,” Osmund rebuffed. “Which one of you drew first blood from that foul creature?”

     With that, Lord Osmund mounted his horse. His men did the same. One, seeing Merryn had no steed, offered it to the hero who had saved his lady.  Tyro strode alongside them, serenading the troop until they reached the familiar farmlands and the great stone walls of the capitol, Forteas.

     As they approached the city, they were met by the duke’s men. Sir Brody Longstaff commanded their company, pole axe in hand and wearing his usual grim look of disapproval on his lantern-jawed face.

     “Lord Osmund, the king wishes to see you. He has called a meeting of the nobles.”

     “I understand”, he said. “This is where I must leave you, daughter. Men, see her safely to her chambers. I will ride with Sir Brody. Merryn, we shall speak again – soon.”

    So the fool took his leave and turned from the city gates toward the rocky hills beyond the fields. He had an urge to see his old mentor and tell him what transpired. When Merryn and Tyro approached the overgrown hut, they found Old Hallahan sitting in his herb garden as if waiting for them. With his weathered face and beady eyes and wrapped in a greying cloak that looked like burlap, the old man could be mistaken for a sack of potatoes - but for the lock of white hair on his topknot that looked like corn silk.

    “And what have we here.” The old man cackled, “Who’s come to see this old fool?”

    “A young fool,” he laughed and embraced the old man. Hallahan invited his guests inside and heard his pupil’s tale of leaping lessons and a rescued damsel. The old man was pleased.

    “I always knew you didn’t have a head full of sawdust,” Old Hallahan croaked. He eyed Tyro.

    “You I’m not so sure about!”

   The sun set while the wise man’s former students reminisced and it was soon time for supper. Hallahan prepared a soup and offered them lodging for the night as the streets were suddenly crawling with unsavory sorts. Old Hallahan had seen dark figures steeling from the gates at dusk; and the street ears kept the old wise man well informed on their travels to and from the capitol. Merryn recalled the suspicious nature in which Lord Osmund and his daughter were traveling. Just what was their business with the king?