Oh, Holy Knight?

1:30 AM, Saturday, December 22nd, 2007

Part I: The Meeting

I ride up to the inn, both nervous and excited.  I have little experience of inns, but clearly it was built for more travelers that it now contains.  As I enter the courtyard, I spy a young maiden, just a couple summers younger than myself.  The sight stirs something deep within me, having not seen a woman since I entered the monastery nearly ten years ago. But I steel myself to focus on my mission.

“Greetings, mistress.  Is the master of the inn available?”

She eyes me warily, but not unkindly.

“Good even, sir knight.  Yes, my father the keeper is within.  Would you care to come inside, or shall I ask him out?”

I give the question some thought. Though my errand is urgent, my horse is tired, and could use a rest; besides, it would be more courteous to greet him in his own house.  The thought of spending more time with the fetching young lass is, I assure myself, not part of my considerations.

“I shall attend him within, good mistress, as soon as I have seen to my horse.”

She smiles now, perhaps grateful to have a boarder, even a poor monk like myself. It lights up her face, making the freckles dance, and the twinkle in her eyes makes my heart skip a beat.  She shows me where the fodder is stored, then runs in to tell her father of my arrival.  My eyes follow the lithe form as she retreats, marveling at her youthful energy and lively gait. Then shake myself.  My job is to protect such, not pursue them.

The Interview

Harald the innkeeper is a stout, ruddy man.  He sizes me up with the look of one who makes his living by being a shrewd judge of men, and I wonder what he sees in me. After the customary greetings, he dismisses his daughter and invites me into a back room. We sit on some barrels, and he offers me tobacco for my pipe.  I accept, and we puff silently for a while, as he studies me.  I resist the tendency to squirm under his gaze, but wait for him to speak.

“So, Galandin sent you, did he?”

The tone is neither approving nor dismissive, but I color slightly.

“Alas, good sir, Galandin passed away several years ago.  Magorin is Abbot now. When we heard the news, I was deemed the most capable of those not already sworn.”

Maybe not sufficient, but I was all they could send.  The oath of the monks of Glendor is a strict one. Though we are all trained in battle, only full-out war can grant the senior monks release from the vows of silence and solitude.  Thus, it is junior pledges like myself who draw errands such as these.

“Magorin knew of you from Galandin, of course, so he sent me here to learn what I could.”

He looks at me a long moment, then grunts.  “Very well, so be it.  Have you seen a dragon before?”

I hesitate.  “Not exactly, sir.  My parents were killed during a dragon attack when I was a child. They locked me in the cellar, for my own safety.  By the time I got out, the dragon was far away, and I caught only a brief glimpse in the distance.”

He looks at me with some surprise.  My voice was steady, but he could sense the deep emotion churning with me. His voice is surprisingly compassionate as he asks, “So, are you ready to see this one? Knowing his power?”

I look him in the eye. “Yes,” I say. “That is why I became a knight.”

He smiles then, grimly but approvingly. “Very well. Here’s what you need to know.”

The Trip

Female dragons lay their eggs in remote places, never more than one in a given region.  The eggs themselves can lie dormant for decades, until the heat of the earth or the sun reaches some critical temperature.  Thus, one never knows when a new dragon will emerge from the countryside, wreaking terror and havoc as it seeks to satisfy its hunger.

The Church teaches that all living things were created by God for a purpose, and deserve respect.  However, it long ago decided that the purpose of dragons was to teach us courage, and that the best way to show them respect was to face them in battle — and destroy them.  A slightly awkward philosophy, but effective — and necessary. In days of old when men wandered the earth, it was said that some made alliance with dragons.  But now, in our days of settled farmsteads and herds of cattle, men have no more room for dragons.  Or vice versa, I suppose.

I ponder all this as I enter the deep forest, where no man lives.  To be sure, many villagers enter to hunt and gather wood, but none spend the night.  Why, I am not sure; but rumors abound, and to be sure there are more terrors in this world than dragons.  But they will do for me. For now.

