Igraine the Brave by Cornelia Funke
“Indeed? Then it’s time this sword saw some use again, don’t you agree?” The Sorrowful Knight put the old sword back in its sheath. “How high is the sun now?”
“Just above the woods already. It will soon be time.” Igraine looked at the portrait of her great-grandfather. He was smiling. He was the only one of her ancestors who smiled down at her from his golden frame. The other great-great-great-grandmothers, grandfathers, great-aunts, and great-uncles all looked terribly serious and important. Pelleas’s squire was in the picture, too, a small, stout young man whose breast was swelling with pride as he held a jousting lance. Not long now, and Igraine herself would be a squire following her knight to the tilting ground. But it was quite different from the way she’d imagined it night after night in her dreams. The knight she served wasn’t going to fight in a royal tournament, yet there was so much more at stake than just a kiss from a princess. If the Sorrowful Knight was defeated too quickly, all would be lost: Pimpernel Castle, the Books of Magic … and her parents, she supposed, would be running around with curly tails for the rest of their lives, unless something even worse happened to them. What would become of Albert, of Bertram, of Sisyphus, of Igraine herself? She held Sisyphus tight and pressed her face into his gray fur.
“Don’t go!” he purred, and his amber eyes looked anxiously at her. “You’re only twelve.”
“I must go,” she whispered into his pointy ear.
The Sorrowful Knight put his helmet on and went up to her.
“Well, the time has come,” he said. “Are you sure you won’t stay here with your brother after all? I really don’t need a squire, believe me.”
But Igraine simply shook her head without looking at him, and put the cat down on the tiled floor. “Sisyphus, go and tell my parents that we’re just setting out.”
The cat rubbed his broad head against her knee and ran away.
Igraine and the Sorrowful Knight, however, walked through the great empty hall to the gateway leading outside. It was dark in the castle courtyard. The light of the sun, now low in the sky, hardly came over the high walls. The Sorrowful Knight reached the flight of steps and turned to Igraine.
“It distresses me, Brave Igraine, to think that you will be the squire of a knight without honor,” he said quietly, “in a fight that is probably lost already.”
“You can’t know that,” replied Igraine. “You were defeated three times by an enchanted lance. It’s all going to be different today, you just wait and see.”
As they went down the steps to the yard, the two pigs put their snouts out of the tower window.
“Good luck, honey!” called the Fair Melisande. “The enchanted bath is ready.”
“So if all goes well,” grunted Sir Lamorak, “we’ll be ourselves again by the time you come back. As you know, we only need an hour. Do you think you can distract Osmund’s attention for an hour, noble knight?”
The Sorrowful Knight bowed low. “I will do all that is within my power,” he replied.
“They’re ready down there, too!” Albert called from the walls. “The Iron Hedgehog is already mounting his horse. You’d better get into the tunnel.”
“So be it. Let us go,” said the Sorrowful Knight to Igraine.
“Promise me not to do anything silly again, honey!” Melisande called from the tower.
“And leave your hot head here!” cried Albert. Bertram just waved. He was too fearful for her to say a word.
“See you later!” called Igraine. She blew them all a kiss, put the lances under her arm, and dragged them to the entrance of the tunnel. The Sorrowful Knight pushed aside the stone slab and clambered into the dark hole. Before Igraine followed, she looked around once more.
“Look after yourself, Sisyphus,” she called to the cat as he watched uneasily from the tower window. Then she heaved the lances into the passage and, like the knight, disappeared down the tunnel that had been her great-grandfather’s escape route.
26
When Igraine and the Sorrowful Knight climbed out of the stone lion’s mouth, they could already hear the fanfares in Osmund’s camp announcing single combat. The Sorrowful Knight whistled softly, and his gray mare emerged from among the trees as if she had been waiting for him there. She was not alone. Lancelot was with her. He had burrs in his mane and dirt in his coat, but he looked very happy, and nuzzled Igraine in greeting.
