Finally, for some weeks, everything was quiet in Cornwall. If any dragons remained, they thought it best to hide in their secret caves. All the robbers had fled to Wales or Armorica.
The slain giants were rotting in their gore. As far as my sway extended, all was peaceful, and I felt I had earned a period of relaxation. Though it was early spring, it was still cold and the roads were deep in mire. My stallion was comfortable, kneedeep in straw and munching the best grain my peasants could raise. I had large logs in the fireplace, new cushions to sit on, a woolen shawl for my knees and another for my shoulders, and wine on the table. I kept writing the history of my life, which was rapidly being filled with weird and unusual adventures. Why should I worry about wrongs done in Wales or the lands of the Irish and Scots?
Then, after three weeks of comfort, two old folks came, bringing with them a long parchment, bearing the signature of Cadwyn, King of Wales. I had heard rumors that Harold had been poisoned but had paid them no heed since the Welsh were given to changing their kings, in one way or another, every few months. But the parchment with signature and seal had so impressed my seneschal that he had admitted the old man and woman bearing the parchment and even brought them to the door of the library. When I tossed the paper to one side, refused to see them, and ordered them fed and removed from the castle, they raised such a lamentation that I ordered them fed at once, which promised listen to their story.
They were cold and wet, so I placed them by the fire and requested them for the sake of good Saint Jerome, to fill up and get warm. Thus I gained an extra half-hour to write in my book and when I saw this much time had slipped down the narrow channel of the sand-glass, during which period I had written two pages, I was very much cheered and almost tempted to be civil to my plebeian visitors.
The story they, told was a familiar one. Their daughter had been stolen and they believed she was being held a prisoner in one of the mountain caves a dozen miles from their hut. What manner of man or beast had done this foul deed they knew not; there were strange tales about the horrific fiends who inhabited that particular mountain. They had been to see their king and he had asked his knights to rescue the maiden, but one and all refused to undertake the adventure. The king decided to tell me about the wrong done to these ancients and ask me to right it. As they became more excited, they raised their hands and cried that never was there such a lovely maiden as their daughter or one so pure, and why had the Saints permitted this terrible thing to happen to her?
Naturally I was sorry for them, but I was irritated, for it seemed to me that I was being imposed upon and that the knights of Wales ought to attend to their own giants and dragons; so, when they finally came to the end of their tale, I gruffly said: “Why come to me with your troubles? Any brave man can find your daughter and there must be many a valiant knight in your own land.”
At that they cried out that I was wrong, and the woman said over and over again, “No other man! No other man! No other man!” — which was all stupid nonsense, both foolish and far from the truth.
However, it all ended in my telling them to go to bed and sleep promising that on the morrow would return with them and I see what could be done concerning the rescue of their daughter, though I doubted that she was still alive. Sending them off to a good night’s rest, I ordered fresh logs put on the fire and some spiced beer warmed for my comfort and then started to read the adventures of a good knight named Hercules, who was either a better fighter or a better liar than I could ever hope to be. Finally, I sought the warmth of my featherbed and, disturbed in mind, waited for what the morrow might bring.
The next day, in a drizzle of rain, we started for some town in Wales, the proper sounding of whose name never I did learn. The old dame and her man rode slowly ahead on two sorry pads, while I rode behind them on my favorite stallion.
The woolens and leather I wore under my armor had been well warmed and greased ere I donned them, but the day was chill and in no time at all I became depressed by the cold of my armor. I tried to pass the time reciting Latin verbs, which made the old folks shiver and cross themselves, for they thought my mutterings to be imprecations and incantations against the power of the Evil One. Now and then my stallion reared in the air and neighed, perhaps for his warm stall and hearty meals of grain or perhaps for some other reason, but I promptly forced him down to earth on all fours.
So we rode for the space of five days. At night we slept where we could and by day we rode and suffered from the cold rains. I had gold with me and could pay for the best, but even the best was sorry worst, and ever and again I sighed for my velvets, fire, good beer and fascinating manuscripts. Even the memory of Elephantis failed to keep me warm. Yet an end finally came and we arrived at the hut of the old man and his wife. It was still raining and the sky was lowering; yet, through the gloom, I could see the dark mountains far in the distance, covered with mighty trees and holding in their mysterious fastnesses the lovely daughter and the unknown monster who had torn her from her parental home.
The news of our arrival spread through the little town and all the simple folk flocked to see the giant-killer, and whether they were disappointed by my looks, I wot not; at least they made no unfavorable comments. However, since I had come all this long five-days journey to accomplish another wonderful feat of chivalry, I was pleased to talk to these humble folks, for I wished to learn all there was to be known about the land, and the special variety of monsters it harbored, and just how this maiden had been taken, and what manner of fiend had done the deed, for I had found such preliminary investigation to be of the greatest value in winning victory over the Powers of Darkness. Also I was glad to have some of the kindly peasants carefully dry and oil my armor and rub over my muscles a special, sacred oil brought from the Holy Land, being from the body of a great saint who had been boiled alive; this oil was very comforting in both a physical and a religious sense.
All of the men told a different tale about the monster. None had actually seen it, but all agreed it was a twenty-ell serpent, had the shape of a great unicorn, a headless man with eyes in his belly, a bull with the head of a man, a real dragon who had wandered to Wales from Tartary or a three-headed giant. All stated that it was very horrible and could easily kill, simply by blowing a flame of fire on the unfortunate victim’s face. The usual weapons were powerless. Steel could not cut, lance could not pierce, mace could not crush. The more they talked, the more peculiar I felt and the more clearly I saw why the knights of Wales were too busy to take any part in the rescue of this maiden, irrespective of her beauty and the customary reward. It was really a very awkward situation.
They all seemed very happy over my arrival and said again and again that if human man could kill this monster, the giant-killer from Cornwall could. I assured them that I was confident I could find the maiden and rid their land of this foul animal, be it man, beast, or demon. At that, a very old man knelt before me and with humble thanks said that he would give me fifty gold crowns if I did so, as he was betrothed to the maiden, having purchased her from her father and that the wedding would have been consummated ere now had the fiend from the mountain not taken her.
I looked at the old man, his withered face, shrunken frame and scanty white hair. The more I saw of him the less I liked him, and I thought to myself that perhaps the maiden was better off in the mountains than in his house. In fact, I suddenly grew sick of the entire adventure and demanded that I be escorted to my room and left to sleep till the morrow. They did as I commanded, and I spent a restless night tossing on a couch of corn shucks, sorely missing my warm featherbed.