Fortunately, it is but the work of a few hours to cross this part of the forest to Mount Nikora, where mine enemy awaits.  The sun is still high in the sky, having left the inn early in the morning.  Harald’s daughter Elsa served me breakfast, her mother being no more.  I would fain have made conversation with her, but either shyness or the seriousness of my quest held my tongue. Instead, I simply smiled at her, and received her brilliant smile in return, and that was that.

My horse was strong and sturdy, and together we found a way up the mountain, searching for the dragon’s lair.  Harald’s directions were precise, and his observations accurate, and I wondered (not for the first time) about his relation to the monks of Glendor.  Had he once been a trainee under Galandin, to know so much of surveying and mapmaking?

Dragons love the dark, and cover themselves in rocks during the day. The best time and place to fight one is twilight, right as they leave their stronghold. My challenge was to find the right blocked-in cave before the dragon awoke, and seclude myself somewhere I could gain the element of surprise.  It isn’t exactly sporting to ambush a fellow right after he wakes up, but against a dragon I needed every advantage I could get.

Harald’s directions brought me to the general area of the mount where the dragon usually made his (or her) first appearance.  Now, it was up to me to scour the mountainside for the lair of the dragon.  I compared the various ledges and prominences with what I knew of dragon behavior, and identified two or three likely hiding holes.  Then I sat down to wait…

Part II: Temptation

9:00 AM, Tuesday, January 8 2007

—-

 I ease my aching body back into the bed in the tavern.  After a round of drinks to celebrate my victory with the men in the tavern below, I have retired to a much-needed rest. Just when I am ready to drop off, though, I am interrupted by a knock on the door.  I close my eyes and groan an invitation, expecting some self-important official coming to offer pompous congratulation.

Instead, I hear the whisper of delicate feet, and a slight sloshing of water.  I smell a sweet aroma, and open my eyes to find the face of Elsa, the owner’s daughter, staring at me through heavy eyelashes, close enough I can taste the honey on her breath.  Her eyes are filled with admiration, and a peculiar something — hunger?

I sit up quickly, startling her and nearly upsetting the water jug she carries.  She lowers her eyes, and explains that she has come to bathe my wounds.  My thrice-blessed leather armor has served me well, so I have no broken bones or open sores, but I am somewhat battered and bruised, so some tender mercy would be welcome.

I look her over, as she was curiously absent during the earlier drinking.  She is wearing a simple cloth robe that both conceals and accentuates her youthful curves, and I find my mouth going dry.  I nod agreement.

She begins by removing my boots — an arduous process I neglected earlier in my fatigue. A melodic hum fills the air as she washes and massages my tired feet.  I grunt with pleasure, and she gives me a shy smile.  Next she scrubs my hands with a rough cloth, contrasted with the feather-light touch of her fingers. My blood boils at her touch, but I hold myself very still, not wanting to over-react to her feminine presence, or mis-interpret what is surely mere hospitality.

Finally, she dips a fresh rag in clean water and comes to the head of the bed.  She insists I lay my head on her lap, and I am too weak (and smitten) to resist.  She gently — lovingly? — wipes the accumulated sweat, grime, and blood off my face. Then a pause.  Slowly, lingeringly, her fingers trace the lines of my jaw, and an old forehead scar I acquired during training.  I finally lift my eyes to hers, and are startled by their size and purity.  I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. I clasp her shoulder in an effort to pull myself up, but somehow all I end up doing is pulling her face down, down until it touches my own.

We kiss, I reluctantly at first, but she with a passionate heat that soon overwhelms my reluctance.  I pull her down to me, reveling in the soft flesh my hands can feel through the surprisingly thin robe.

After a long, timeless moment, she straightens up, as we both catch our breath.

