Sir Cathán and the Dragon of the Wells: First Transcribed in Modern English by Martlet di Rotstein
Greetings and salutations, fair traveler. If you would share my fire for a time, then please grant me the favor of playing host. In these times of tribulation and despair, it can be heartening to remember the dreams of years gone by. For those were the days when the stars burned with wonder and the moon shone mystery down upon the earth. To be certain, war raged amongst the nations and hatred twisted the hearts of humanity, yet the world was not without virtue nor was it lacking those with a righteous spirit. This is the tale of one such valiant: Sir Cathán of the Quiet Heart, champion of three feathers, wielder of the Holiteinn, star-stealing knight. So come, let me tell you the story of a knight.
Part II
Dawn broke brilliant on the ruined road, rime shining rose-red in the sunlight like so many petals scattered on the stones. Tired as he was, Quiet Cathán imagined it all part of a great triumphal parade thrown in honor of his quest. The wind whispering through the branches became the muted murmur of an unseen crowd, the clatter of dried leaves on the frost a uniquely autumnal applause. Birds nesting somewhere out of sight sang him forward, their wordless tunes his only traveling companion with Dread Morgan three days behind in her sorcerous fortress. Though the morning remained cold in the wind and shade, the phantasmal parade raised the knight’s spirit and the feathers of sunlight drifting through the forest’s canopy were warm on his skin. Then the woods broke and the old Roman road emptied onto the rolling hills of the Weald, the slopes ferociously verdant and sparkling with snow-melt dew [Footnote 1]. Despite the gloom of the past three days – indeed, the whole week before the knight set off from Camelot – there wasn’t a cloud in the morning sky and faultless blue stretched from green to green, a cloak pinned from sunrise to sunset.
While Quiet Cathán watched with all the world spread out before him, a single spot of dark appeared in the sky overhead; a bird circling higher than any sparrow or starling could fly. The knight pulled his horse to rein and tracked the raptor’s passage for a moment. Then – whether by chance or contrivance – the bird dove and snatched up a hare mere feet away from the trail, alighting with its prize in the last, solitary tree shading his path. Intrigued by the strange sign, Quiet Cathán eased his horse forward and trotted down the path.
By the time he reached the lonely hawthorn, the bird was finished with its meal and in the middle of preening. The knight looked upon it with a mix of wonder and bemusement, finding the raptor was none other than a pigeon hawk. The bird in turn regarded him with an impassive eye, eventually plucking a feather from its tail and spitting it on the ground before him. Such a sign reminding him of Solemn Arthur’s Hawk-mage and the ever-courteous Hawk of May, he decided to take it as a good omen and dismounted long enough to retrieve the feather and stow it in his pack [Footnote 2]. With its cleaning done – omen or no – the pigeon hawk then took to the wing and soared away to the east. Though it led away from his prior path and seemed a detour, the knight decided to follow on a whim of fate.
The morning passed quickly while Quiet Cathán rode over hill and plain. Before long what frost remained melted in the warming sun and joined the misting dew as pixie rills winding ‘tween grass and harebell. Rabbits darted from brush to brush in search of a safe haven for the coming winter while the last flocks of geese soared south to warmer climes beyond the Paladin Wall and the Wine-dark Sea guarded by Rome’s shade [Footnote 3]. Though autumn brought a chill to the air and dry leaves crunched beneath Stalker’s hooves, it was a pleasant journey and the knight found himself heartened after so grim a ride through so dark a forest. He could even spot trails of smoke marring the cloudless sky, each speaking silent testament to towns tucked between the hills whether they burned in hearth or harvest bonfire. Taking measure of his rations and reckoning the distance he still had to travel, Quiet Cathán decided to spend an evening renewing his supplies and set his sight on the nearest copse of chimney-smoke.
