The Knight of Silk and Steel Read online

  Illustrated by Helen Flook

  A & C Black • London

  First published 2009 by

  A & C Black Publishers Ltd

  36 Soho Square, London W1D 3QY

  www.acblack.com

  Text copyright © 2009 Terry Deary

  Illustrations copyright © 2009 Helen Flook

  The rights of Terry Deary and Helen Flook to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  eISBN 978-1-40819-799-8

  A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means – graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems – without the prior permission in writing of the publishers.

  This book is produced using paper that is made from wood grown in managed, sustainable forests. It is natural, renewable and recyclable. The logging and manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain

  by CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading RG1 8EX

  Contents

  Chapter One: Sword and Stew

  Chapter Two: Goats and Greed

  Chapter Three: Wine and Wig

  Chaper Four: Breakfast and Butler

  Chapter Five: Chargers and Cheers

  Chapter Six: Lances and Legends

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Sword and Stew

  A village in Germany, 1227

  The dress was made of finest silk, but now it was faded and worn.

  The dress was green with threads of gold, but the threads were broken and torn.

  The dress reached down to the muddy road and the edge was tattered and splattered with mud.

  The knight rode up to the tavern as the sun was setting and the sky was the colour of blood.

  He handed his grey horse to the groom to feed and water it. The horse snorted softly as it smelled the oats and the hay.

  The knight pulled his sword straight and walked to the door of the tavern. He pushed it open and looked into the gloomy room.

  The room was a pit of filth from the straw on the floor to the ale that swam over the dirty wooden tables.

  Some men supped from cups and others chewed on stew in wooden bowls. Some played board games and argued about their game – some just sat on their stools and argued because they wanted to argue.

  Dogs wandered round and begged for scraps of stew but found the mutton too tough for their yellow teeth. (The sheep that was in the stew had died of old age.)

  Leonard the landlord and his daughter Meg poured the ale from jugs and kept the fire and the candles burning, they slopped the stew and gathered up the empty plates and cups.

  Meg was crop-haired, like a boy, and wore trousers when she worked in the tavern.

  She saw the door swing open, letting in the dim, red light of dusk. She saw the knight. Her mouth fell open. She gave a scream.

  The crowd fell silent. Fifty pairs of eyes were turned towards the door.

  Meg tried to speak, but couldn’t find her voice.

  Sam the blacksmith had a voice and spluttered, “Mmmmf-mmmmf-mm-mm-mmmmf!” (His mouth was full of chewy stew, of course, but everyone in the tavern knew what he meant.)

  “Just look at him!” Meg gasped at last.

  John the gong-farmer sniggered.

  Richard the rabbit-catcher giggled.

  Simon the snaggle-bodger snorted.

  Soon the whole room was laughing and pointing, pointing and laughing, slapping the tables, their legs, their backs, rubbing their eyes and rolling on their stools. (Helen the harpist fell off her stool, but that could have been the ale.)

  At last the laughter died away.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the knight said in a voice as soft as fox fur.

  “Ooooh! Ladies!” Tom the village fool mocked. “He’s talking about you, Helen!”

  Helen the harpist looked up from the floor.

  “And gentlemen, he said. That’s you, Tom Fool!”

  The man at the door smiled gently. “I am Ulrich of Bavaria,” he said, “and I am a knight.”

  “Yes, but what are you doing here?” Ben the badger-baiter cried.

  “I am seeking a room for the night,” said Ulrich.

  “A knight’s night sleep?” Tom Fool asked.

  The crowd laughed.

  “And a fight,” Ulrich said, patting the huge steel sword that hung at his side.

  The crowd went suddenly silent (except for Helen the harpist, who snored on the floor). Even the dogs went quiet and stopped chewing on the mutton that was tough as old leather.

  No one wanted to fight with a madman.

  At last the landlord’s daughter, Meg, stepped forward. “We can offer you a room, sir, and some of our fine food!”

  Sam the blacksmith, who was still chewing, said what he thought of the fine food. “Mmmmf-mmmmf-mm-mm-mmmmf!”

  Ulrich bowed to Meg and thanked her.

  “But, sir,” said Meg. “I wonder if you could tell us all…”

  “Yes?” said Ulrich.

  “Why… Why are you wearing a green, silk dress and a long, blond wig?”

  Chapter Two

  Goats and Greed

  “It is a simple tale,” Ulrich said, and he walked towards the bar of the tavern.

  Leonard the landlord backed away. The shining steel of the swinging sword filled him with fear.

  His daughter Meg was not afraid. “We love tales in this tavern,” she said. “But we hear the same ones time and time again. If you have a new tale, then tell us, please!”

  Ulrich leaned against the bar. “I’ve travelled twenty leagues today. I need a little food and wine to wash the dust from out of my throat.”

  Leonard the landlord bowed so low he almost scraped the floor. “Of course, my lord, we serve the very finest wine … for those who can afford to pay!”

  The knight lifted a purse that hung from the silken belt around his dress. “I’ve money … gold or silver, groats or guilders,” he said.