We gave into each other’s eyes, not sure what happened, but knowing that we both desired it.  She smiles a sly smile, with more than a hint of wickedness.  “Surely you have other bruises for me to tend.” she says, her hands sliding down my chest to the belt at my waist, the cinch that maintains the integrity of all my armor.

I follow her hands with my eyes, transfixed, every nerve hyper-sensitive. Her delicate hands come to rest on my mine, and move them towards the armored buckle.  I gaze up into her face, her long hair now tumbling down appealingly around her ears.  The robe has become dislodged, hinting at what appears to be a slip of translucent red silk that doesn’t quite hide the marvelous roundness of her bosom. “You are a hero now, and it is time for a hero’s reward.”

I stare at her for a long moment, lost in her eyes. Her fingers stroke mine, encouraging them to open the final gate.  I glance down, eager to do her bidding…

Then I see the cross on the buckle, the same one I swore on when first made a squire, before I even held a sword. The vows of celibacy, chastity, and purity that made me part of the community of monks.  I freeze, and my blood runs cold.

What shall I do?  Can I break the heart of this young lass, who is offering me her greatest gift?  Must I shame her and deny my body for the sake of a few words promised to some withered old men?

Then I look at her again, not as a sultry tavern wench but as the daughter of my benefactor, the gruff but wise innkeeper.  What does she really want? What does she need? What do I truly owe her?

Then back to the cross on my loins.  And whom did I make that promise to, anyway?

With a cry of near-physical pain I pull myself up, then clasp her hands in mine.  “Elsa, were I my own man, gladly would I dally a night or a lifetime with me.  But I, I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep.  I am sorry.”

She looks at me, at first unbelieving, then shocked, then hurt, and finally angry.  Flinging the half-empty water jug at my head, she clasps the robe around her and runs out of the room, crying.

I sit back in bed, feeling like a fool and a jerk.  Wondering if the innkeeper heard, and what explanations he might infer or demand of me…

—-

It is Sunday at the great cathedral in the monastery. Everyone is there, the townsfolk in the pews, the old monks filling the choir loft, and the soldiers standing in ranks in the nave.  The archbishop himself is presiding today, with my mentor Magorin beside him.  The abbot gives me a quick wink of reassurance.

I step forward, as the archbishop completes his blessing and lays a laurel wreath on my head.  He has just read a proclamation from the king, establishing me as a noble of the realm.  Though my vows prevent me from receiving lands and wealth, I still gain the title and access to the king’s councils.  Because of this, the Church has appointed me as Strategos, liaison to the court of King Philip for matters both ecclesiastical and military.

Magorin beams with pride, and steps forward to deliver his eulogy.  I, I must confess, barely listen to his recitation of my history and deeds, beginning with my vanquishing of the dragon.  Instead, I think of all that lies ahead, the unique influence and authority that will be mine, as a hero of the land and emissary of the church. I think of all the injustices I can fight, and reforms I can push through. I smile at the thought of the legacy I will leave behind. And who knows?  Perhaps the Church will even relax my vows to allow me to take a wife, and produce heirs?

Magorin at last winds down, and beckons me to kneel before him.  Then, he asks me to draw my sword and raise it in the air.  In token of my new estate, I will give up the sword of a common solider in exchange for a lord’s scepter. After all, I am considered too precious to risk my life in common battles, when my wisdom can be better spent orchestrating the fights of others.

As I raise my sword up, I glance at the cross on the hilt.  Is this what I spent all those years fighting for, to be removed from battle and let others die in my place?  Is this what it means to be a man, to be recognized by Church, State, and Peers?

A hush fills the room. Magorin stares at me in puzzlement, and I realize I’ve missed my cue.  Now is the time to for me to lay down my sword and claim my scepter of rulership.  Everyone expects it of me. I’ve earned it, haven’t I? To refuse now would be the gravest insult, to both the archbishop and the king.  Worse, it would shame my friend and mentor, and leave me a wandering soldier, without protection or identity.