The hamlet proved no warm haven, however, and its windows remained shuttered, its doors barred as the knight rode into town. None of the residents dared the streets, leaving nothing but mud and fallen leaves in the path before him. The only greeting he received came from a single corvus which perched upon the well, cawing hoarsely at his approach. As the knight eyed the bird warily, unused to seeing one alone and so far from blood or ruin, his mind drifted to twilit tales; the errant eyes of the Northern Woe-worker, the tongues of the Twelve Southern Lords, and the wings of the Great Queen of Death from his own homeland [Footnote 4]. For its part, the bird regarded him with an impassive eye, tilting its head this way and that as if inspecting him. Then it set about preening itself, spitting one feather at Stalker’s feet before it flew away. With his mind already turned to the Great Queen and one such portent already resting in his pouch, Quiet Cathán felt he would only court danger and the displeasure of a spirit of terror if he were to trample it underfoot. Thus, he slid down from his saddle and carefully pried the token from the sucking mud.
While he considered the black feather, a young maiden approached with her head bowed. Dress, veil, and slippers all white, she offered a stark contrast to the oddly grim village around her. Though too timid to meet the knight’s eyes, she extended a handkerchief and greeted him in a gossamer voice. “Sir knight, do you ride errant into town?”
Considering the scrap of soot-stained cloth, Quiet Cathán marveled that such a meek maiden might approach him so casually. Were he a bright, young knight like Fair-handed Gareth or Fell-handed Gaheris, he would understand a quest from a bright, young lady. Yet with autumn in his hair and his blood choked by age’s frost, he could only wonder whether wicked want of strength warped her heart. Then he caught a glimpse of the grime upon his gauntlets and took the token without a second thought, chiding himself for confusing generosity with greed as he replied, “Aye. Seeking rest on my quest to the north, in search of the selkies of the steel-grey sea [Footnote 5].”
At this, the maid’s face fell and she turned her eyes to the town around her, gaze shifting from empty barrel to barren orchard, from fallow fields to motionless mill. “Rest and hospitality we would gladly give, but we find ourselves mean hosts by circumstance.”
“Pray tell. Is aught amiss? This is Logres; do the knights of Arthur not offer aid?”
“None know of the trouble we face. The lord who ruled our village and all those nearby reigned from Caer Drychau, over yonder [Footnote 6].” The maid gestured to the hill overlooking the hamlet where an adamant hall shone among skeletal trees. “Yet one year gone, a knight came riding from the east, battered and bleeding from battles we knew not, bearing a crimson bull on his shield. Generous Lord Judicaël gave him shelter while his wounds healed, as is just. But the knight proved himself red and repaid gallantry with treachery, seizing our lord in the moonlight and locking him beneath his own castle. The Bull Knight rules still in his place, pretending to be our righteous lord.”
Hearing the villain’s title, Quiet Cathán found himself struck by a wry humor. Beyond hawk and crow, that he should face one who took his home’s heraldry as device felt fate impossible to ignore [Footnote 7]. Taking Stalker’s reins once more, the knight steeled his resolve and regarded the fallen fortress with but a nod. “Then you need not ask. I shall seek my rest in Caer Drychau and should I grow hungry in the night and my wanderings for the kitchen take me to the low places of the castle, all the better for it.”
Despite his blunt declaration, the maid refused to remove herself from his path. “Beware, sir knight! Caer Drychau is no longer a place of light and crystal as under Generous Lord Judicaël. The Bull Knight turned its many mirrors upon themselves and now the bright castle is a labyrinth of countless doors and windows that beguile the mind. Twelve knights before have taken this quest and none returned, lost in the glamour all though they burned with courage and strength. I pray they languish yet alongside our lord rather than rot in the moat [Footnote 8].”
While the knight did not doubt her truth, neither could he falter after offering his word. Though he knew the limits of his own strength and was not so proud as to think himself capable where a dozen failed already, no true Knight of the Round Table could ignore a town in trouble. Were he to do so, the stars might well burn out and humanity’s hope with them, for one who looked not to them could never find nor save them. With a breath and a nod, Quiet Cathán considered the maid’s counsel and swore himself to the patience best suited to managing mirage and mischief. “So be it, Maid Errant. I shall take your warning to heart. My hands may no longer hold the passions of youth, but I hope some measure of wisdom has taken root within the ashes they burned.”
The maid remained unconvinced, but recognized Quiet Cathán’s determination could not be swayed. Rather, she regarded the knight with frown and furrowed brow as she inspected feature and face. “You are not so old, Sir Knight. I do not doubt your valor.”