She lovingly stroked his muzzle and swung herself up on his back. “Things are going to get exciting,” she whispered to him. “I just hope no one recognizes you.”
The torches around the tilting ground were lit, although dusk was only just falling, and Osmund’s soldiers formed a double rank lining their path as they entered the camp. Osmund was already enthroned in his armchair on a dais put up especially for him, surrounded by servants and some of his knights, and Rowan Heartless was waiting in the middle of the space that had been marked out for the combat. His horse was harnessed and decorated as if for a great tournament, and he himself wore a huge bloodred plume on his helmet.
“So I see you come creeping through the back door again!” he called as the Sorrowful Knight and Igraine rode toward him.
“Did you expect us to let down the drawbridge so that Osmund the Greedy could take Pimpernel without a fight?” replied the Sorrowful Knight, reining in his horse just in front of Osmund’s platform. “Remember you gave your word, Osmund!” he called up. “Every one of your soldiers is my witness. If your knight is defeated, you will lift the siege. He who breaks his word loses his honor.”
Osmund folded his arms. “My knight will not be defeated,” he replied. “And let’s have no more talk; let’s see you fight.”
Without another word, the Sorrowful Knight rode to his place. There was no coat of arms or banner displayed there, only a lance sticking in the ground. Igraine reached into her belt and took out a small bundle.
“I know you took your coat of arms off your armor because of your lost honor,” she said quietly. “So I’ve brought my great-grandfather’s banner. It used to fly outside his tent at every tournament. May I tie it to that lance?”
The Sorrowful Knight smiled. “Do what you feel you must, squire,” he said quietly.
So Igraine unfurled the banner of Pelleas of Pimpernel. It had gotten rather stained over the years, and Albert had had to cast a spell to mend several moth-eaten holes, but it was still very handsome. The coat of arms showed a beaver sitting on a golden book, with a snake coiled around the tree trunk next to it. Igraine tied the banner to the lance in the ground with a golden cord, and then rode her horse to stand beside the Sorrowful Knight’s mare.
“Here we go,” murmured the knight, and he closed his visor and sat up very straight in the saddle.
“Who’s your squire?” Rowan Heartless called to them. “Not that little minx, is it? I’ll overlook the fact that she’s on a horse, which is no place for a squire. And although she’s wearing armor, that doesn’t bother me. But since when have girls been allowed to act as squires? I thought you set such store by the rules of chivalry, ever Sorrowful and Sighing Knight?”
The Sorrowful Knight opened his visor with a furious jerk.
“You know the rules that matter to me very well!” he called across the lists. “The rules of honor are these: Protect the weak. Never covet what belongs to someone else. Use your strength and skill in arms only in honorable competition. Never, never break the word you have given. And do not strive for power for power’s sake. Those are the rules of chivalry by which a knight lives. And anyone who lives by them, whether a man or a girl, should be accorded the honor due to him or her. The girl at my side certainly deserves to be honored more than you or your predatory master.”
Rowan Heartless’s pale face twisted in mockery. “I am no squire whom you must instruct in the rules of chivalry,” he replied. “If that little minx wants to play your squire, very well.” He closed his visor. “There’s only one thing I want to do now, and that’s to fight.”
Without an
Igraine felt her hatred for the Hedgehog like a stone in her stomach. With shaking hands, she, too, gave the Sorrowful Knight his first lance.
“You gave me your word, Brave Igraine,” he whispered. “Stay exactly where you are, never mind what happens.”
“Yes, all right,” whispered Igraine, and looked around. Osmund’s soldiers were crowding around the tilting ground, and beyond them, behind the battlements over the castle gate, she saw Albert and Bertram. The two of them looked tiny — and very, very far away. And suddenly, for a split second, Igraine was afraid she would never get back to Pimpernel. The castle looked so small and dilapidated behind all those soldiers. The stone lions were hanging their heads on their ledge; the gargoyles’ eyes were closed and they were snoring. Igraine thought she could hear them herself, even with her helmet on. But Osmund didn’t seem to notice any of that. He had eyes only for the tilting ground — as the Sorrowful Knight had planned.
