you vicious rascal,” his father muttered. “A full pot don’t ring when you beat it.”
“Was he born …” Broaditch touched his head.
“Naaa,” sneered Valit, “he come by it from the king’s men. They caught …”
“Peace!” And his father’s lopping backhand nearly caught the son in the face as he nimbly darted aside. “An empty pot makes noise enough!”
“It’s true,” Valit insisted, keeping ahead and looking back, “he cut Odd Jack’s grain and …”
“Heed not a fool’s tale,” Handler growled.
“It’s truth. The king’s men cracked his head for his pains and so dented his wits.”
“Ah,” disparaged Handler, “let me catch you and yours will sag a bit, I promise you. Heed him not. He’s a sly, lazy, shiftless …”
They ducked against the nearest wall as a glopping of slops sprayed down close at hand. Broaditch saw the bucket being withdrawn from a second-story window. The lane slanted down toward the river, whose steel-gray sheen was visible through the spaces between buildings and huts.
Broaditch had decided to spend the night with them and set out to discover Lohengrin in the morning. All he knew of Parsival at this point was composite rumor (virtually a tradition already) that he was living in a monastery and that he had the Grail with him, hidden because evil men sought to discover him and its secret.
Well, Broaditch considered, evil often is just another word for your enemies .
That afternoon Lohengrin was riding into the city, unarmored, with sword and dagger at his hip. He reined up his charger by a freshly painted red frame building. The windows were hung with black curtains.
He crossed the foul, mucky street with a few long, bouncy strides and mounted the steps to the entrance. A carrot-faced townsman just entering jostled the hook-faced knight, who, with cold fury, shook him by the collar so that his knees rattled together.
“Base scum,” he hissed, “heed your course.”
He tossed him back with casual distaste and pushed through the rough plank door.
“Ha,” the man called after him from the relative security of the street, “but base-born sluts are good enough for your noble pecker! You stinking muck-brain, your face looks like a soggy cod-piece!”
He broke off muttering, taking a few lanky steps out of the path of a dog-cart as Lohengrin’s fierce, bushy-haired face was thrust from the doorway, glaring, then withdrawn silently as the door slammed shut.
* * *
A second stone jug of wine was going around the rude table under the greasy, smoky tallow lamplight. Broaditch, Handler, Valit, his brother, Luark, his wife, and a burly neighbor with a missing ear were sitting around a tilted table. Luark was slit-eyed and scowling.
“Ah, those were the days,” the neighbor, Rova, was saying, “and no mistake about it.” He addressed himself mainly to Valit and Luark. Handler nodded agreement sagely.
“What do these young bloods know?” he asked, swilling down more acidic wine.
Broaditch smiled to himself, leaning back in a shadowy corner of the buckled, narrow room. He was sucking at his long Oriental pipe.
“So let it be my treat, b’God,” one-earned Rova said. He winked ponderously. “Pity the married man who has to hold by the hearth tonight.” He laughed.
Handler nodded through his semi-stupor. A dribble of wine was drying along the crease of his chin.
“Arr,” he said, “pity, pity,”
The wife tossed her square head and looked sour.
“Off to the bawds, are you?”
“What a notion!” Rova cried, laughing. “A great, solid man like Handler, there?”
“Aye,” she affirmed. “And will you have him back to his family with pox?”
“Do you hear that?” Rova boomed. “Why, I mean to treat them to nothing of hurt. But it’s a dull life without some loving, eh?”
“I hear there’s great profit in whores,” Valit said thoughtfully.
“Of a sort, boy,” Rova said, “though it be a profit that costs a
“Was he born …” Broaditch touched his head.
“Naaa,” sneered Valit, “he come by it from the king’s men. They caught …”
“Peace!” And his father’s lopping backhand nearly caught the son in the face as he nimbly darted aside. “An empty pot makes noise enough!”
“It’s true,” Valit insisted, keeping ahead and looking back, “he cut Odd Jack’s grain and …”
“Heed not a fool’s tale,” Handler growled.
“It’s truth. The king’s men cracked his head for his pains and so dented his wits.”
“Ah,” disparaged Handler, “let me catch you and yours will sag a bit, I promise you. Heed him not. He’s a sly, lazy, shiftless …”
They ducked against the nearest wall as a glopping of slops sprayed down close at hand. Broaditch saw the bucket being withdrawn from a second-story window. The lane slanted down toward the river, whose steel-gray sheen was visible through the spaces between buildings and huts.
Broaditch had decided to spend the night with them and set out to discover Lohengrin in the morning. All he knew of Parsival at this point was composite rumor (virtually a tradition already) that he was living in a monastery and that he had the Grail with him, hidden because evil men sought to discover him and its secret.
Well, Broaditch considered, evil often is just another word for your enemies .
That afternoon Lohengrin was riding into the city, unarmored, with sword and dagger at his hip. He reined up his charger by a freshly painted red frame building. The windows were hung with black curtains.
He crossed the foul, mucky street with a few long, bouncy strides and mounted the steps to the entrance. A carrot-faced townsman just entering jostled the hook-faced knight, who, with cold fury, shook him by the collar so that his knees rattled together.
“Base scum,” he hissed, “heed your course.”
He tossed him back with casual distaste and pushed through the rough plank door.
“Ha,” the man called after him from the relative security of the street, “but base-born sluts are good enough for your noble pecker! You stinking muck-brain, your face looks like a soggy cod-piece!”
He broke off muttering, taking a few lanky steps out of the path of a dog-cart as Lohengrin’s fierce, bushy-haired face was thrust from the doorway, glaring, then withdrawn silently as the door slammed shut.
* * *
A second stone jug of wine was going around the rude table under the greasy, smoky tallow lamplight. Broaditch, Handler, Valit, his brother, Luark, his wife, and a burly neighbor with a missing ear were sitting around a tilted table. Luark was slit-eyed and scowling.
“Ah, those were the days,” the neighbor, Rova, was saying, “and no mistake about it.” He addressed himself mainly to Valit and Luark. Handler nodded agreement sagely.
“What do these young bloods know?” he asked, swilling down more acidic wine.
Broaditch smiled to himself, leaning back in a shadowy corner of the buckled, narrow room. He was sucking at his long Oriental pipe.
“So let it be my treat, b’God,” one-earned Rova said. He winked ponderously. “Pity the married man who has to hold by the hearth tonight.” He laughed.
Handler nodded through his semi-stupor. A dribble of wine was drying along the crease of his chin.
“Arr,” he said, “pity, pity,”
The wife tossed her square head and looked sour.
“Off to the bawds, are you?”
“What a notion!” Rova cried, laughing. “A great, solid man like Handler, there?”
“Aye,” she affirmed. “And will you have him back to his family with pox?”
“Do you hear that?” Rova boomed. “Why, I mean to treat them to nothing of hurt. But it’s a dull life without some loving, eh?”
“I hear there’s great profit in whores,” Valit said thoughtfully.
“Of a sort, boy,” Rova said, “though it be a profit that costs a
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