Shouldn’t I simply do the expedient thing, and make everyone happy? Surely I can work it out later, if there is indeed anything to work out. All I need to do is lay down my sword.

Yet somehow, I can’t. My eyes remain transfixed by the cross on the hilt. Something in me cries out.  I struggle to my feet, raising my sword in the air to the gasps of the assembled crowd.  A deep anger swells from somewhere within me, and I scream out. “No!”

Part III: Confrontation

6:50 AM, Wednesday, January 9, 2007

I find myself at the entrance to the dragon’s lair, my sword held out before me, my voice echoing off the hills.  A deep laughter erupts from beneath the earth, as an enormous red dragon slowly slithers his way out.  It is night, but the landscape is periodically illuminated by the bursts of flame from the dragon’s mouth.

I feel myself break into a cold sweat. I had been sure that this dragon was newly hatched, and therefore small. The monster spread out before me is instead a good fifteen-feet long, and thus well over a century old in wisdom and cunning. Had he been in some sort of hibernation, or was he a traveller from distant lands? No matter; time to focus on the problem at hand.

Still chuckling, the dragon lazily stretches his huge bat-like wings, all the while keeping one gigantic eye fixed directly upon me. “Not quite what you expected, Son of Adam, am I?” he says in a deep bass voice.  He pauses, and looks around. “What, just you?” he says in mock surprise. “Tsk, tsk.  Magorin should’ve sent at least a squad, if not a full company of knights.” Shrugging his massive shoulders, the dragon settles down in a crouch facing me, his head resting casually on his folded forearms.

“Now, what shall I do with you Sir Knight? No offense, but you’re not very much of a mouthful. I’m in a generous mood tonight. Why don’t you scamper back to your monastery, and come back with a few of your friends, so you can make it a more even fight.”

To be honest, I had been considering that very same thing.  What chance had I against such a beast as this? Yet, something seemed off.  Dragons are not known for their mercy, though they do have an odd sense of humor, and their own twisted honor. Why was he letting me off so easily?

More, if I posed no threat, why had he tried so hard to make me discard my armor and sword?

My mind flashes back to the commissioning service, when Magorin had laid this charge upon me.

Ransom, my son, I send you on this quest with a heavy heart. Dragons, even young ones, are no easy challenge. Yet the cries of the people have reached the ears of the Good God, and the elders and I all agree that time is of the essence.  You are the best trained of all our pledges, and traveling alone you can arrive swifter and more stealthily. In ways we don’t quite understand, you appear to have been raised up for such a time as this. Go, in the Spirit of the Living God, and bring Justice to this land.

So be it.

I raise my head to the dragon, and speak.

“I thank ye, Sir Dragon, for your consideration and your courtesy.  Alas, I fear you grant me too much credit. I am no knight, merely a common pledge in the service of the monks.  As a solder of my God and my King,  I am bound to obey my orders, foolish as they must seem to one so wise as yourself.”

The dragon seems annoyed at this. “Surely you jest, young page.  Are the monks so prodigal with pages that they’d prefer you embrace certain death than question an ill-advised order?”

“Alas, Sir Dragon, you have surely hit it on the head. Pledge recruiting has exceeded all targets, and no doubt they’ve already filled my place with several brainless young lads. If I were to return now, I’d doubtless be cast off to die of hunger and exposure.  Why not do me the honor of at least killing me in battle, so I can go off on a note of glory?”

This catches the dragon off guard, until he realizes I must — however improbably — be laughing at him.

What he fails to understand — what his own illusions have themselves taught me! — is that my life is not and has never been my own.  All my desires for earthly pleasure and glory are but figments on the wind.  The only true joy I can ever know is to submit myself to the will of the One who created me, called me, and sent me.  Only in losing my life in that calling can I truly find delight and honor. If I die, I die; but I will not run away from the battle to which God has called me.

“If it is death you want,” he cries, all banter gone from his voice, “then die, mortal!”

Breathing fire and curses, he pounces…