Letting out a wry chuckle, the knight once again took count of the years since he left his homeland – a mere decade since the height of his youth. “Perhaps not. But years feel longer when spent in folly. Pray for me, if you would, Maid Errant.”
“Of course, Sir Knight. May the Lord bless and keep you, may his spirit guide your path on white wings.”
Offering one last salute, Quiet Cathán mounted Stalker once more and turned his trail to the shimmering castle looming over the town. The road winding its way up the hill served as some token of truth to the maiden’s tale. Though paved in stone and marked with lamp-posts, all stood in disrepair. Moss and ivy fought to reclaim the cobbles beneath Stalker’s hooves and what lanterns still hung upon their perches cast only perilous puddles of oil-light; bright enough to blind gloaming eyes yet still too dim to break the dark distance between. Wind howled the further up the knight climbed, like a warning from the Milesian women wailed through haunted pipes hidden within Caer Drychau’s halls [Footnote 9]. Between storming song and gnarled oaks shading the path, the knight fancied he was riding once more into the marches of an enchanter’s other-world.
A crystal castle waited atop the hill, fey fire dancing across its walls as wanderers within carried lamps hither and yon. Though twilight tilted more toward evening than afternoon, the gates stood wide and a span of glass bridged a moat filled with water lilies. The castle’s seneschal stood waiting on the threshold, a lantern raised over his head like he was expecting the knight. Grooms appeared from the shadows as Quiet Cathán dismounted and took Stalker’s reins the moment the knight alit upon the path. Then the seneschal rushed forward and took Quiet Cathán by the arm, imploring even as he drew the knight through the castle gates. “A fair evening to you, sir knight. My lord would happily offer hospitality to one errant such as you. Please do him the courtesy of guesting a night with us.”
Intrigued by the man’s insistence, Quiet Cathán allowed himself to be led along. “The courtesy is yours and your lord’s, seneschal. Rest within safe haven will be rare enough as I quest further to the north.”
The seneschal brightened, regarding the knight with ferocious zeal. “Ah! Do you bear news from the southern reaches? My lord hears little from beyond the local towns these days. He will be most grateful for whatever word you give.”
True to his offer of hospitality, the seneschal led Quiet Cathán to a bedchamber and left him to take his leisure until dinner. Though the knight doffed his gear and rinsed off the dust of the road, he remained wary with the maiden’s warning ringing still in his memory. There were no traps or thieves’ walks within his chamber, but that did not ease his guard. The only window looked out on an inner courtyard carved into the castle’s keep; a crystal terrace holding glass benches around a lamplight fountain and beds of snowdrops. Likewise, one look in the hallway proved the dangers of wandering alone. Troop upon troop of doorways marched away from his chambers leading into countless rooms and halls which twisted upon themselves in the weirding reflections of the castle walls. There remained little doubt in the knight’s mind he could wander forever in those corridors ensnared by their enchantments without escape.
With little to do until dinner, Quiet Cathán lay upon his chamber’s bed and closed his eyes for a moment’s rest. Though unwilling to sleep for fear of ambush, he took solace in the simple moment of relaxation. With his eyes shaded, the noise of the castle and its hilltop sounded as though the knight stood in every corner at once. Wind whistled through the halls like the breath of God’s very Spirit twining with the gentle even-songs of nightingales and robins. Recalling younger days spent camping in the wild hills of his homeland, he rose from the bed and lay with an ear to the ground, seeking to hear the heart of the earth itself. Only then did Quiet Cathán understand the true depth of Caer Drychau’s curse. Evil magicks ran through the very glass of the floor, poisoning the land and drowning out its voice [Footnote 10].
While the knight lamented this tragedy, the seneschal returned to his chambers and bid him join the castle’s lord for supper. Quiet Cathán drifted through the glamoured halls under the man’s direction, trying to mark the path by which he walked. Yet room melted into room, corridors twisting upon themselves only to empty across the castle altogether. With starlight shining through the crystal walls, the knight struggled to see the floor beneath him, much less the walls and doors around him.