  “A groat will buy you wine, and two will buy a plate of stew,” Meg said merrily.

  “That’s two groats for our finest wine and four groats for our better stew,” her father put in greedily.

  Ulrich threw a piece of gold upon the counter top. “That should do to buy a drink for everyone here in the tavern… Keep the change,” he shrugged, as Leonard the landlord snatched the coin. “When all my new friends have been served, then I shall tell my tale.”

  Ale splashed into cups, and from the cups slopped into mouths, while Ulrich drained the tavern’s finest flagon of rich, red wine.

  Meg made sure the man had only plates of lean beef stew and crusty white bread to mop the tasty gravy. The dogs looked up and dribbled down their chops to smell the meal that Meg had made.

  At last, the tavern settled back onto their stools and looked towards the bar.

  Ulrich was a handsome knight. He wiped his yellow beard carefully and looked around, and fifty pairs of eyes looked back. (Well, fifty-five, if we add in the dogs.)

  “My name is Ulrich,” he began. “My tale goes back to when I was a boy of twelve.”

  “I’m twelve,” Meg said with a grin, and Ulrich nodded.

  “I was a squire.”

  “I know what that is!” said Meg. “It’s a boy who helps a knight – he fastens on his armour, cares for his horse and polishes his weapons.”

  Ulrich nodded once again, then went on with his tale. “My master was a l
ord of Alsace on the borders of France. Now, knights must have some deeds to do.”

  “Kill dragons!” Tom Fool said, but Ulrich shook his head.

  “I’ve never seen a dragon, and I think they just exist in old stories told to frighten children. Real knights fight for what is right against the greatest evil of them all – wicked men!”

  “Ahhhh!” the crowd inside the tavern sighed.

  “But there is one fight greater than all other fights,” the young knight said. “There is one thing that a knight may swear to live and die for…”

  “I know!” Meg squealed. “Yes, I know just what you’re going to say.”

  “A knight should find a lady fair that he can give his life to,” Ulrich said.

  “A lady fair!” Meg moaned. “My hair’s as dark as coal.”

  Ulrich laughed. “When I say fair, I mean fair of face – or pretty.

  She doesn’t have to have fair hair!” he said, and pointed to his own blond wig.

  “That’s good,” said the girl. “Carry on. When you were twelve…”

  “When I was twelve, I first met with that old man … Death.”

  The crowd let out a sorry moan.

  Chapter Three

  Wine and Wig

  “When I was twelve, my master fell in love with Isabel, the fairest lady in the whole of Austria.”

  “Then he married her,” Sam the blacksmith groaned. “And they lived happy ever after. Pah! We’ve heard that tale a hundred times. We want the other tale – the one that tells us why you’re wearing a green, silk dress!”

  “Oh, silence, Sam!” came Helen’s voice from somewhere underneath the table. “Let the knight tell us his tale in his own time.”

  “The Lady Isabel is married,” Ulrich went on. “Her husband is a miserable man. He punishes his peasants, uses them as slaves, he’s mean with money … he lets fair Isabel dress in wool instead of silk.

  “He holds no feasts and keeps no jesters, guests get dry bread, wine like vinegar and beds that have more fleas than fleece.”

  “We know his sort,” said Ben the badger-baiter quietly. “Your master fought this wicked lord and killed him as dead as some duck’s toenail?”

  “Oh, no, my story has a much sadder ending,” young Ulrich moaned, and sipped his rich, red wine. “My master went off to a joust – a mighty show of knights. Each knight takes it in turn to charge another knight with his lance. The knight who breaks the tip off his lance is the winner. He goes on to fight again and again till there is just one knight left … the champion.”

  “Your master fought to be the champion and win his lady’s heart?” Meg asked.

  “He fought,” young Ulrich sighed.

  “And lost?”

  “And worse. A knight from France smashed his lance against my master’s shield. The broken splints of lance went through the eyepiece of his helmet, through his eye and clean into his brain!”

  “I bet that hurt,” Richard the rabbit-catcher gasped.

  Helen the harpist sat up straight. “Don’t be a fool!” she cried. “It wouldn’t hurt at all, for it would kill him dead!”

  “It did,” said Ulrich. “Such a mess.” He supped his wine, as red as dead knight’s blood. “I took his armour and vowed that I’d fight on. I’d win the lady’s love, I’d fight a hundred knights – five hundred if I must.”

  “All very well,” old John the gong-farmer said. “So you set off around the world to fight five hundred knights. There is a name for knights like that … I can’t remember what it is…”

  “Knight errant is the name I think you want,” Simon the snaggle-bodger smiled (so pleased to show how much he knew).

  “Knight errant if you like,” old John went on. “But still you have to tell us why you wear the dress!”

  Ulrich nodded. “The Lady Isabel is married, so I cannot name her as my love. Instead, I fight for Venus, she’s the mighty goddess of all love. I fight for Venus and, to make it plain, I dress as Venus! Venus wig and Venus dress,” he said.

  “And Venus beard?” Meg put in.

