The master of the house was fled, his cousins, the band of troubadours, and so all his knightly honor. Cawdor-in-the-Dell, far beyond the walls and sight of Fordham, lay in the hands of Maxwell the Bandit King, indeed at present comprising the whole of his nascent empire, and safe perhaps for a week before Sir Hunchback could return with any help from the city’s troops.
Safe? The word, a single syllable, held layers of meaning that mocked him, thought Maxwell as he sat in the chair of state–as modest as the manor’s other appointments–at the head of the empty feasting hall. How was one to enjoy the conquest of the house when one hardly dared stir out of doors? Oh, this had been an ill-conceived raid, to which only hunger and a hard winter could have driven him. No great stores of fine wine were there to be taken, and the knight’s table had not been a luxurious one. No, most of that beef–as fine as any he’d tasted, it must be admitted–had gone to feed the damnable pair of damnable dragons, brought to life by the magics of the Demon Wars and kept as pets and curiosities by the damnable owner.
They’d been away from the grounds, his scout had sworn, on the snowy evening chosen for the taking of the house. It would have been fitting had the scout been killed as the beasts assaulted Maxwell and his men, but no, luck had spat on him again, and his man lay moaning in an upper bedroom, agony having replaced his sword arm below the elbow. There was aqua vitae enough to keep the man drowsy and to fight the dragon-fever, and to cheer the rest of his band for a few days–but how would this end? If the dragons hunted by night or day, how could the Bandit King ever leave? And what would happen when the whisky ran dry?
The men knew, and the muttering would return with sobriety. They were penned as surely as the horses in the stable, and in truth their predicament more resembled that of the cattle, waiting to be devoured one by one. Last night that commotion had woken all, and today the thought hung in the air like battle-smoke. Here in the hall, the enormous window bore not only stout shutters of oak, but heavy iron bars. What these implied was frightening, but that they still stood? Reassuring. It might be that they could slip away, one at a time.
Thus it was that any interruption was a blessing. “Boss!” called Tacker, “there’s one at the gate! Dragons didn’t get ‘er. Askin’ fer you!” Her? The women of the house–three by his count–had all vanished with the rest in another black mark against the invasion. If one had been found, he would soon know how the rest had gone, and where, and why.
Some laughter echoed beyond the hall, though not of the bawdy sort he would have expected. Dread surely had not killed all the spirit in his men? A lone woman, captive? He should already have had to break up a fight, which in itself would not be a bad thing. A bit of loot is good, but boredom and growing unease would spoil the spoils, as it were.
Tacker sounded almost tired beyond the door. “Get in there, old woman, and bow before Maxwell, king of the bandits.” Through the arch came a figure bent with age and bundled against the cold, righting herself with a walking stick after a rude shove. The stick clattered to the wooden floor, and a long moment passed before the figure bent, and bent further, clawing for it with hands crooked with rheum. “Hail,” cried a thin, shaking voice. “Hail to Maxwell, king of Cawdor! Thou shalt be a greater king hereafter!”
Amused by the woman’s words, Maxwell leaned forward. “Do you make prophecy, old one? Or do you flatter? If you know me a king, you know what sort of king I am. Not one known for mercy, no. Are you a wise woman, come to foretell magnificent deeds for coin? I have met a few of those.”
“I invent no prophecy, my lord,” snapped the woman. “I come to visit vengeance upon the house of the false knight who once sat where you are. He wronged me, long ago, and steeped as he is in sin, has fled the justice of Our Lord, who says, ‘as for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, as for murderers, the licentious, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire’.” She slowly drew back her hood and lifted her face–God, that face!–into the light of the window.
Maxwell grimaced, but determined to show no other reaction to that hideous, pustule-ridden excuse for a face, incongruously covered in paint in a parody of all that was womanly beauty. “So you can hate, I see, grandmother.” Sneering, he asked, “Did this hunchbacked knight deceive you, or beguile one of your daughters? How did he wrong you, and why should I care? Where are he and his house fled to?”