At length, the seneschal stopped him before a grand set of double doors, smithed of silver and set with stones adamant. Scenes of spring and sowing were carved along its courses, the icy jewels broken by chased snowbell sprouts and enameled ears of grain. Hounds hunted hinds upon the threshold’s foot while ruby-breasted robins rose over the rails. Woodsmen with woolen shirts sewn tap by tap of the silversmith’s hammer waited either side of the knobs, swept into courteous bows even while they spread celadon seeds with their outspread hands [Footnote 11]. With but a strike of the seneschal’s scepter, the doors swung open of their own accord, the men and women engraved on their panels seeming to dance as they glided across the floor.
A lavish feast awaited within. Tables spread with spring greens and roast venison ran the length of the hall, attended by gossamer courtiers with faces hidden behind pristine veils. The twin scents of fresh baked bread and sweet cider shared the air with delicately chiming music. And at the head table, a broad man sat arrayed in all luxury. A scarlet surcoat stretched from sturdy shoulder to sturdy shoulder, embroidered with copper threads along a muscled chest to match the burnished beard draped over it [Footnote 12]. Strong hands gripped horn and knife, draining wine by the bottle and cutting through roast as though butter. When Quiet Cathán approached the head table, fierce eyes regarded him, sharp as the horned coronet their bearer wore upon his head. Though warned of Caer Drychau’s false master by the hamlet maiden, the knight bent a knee like he was none the wiser. The red lord raised his horn in response, silencing the muted murmur of his veiled court. “My open door greets you, wayward warrior. Come, sit at table with me that I may bestow upon you the welcome worthy of Caer Drychau’s throne [Footnote 13].”
Quiet Cathán bowed his head, voice as serene as the red lord’s was bold. “Courtesy and gratitude meet you, host. I accept the hospitality of Caer Drychau’s master and hold myself at his service.”
Once the introductions were done, the seneschal led Quiet Cathán to his place at the red lord’s left hand. A page, veiled as the courtiers, served him a plate mounded with mutton and cabbage stacked upon a toasted heel of bread, all warmed with melted cheese. The red lord watched through weighted eyes as the knight ate, worrying a cut of roast while Quiet Cathán savored his supper. When the knight reached for a cup, another page handed him a mug filled to frothing with table ale. The red lord stared as the knight drank to the last drop, sipping sweet wine all the while [Footnote 14]. When Quiet Cathán finally set his mug down, the red lord ordered the table clear and reclined upon his throne, turning to the knight with a mind for conversation. “I tell you true, wayward warrior, I am greater than glad to grant you company. Always do I await knights of highest honor and storied skill. From whence do you travel?”
Closing his eyes, Quiet Cathán listened to his host with care. To the knight’s mind, the red lord’s manner ached of arrogance; every word a worm upon the hook and a gaping gut at the line’s end. With a shake of his head, the knight shrugged off the red lord’s expectant stare. “I am afraid I must disappoint, oh host. My modest might cannot match the caliber of my company and my humble honor stands shaded by the pride of my peers. Though I come questing from Camelot, I am ever least and last of the righteous Rounds of Ehangwen.”
“Ah! An arm of Arthur comes at long last. It is heartening to know the troubles of so low a landing reach the lords of Logres.” Despite his words and the fall of his face, a greedy glimmer sparked in the red lord’s eyes, growing wilder while he delivered his warning. “As you have heard, terror weighs heavy upon this hold. The Bull Knight Hilderic roams the hills beyond this hall with a mighty lance and unshakable shield. The tales I hear tell of strength surpassing a storm and sword swifter than shadow. Surely the bards shall sing of your clash with so bold a challenger.”
Well aware of the red lord’s intention, Quiet Cathán met threatening thrust with his subtlest parry; no more than the truth. “I must disappoint once more, oh host, and must confess in kind: I come not for this Horrible Hilderic you color so cruel. My path merely passes below Caer Drychau’s gaze; my quest granting perils graver beyond.”
“So you shall pass Hardy Hilderic by unchallenged? I never considered Camelot’s champions so craven. Mayhaps your quest is more than your match. Let Loyal Lancelot or Courteous Gawain handle the Bull Knight while you hie away home.”