  “No, I set off from Venice at least two years ago. And when you travel on the dusty roads it’s hard to find a village with a barber who can give a shave. Some larger towns from time to time.”

  “Ah ha!” the crowd smiled. This was starting to make sense.

  “So, here you are,” the landlord said. “You’ll stop the night?”

  “I will.”

  “And then you’ll travel on again.”

  The young knight spread his rein-stained hands and said, “I’d like a fight!” He drew his sword. The crowd stepped back. “Oh, not with you, my friends. I meant I want to find a knight to fight. The lord, perhaps, that owns this land?”

  Chaper Four

  Breakfast and Butler

  “Oooo-arrrrgh!” cried Simon the snaggle-bodger. “What you want’s Lord Edmund up at Seckau Castle. He’s your man, yes, he’s your man.”

  “The Red Knight’s what they call him,” Helen the harpist laughed, then lay back on the floor.

  “Red Knight, eh? Because he is a warrior, bold and mighty, dressed in armour scarlet red?”

  “Nah!” sneered Tom Fool cruelly. “His old armour’s red with rust.”

  Ulrich reached inside his dress and pulled out some parchment. “Here’s a challenge to your lord. Take this to him. Tell him I’ll meet him in the fields outside the castle after he has dined tomorrow noon.”

  “I’ll take that!” Simon the snaggle-bodger said. He hurried through the door into the falling night. He whistled through the woods and haunting owls hooted back.

  “I’m scared of bears!” poor Simon cried. “I must be mad to walk the woods on such a night.”

  But he soon saw the castle on the hill and flaming torches lit the gate. The guards were sleeping sloppily, the way they always did.

  Simon simply walked right past and hurried up into the hall.

  The lord of Seckau sat back, fat and full after his feast. “Ha! Simon! What do you want, lad?” he cried.

  “A challenge, lord, from some young knight,” the snaggle-bodger said, and waved the piece of parchment.

  “Oh, I love a good fight!” Old Lord Seckau smiled and rubbed his hands with joy.

  He called a skinny, white-haired servant dressed in black to stand beside his chair.

  “Now, Charles, you’ll need to work all night. I want my armour shining bright by morning, do you hear?”

  “Huh, my lord, you don’t want much. There’s years of dust and rust to shift, and straps that snapped last time you fought. You do give me the rotten jobs!” the servant whined.

  “I pay you well in wine and food and clothes and blankets for your bed, so stop your moaning, Charles. Do the job and wake me in the morning.”

  Charles raised his nose, and sniffed with hurt, but really it was all a game. By the time the cockerel crowed, the armour shone as bright as any silver moon.

  His lordship had a little breakfast – seven eggs, and six beef pasties, five large wine cups, four sweet tartlets, three small cheeses, two roast chickens and a loaf of bread.

  “Fetch my horse, my good man Charles!” he called.

  The man in black raised his fine chin in the air and said, “May I remind you, I’m your butler, not your groom. That’s the job for the stable lads.”

  Old Lord Seckau gave a mighty laugh and wrapped an iron hand around the shoulder of the servant.

  “Charles, my man, you are the groom!”

  “Since when?”

  “Since you sacked the stable lads and pocketed their wages. Now, help me fasten on the armour, then go down and saddle my charger. What I need is a little practice. After all, you wouldn’t want your lord to lose!”

  “Fah!” the servant spat. “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Oh, yes, you would,” his master told him. “This knight Ulrich fights for trophies. If I win, I get a gold ring. If I lose, then I pay him. But see, my dear old servant… If I lose, then I will take th
e money from the wages that you’re given to pay the grooms!”

  “The what?”

  “The money that you get to pay the grooms … the money that you pay yourself, you black-hearted butler. So I lose nothing, you lose all!”

  Charles went wobbly at the knees, then pulled himself up straight. “My dear, good Lord, of course you’ll win! You always did … when you were thin and fit and strong. I’ll saddle your horse then come and help you climb aboard. The crane is ready in the castle yard!”

  Chapter Five

  Chargers and Cheers

  Dawn broke over the village tavern and everyone was wide awake. The tavern groom was brushing Ulrich’s fine, grey horse until it glowed bright in the sun.

  Leonard the landlord fed the young knight fresh-baked bread and honeyed ham, then Ulrich washed in pure, clear water from the stream.

  In the stable, young Meg took the saddlebags and laid out all the armour. “I can be your squire,” she told the knight. “Fasten up your armour, lead your horse and pick you up when you’re knocked down!”

  Ulrich nodded. “So you shall be. Venus would be pleased to see a girl who helps us fight her battle! Dust my armour while I put a stitch in this small tear I ripped in my dress!”

  Meg was singing as she dusted. Ulrich was happy as he breathed in the morning’s good, crisp air. “This is what a knight errant lives for. Fighting for his lady fair.”

  Ulrich pushed a wandering pig away then tucked his sewing kit into a saddlebag. With Meg’s help, he strapped himself into his armour and slipped the dress on top.

  The whole village gathered round and made a line along the road.

  Ulrich clanged and clattered as he walked up the path to the hill. A line of cheery village people followed, work forgotten.