At a signal from Osmund, four servants raised their trumpets and blew a fanfare announcing the first joust.
Heartless and the Sorrowful Knight put their lances under their arms, settled in the saddle one last time, and rode their snorting horses into the fray. The two men galloped toward each other over the dusty ground. Their armor clinked; the horses snorted under the weight of the armed riders. The plume on the Spiky Knight’s helmet shone red as fire. When the points of their lances were only the length of a horse’s stride apart, Igraine held her breath and Osmund leaned forward in his chair.
Rowan Heartless’s lance struck the Sorrowful Knight’s armor with a fearful crash. But the Sorrowful Knight had hit his opponent, too, right between the spikes of his suit of armor. Both riders swayed in the saddle, but neither of them fell. Furiously, Heartless flung his splintered lance down in the dust before riding back to his place. One of his squires scurried forward to take it away. The Sorrowful Knight, however, carried his own split lance back to Igraine himself.
She was horrified to hear how heavily he was breathing. “Are you wounded?” she asked, worried.
But the knight shook his head. “No,” he managed to say. “And that will surprise Heartless, since he always unhorsed me at the first tilt before.”
Rowan Heartless, back at his own end of the tilting ground, was shouting at his squires, kicking out at them with his armored foot, and rejecting all the lances they offered to him.
“He’s looking for the lance with the green glow,” Igraine whispered to the Sorrowful Knight. He was sitting perfectly still on his horse beside her, with his visor open, as he watched his opponent ranting and raging. Igraine gave him the second lance.
Osmund was looking nervously at his champion. Finally, Rowan Heartless snatched a lance from the hands of one of the squires, gave it a suspicious look, and stuck it under his arm. Angrily, he slammed down his visor and rode his horse back onto the tilting ground.
The sun was slowly sinking behind the woods. Darkness was falling, but the light of the torches illuminated the empty space marked out between the tents and the castle.
Up on the castle wall, Albert summoned glowworms to light up the battlements. Green light spilled from the tower window.
Once again, Osmund’s servants blew their trumpets. And for the second time the two knights urged their horses forward. Soon they lowered their long lances. Each iron tip swung up and down, pointing at the breast of the oncoming knight. Once again Rowan Heartless just managed to get his blow in first, but his aim was not good. His lance glanced off the Sorrowful Knight’s armed shoulder. Meanwhile the Sorrowful Knight struck Heartless in the middle of his chest with his blunted lance. The terrible blow made the Spiky Knight sway so much that only gripping his horse’s mane kept him in the saddle.
A murmur ran through the throng of soldiers crowding around the tilting ground. They were even sitting on the catapults that had been cleared away, on the wreck of the battering ram, anywhere they could get a good view of the fight. Osmund the Greedy, up on his dais, folded his arms and angrily chewed his beard. His weakened castellan straightened himself with difficulty, rode back to his squires, swaying, and beat them about the ears with his splintered lance. Igraine couldn’t make out what he was shouting, but she saw two of the squires run to their master’s tent.
“He still thinks they’ve just given him the wrong lance,” she whispered when the Sorrowful Knight was back beside her. When he opened his visor she handed him a scarf so that he could wipe the sweat from his face. “You were wonderful!” she said. “I’ve never seen such a good lance-thrust before.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” said the knight, but he couldn’t help smiling once again. “He’s furious,” he added quietly. “So furious that he’s making mistakes. That’s good from our point of view — very good.”
“The light in the tower is getting brighter and brighter,” Igraine whispered back. “The magic can’t be much longer now. So don’t take too many risks. What’s more, we have only three lances left, and one of them is a bit wobbly.”