“Fear not, honest host. Though my meager talents may not match the trials made mine, I shall not turn a deaf ear to a town in trouble.” But once, the knight allowed himself an ounce of boldness. Though wary of his own prowess, he pressed a hand to his chest and proclaimed, “Come sunrise, I shall set my sword against the Horrible Hilderic and free Caer Drychau’s master from his hand.”
Growing grave, the red lord waved his seneschal forward, dismissing his guest as though on the off-hand. “Then I cannot keep you from your rest, wayward warrior. Sleep sound and rise ready to ride. But have a care; the night winds bite most viciously in these halls.”
Quiet Cathán considered the red lord’s warning all the way back to his quarters, wondering if Horrible Hilderic caught the whole width of his knowledge. Though the knight never let temerity take him past implication, such a parting strayed too near a threat to let sit. Reclining upon his bed, he called off sleep and merely listened to the castle grow quiet as night claimed its court. Much as before, the thick walls of crystal and glass shrouded all sound save the steps of servants echoing through the halls beyond. Yet the longer he listened, he caught a low whistle from the wall opposite his bed.
When the whistle slid slowly to a subtle shriek, a sense of danger fell upon the knight and he rolled to the floor even as an arrow sprang forth from between mirrored panels. The dart struck pillows in a plume of down and the droning whistle died, naught but a click heralding the skulker’s retreat. Quiet Cathán spared a moment to inspect the arrow and found it tipped with a lavender liquid scented of soporific spirits which left his fingers numb to the touch [Footnote 15]. Understanding how the red lord could so easily master twelve knights in sequence, Quiet Cathán resolved himself to a night without rest and returned sword and shield both to arms. All the while, watchers unseen wandered amid the glamoured walls surrounding himself.
Once amply prepared, the knight stepped into the hallway the seneschal first set him upon. Yet no more than before could he find his way, a thousand reflected corridors colliding in his sight. Hearkening again to the maiden’s warning of mirrors which warp the mind and steal the soul away into a sorcerous mire, Quiet Cathán closed his eyes a third time and stilled his heart, seeking again the subtlest sigh of the Spirit amid a storming torrent of echoed night-noises. Naught but ghastly groans filled his ears, yet the knight walked easier with sight no more shrouding his steps and set out on a steady path, free hand marking his way against the wall.
Under the shroud of shadows, the twisting halls straightened and the cursed glamour’s hold slipped from Quiet Cathán’s head. The haunting howls faded, replaced by the rhythmic rap of sollerets upon the smooth, shining stone of the floor, blended with the barest breeze from across the threshold of the seasons’ turn. Thus, the knight’s guard raised at once when whispers wove to whistle and he slipped to the side, slashing with his sword. The graven blade struck soundly and a sycamore spear fell to the ground in two pieces.
Quiet Cathán cracked his eyelids long enough to inspect the head, finding the spear carved from a hanging-tree and cursed with Herne’s harrowing [Footnote 16]. The knight signed the cross over the ruined missile and continued on his way. Across breadth and depth of the castle, over halls and up stairs, this assault from phantom archers continued, Quiet Cathán catching arrows on his shield and spears with his sword. The evening hours passed all in this way, even a labyrinth laid straight no less labor to navigate.
When the hamlet chapel rang midnight and the moon hang high and bright over the misty moors, the knight crossed a threshold and felt the night wind on his face. Opening his eyes once more, he found himself faced with the terrace garden below his quarters, lambent leaves roofing a promenade around the crystal-carved fountain. Yet not so much as a nightingale bedded among the branches, the mirrored hollow devoid of life. Moreover, the castle merlons loomed menacing overhead with no cover from one door to the next. Quiet Cathán considered his course with a frown, wondering whether to dare a rain of darts or defer to discretion and seek the seneschal’s walk to the front gates.
As he thought, the deafening silence of the castle’s curse pressed against his heart once more. Doubt waxed within him and the knight stood ready to retreat in the name of better sense until a single bit of sound broke through the sorcerous stillness; the calm coo of an untimely dove. Though late in the year for such a bird to remain in such cold climes and late in the night for its waking, it chirped and sang from its nest above the nearest doorway, haunting the lintel like a snow-bound specter. Yet to Quiet Cathán’s mind, it seemed a sign far too timely. After guileful pigeon hawk and grim corvus, the appearance of the Advocate’s favor just as his spirit wavered granted guidance greater than he could pray for. Steeling his resolve, the knight raised shield over head and sprinted across the frozen courtyard.
