The Hedge Knight #4
But before he could get away, the prince called after him. “Ser. One thing more. You are not of Ser Arlan’s blood?”
“Yes, m’lord. I mean, no. I’m not.”
The prince nodded at the battered shield Dunk carried, and the winged chalice upon its face. “By law, only a trueborn son is entitled to inherit a knight’s arms. You must needs find a new device, ser, a sigil of your own.”
“I will,” said Dunk. “Thank you again, Your Grace. I will fight bravely, you’ll see.” As brave as Baelor Breakspear, the old man would often say.
The winesellers and sausage makers were doing a brisk trade, and whores walked brazenly amongst the stalls and pavilions.
Some were pretty enough, one red-haired girl in particular.
He could not help staring at her breasts, the way they moved under her loose shift as she sauntered past. He thought of the silver in his pouch.
I could have her, if I liked. She’d like the clink of my coin well enough; I could take her back to my camp and have her, all night if I wanted.
He had never lain with a woman, and for all he knew he might die in his first tilt.
Tourneys could be dangerous…but whores could be dangerous too, the old man had warned him of that.
She might rob me while I slept, and what would I do then?
When the red-haired girl glanced back over her shoulder at him, Dunk shook his head and walked away.
He found Egg at the puppet show, sitting cross-legged on the ground with the hood of his cloak pulled all the way forward to hide his baldness.
The boy had been afraid to enter the castle, which Dunk put down to equal parts shyness and shame.
He does not think himself worthy to mingle with lords and ladies, let alone great princes.
It had been the same with him when he was little.
The world beyond Flea Bottom had seemed as frightening as it was exciting.
Egg needs time, that’s all. For the present, it seemed kinder to give the lad a few coppers and let him enjoy himself amongst the stalls than to drag him along unwilling into the castle.
This morning the puppeteers were doing the tale of Florian and Jonquil.
The fat Dornishwoman was working Florian in his armor made of motley, while the tall girl held Jonquil’s strings.
“You are no knight,” she was saying as the puppet’s mouth moved up and down. “I know you. You are Florian the Fool.”
“I am, my lady,” the other puppet answered, kneeling. “As great a fool as ever lived, and as great a knight as well.”
“A fool and a knight?” said Jonquil. “I have never heard of such a thing.”
“Sweet lady,” said Florian, “all men are fools, and all men are knights, where women are concerned.”
It was a good show, sad and sweet both, with a sprightly sword fight at the end, and a nicely painted giant. When it was over, the fat woman went amongst the crowd to collect coins while the girl packed away the puppets.
Dunk collected Egg and went up to her.
“M’lord?” she said, with a sideways glance and a half smile. She was a head shorter than he was, but still taller than any other girl he had ever seen.
“That was good,” Egg enthused. “I like how you make them move, Jonquil and the dragon and all. I saw a puppet show last year, but they moved all jerky. Yours are more smooth.”
“Thank you,” she said to the boy politely.
Dunk said, “Your figures are well carved too. The dragon, especially. A fearsome beast. You make them yourself?”
She nodded. “My uncle does the carving. I paint them.”
“Could you paint something for me? I have the coin to pay.” He slipped the shield off his shoulder and turned it to show her. “I need to paint something over the chalice.”
The girl glanced at the shield, then at him. “What would you want painted?”
Dunk had not considered that. If not the old man’s winged chalice, what? His head was empty. Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall. “I don’t…I’m not certain.” His ears were turning red, he realized miserably. “You must think me an utter fool.”
She smiled. “All men are fools, and all men are knights.”
“What color paint do you have?” he asked, hoping that might give him an idea.
“I can mix paints to make any color you want.”
The old man’s brown had always seemed drab to Dunk. “The field should be the color of sunset,” he said suddenly. “The old man liked sunsets. And the device…”
“An elm tree,” said Egg. “A big elm tree, like the one by the pool, with a brown trunk and green branches.”
“Yes,” Dunk said. “That would serve. An elm tree…but with a shooting star above. Could you do that?”
The girl nodded. “Give me the shield. I’ll paint it this very night and have it back to you on the morrow.”
Dunk handed it over. “I am called Ser Duncan the Tall.”
“I’m Tanselle,” she laughed. “Tanselle Too-Tall, the boys used to call me.”
“You’re not too tall,” Dunk blurted out. “You’re just right for…” He realized what he had been about to say, and blushed furiously.
“For?” said Tanselle, cocking her head inquisitively.
“Puppets,” he finished lamely.