At that moment Heartless’s squires came back with two new lances. The Spiky Knight examined them both and then flung them angrily to the ground.
Igraine laughed softly. “Look at that! Any moment now he’s going to realize that he doesn’t have an enchanted lance anymore. What do you think?”
But the Sorrowful Knight didn’t answer. He looked down at his horse in concern, made the mare take a few steps forward and back again. Then he patted her flank, which was wet with sweat, and bent down to Igraine.
“Listen,” he said in a low voice. “I’m going to have to ask Heartless to continue the combat with swords, on foot. My mare is lame. I must spare her. If Heartless will not agree to my request, he’ll probably unhorse me with his lance at the next tilt, because I won’t be able to ride to meet him fast enough. But have no fear; heaven knows it wouldn’t be the first time I land in the dust. I’ll go on fighting on foot, and if Heartless acts honorably he will dismount from his own horse and finish what we’ve begun with the sword. If he doesn’t, I’ll have to try pulling him out of the saddle by his lance.”
Igraine looked at him in alarm, but there was no time for her to protest. Rowan Heartless was already waiting, his horse restlessly pawing the dust. When the Sorrowful Knight rode out, too, everyone could see that his horse was lame. The gray mare was limping on her right foreleg. The Sorrowful Knight signaled to his opponent to meet him in front of Osmund’s dais. Terrified, Igraine watched them talking. When the Sorrowful Knight returned to his place, he glanced briefly at Igraine and shook his head. Her heart almost stopped.
For the third time a fanfare blew for the next tilt; for the third time the knights lowered their lances.
Sir Lamorak had taken Igraine to a tournament twice, although he hated all that fighting business. And she had been to some other tournaments with Bertram. She had eagerly awaited every tilt with her heart beating fast, so excited that she couldn’t sit still for a second. She had climbed up on the bench to get a better view and cheered when a knight fell in the dust.
But everything was different in this fight.
Igraine didn’t want to watch. She just wanted to close her eyes; she wanted it to be over. This time her heart was beating fast, but not with excitement. She suddenly knew only too well what fear felt like. Terrible, breathtaking fear. The snorting of the horses hurt her ears, and when the lances crashed as they struck the knights’ armor, Igraine clenched her fists so tightly that her fingernails cut into her hands.
The Sorrowful Knight took his lance under his arm once more, even more firmly than before, and raised his shield to ward off the lance-thrust of his opponent, who was racing toward him, but just then the gray mare’s lame foreleg gave way beneath her. She shied and threw him out of the saddle. At the last moment Rowan Heartless raised his lance and made his horse swerve to avoid a collision with the stumbling mare. Bu
Rowan Heartless was still astride his horse with his unused lance in his hand. He was staring down at his fallen opponent without any visible emotion.
Not a sound was to be heard from the watching soldiers. Osmund had risen to his feet. Is all lost now? Igraine wondered, glancing at the castle. Her parents still weren’t standing on the battlements, as she had hoped. But the tower was shining as if the stones themselves were glowing green.
Suddenly Heartless sat erect in the saddle, spurred on his horse, and rode toward his challenger. The Sorrowful Knight was steady on his feet again. He had drawn his sword, the blade that had once belonged to Igraine’s great-grandfather. For a moment Igraine thought Heartless was going to attack the Sorrowful Knight with his lance and ride him down into the dust. But before she could draw her sword and urge Lancelot into the lists, the Spiky Knight reined in his horse and threw the lance to the ground.
A murmur ran through the ranks of the watching soldiers as he dismounted and drew his own sword.
In the torchlight, the blade looked as if it were made of fire. The two knights stalked stiffly toward each other. By now the sky above them was black as pitch, and only the slender moon stood in the sky over Pimpernel.
The swords clashed with terrible force, again and again. Igraine jumped nervously at each stroke. She closed her eyes, opened them again, clutched her own sword in both her hands, which felt far too weak to lift it, and waited for her heart to break with fear.