Nodding, the crone crept forward and whispered loudly, “Great lord, you understand aright. Deception”–here she gritted black teeth and hissed alarmingly–“deception is indeed his crime, and was ever his only virtue. He robbed me of my comeliness, and years of my life, and thanks to his sin I am cursed never to bear children.” Raising her piercing voice, she ranted on, eyes on the window or some ancient hurt rather than on Maxwell. “But your coming, great lord, is also foretold, for does not the Scripture tell all men to prepare the way for a new king, who comes not in peace but bearing a sword?”
Her lips quivered, and the wrath in her wrinkled eyes unnerved the king of bandits; he was dimly aware that Tacker had started forward involuntarily, and that two more of his men had entered the hall. “The Lord God conceived of chivalry as the flower of knighthood, and curses most of all those lords who laugh at it, who lie and with their lies bring poor women to ruin, even as you see me. What should I not do to a man who has done me this evil, stolen from me my good name and turned me into a beggar?” The grating voice, rising to a shriek, drew a roar from one of the dragons outside, and a shadow crossed the shutters.
Distinctly uncomfortable with this display, he gestured to Tacker to remove the mad woman. He had to snap his finger and repeat the wave of his hand, so enthralled was his man. Leading the strange visitor away, Tacker was less rough than accustomed, and the others drew away as she passed, lest some of her insanity infect them all. Before they gathered their courage to speak, or to jeer, she spoke again. “But do you want his treasure, my lord? You have his throne–would you be crowned by his jewels, hidden where no living man may find them?”
“Wait. Bring her to me,” Maxwell ordered, and his stern words seemed to awaken his band. Tacker was joined by others who grabbed the woman, half-carrying her before the dais and their leader. “You spoke madness before, but now you truly have my attention, crone. I want you to talk, clearly, with no more raving. What is this treasure, and where is it? You’ll have my gratitude–the gratitude of a king, if you will–but if you lie, or waste my time, I will cut your throat.” From his vest he drew forth a knife capable of making good that promise. He let it sit in his lap, and sure enough, the mad woman’s gaze fixed on it, or on something beyond.
“Is this a dagger I see before me?” she wailed. “Nay, lord, stay your hand, and I will requite. You seek the knight’s treasure, and I will see it in your hands, and so dies my revenge. The key to all the wealth he won in the war hangs beneath his chair. There, my lord. It is yours, if you will but take it up.” Her eyes widened, pleading, and in them Maxwell saw himself the king of her harangues, jewels flowing through his fingers while about him men and women shouted.
“Back, all of you!” shouted Maxwell, taking up the dagger and waving it at his men. His left hand fumbled beneath his seat, and there it was, a large key of iron, wrought in the shape of a dragon. He grinned broadly. “You do not lie, hag, so you may yet live. Where is the lock that fits this key?”
His grin was matched by hers, and more than matched. Madness lit those eyes, and again she cried, “Hail, king of bandits!” Raising an arm she pointed at the chair. “On the floor, behind the seat of state, is the lock that when opened will reveal the treasure! All the wealth that was his shall be thine. I swear it, I who know thy worth!”
Whirling about, he let the dagger drop with a clang, and drew his sword, leveling it at the crone and his men. “Stay put now,” he babbled. “Keep away!” Backing slowly, he drew behind the chair. A glance confirmed the tale, as set into the floor was a metal plate with a keyhole. He knelt, and found it a perfect fit.
There was a click, and a pause, and the grating of metal on metal, behind him. Then there was an incongruous whistle from the aged crone. “Boss?” said Tacker, looking up, and then came a great clang as the iron barring the window fell. There was a rush of wings, and a roar that mingled with screams.
The next morning, Sir Magnifico awoke and stretched in a bed that had never seemed more comfortable. The last of the greasepaint had been scrubbed away. The servants and family would soon return from the caves, and were there any beef left, would eat well and merrily. The dragons, he imagined, would not need to be fed again for another whole day.