Arrows rained down in accordance with his expectations, filling the air with a blend of the incongruously delicate chimes of crystal on steel and the cloying scent of lavender like a full field of the flowers crushed underfoot. None of the darts stuck home, however, and the knight made safe passage to the dove-marked doorway. With but a step through the threshold, the unrelenting volley vanished with nary a sign it occurred; the arrows nowhere to be seen and the shining stonework unmarked. Yet the gentle dove gave truth to the lie, unsettled by the assault and awing in the air before Quiet Cathán. The knight extended a hand, proffering a perch for the paradigm of the Paraclete, but the beleaguered bird fled further down the shaded stairs, crying alarm as it went [Footnote 17].
The knight followed the dove into the castle depths, discovering a labyrinth waiting for him at the base of the stairs. Unlike the glamoured halls above, where mirror and shade mired mind and soul both in a mist of misery, the dungeons below stretch away in straight squares where each wall bore a single further door and each room beyond another three of the same. The crystal walls still reflected and warped the starlight passing through them, but there was no delusion of the senses. Painting every chamber the same was enough. After but the first turn, Quiet Cathán no longer rightly remembered the path back. Yet resolved as such, the knight could not be misled. Once more he closed his eyes and listened. Hex and havoc greeted his ears, the cursed castle’s clamor all the louder beneath the earth’s surface with the land’s breath stilled as it was, but the dove’s song pierced through the din like a clarion call. Hearkening to its cry, he followed the sound through the many chambers without sight to sway his steps.
Seconds slipped beyond sense as he walked, trusting fully in faith to lead him true. In what time he could not say, a voice cried out through the darkness and greeted him. “Ho there, sir knight! Does your standard color red or true?”
Given to sight once more, Quiet Cathán beheld several cells standing before him, six to either side holding a defeated and disarmed knight each. At the far end of the corridor, a long-beared lord lay chained to a throne, like unto a king of the captured. This was the man who spoke, his head unbowed and eyes bright despite his durance. Quiet Cathán took a knee in reply. “Do I have the honor of meeting Lord Judicaël, good sir?”
“Aye, that you do; what petty honor it is. Would that I could grant you the hospitality deserved of your travels. To whom do I speak, if you may give me this small mercy?”
“I am but a humble knight, generous lord. Come from Camelot on quests leading further afield.”
The lord strained against his bonds, breath stirring his beard and tears filling eyes long since dry. “Gramercy! A knight of Arthur! I scarcely hoped for such solace. Do I dream yet still or has salvation come for Caer Drychau at last?”
Rising to his feet, the knight hefted the graven blade given as gift by Courteous Gawain. “I cannot promise anything so high, but my arms carry strength enough to cut chains.”
With but a single stroke of the sword, Quiet Cathán cut Generous Judicaël from the throne. While the castle’s lord warmed his wrists, the knight walked from cell to cell and freed his equals from their prisons. Once the last escaped, Quiet Cathán took a moment’s rest at the dungeon’s door. There upon the floor he found a final feather, this one a pure white token from the dove which led him thus far. Giving silent gratitude to the Spirit, he tucked the feather with the other two, feeling it would find good company there.
Turning back to the freed men, Quiet Cathán considered his next step. Though he rated himself a match to the red Bull Knight ruling Caer Drychau, twelve and one weakened by weeks were more than his measure to protect. Uncertain if his erstwhile plan to search out Stalker’s stable could stand, he spoke once more to Generous Judicaël. “Can you lead us hence, generous lord?”
The lord though sickly smiled with what strength he could, striding toward the labyrinth of shining doors. “Though cursed, this castle remains yet mine. I can walk the halls of my home, but Horrible Hilderic remains yours to contest. My errant comrades can muster considerable courage yet middling force.”
True to his testament, Generous Judicaël took the troop through the dungeon with nary a misstep. From door to door he walked with kingly confidence, the mirrors glowing aright after he passed. Though rather than seek the stairs Quiet Cathán followed the dove down, the lord led the knights to a servant’s corridor which climbed to the castle courtyard. The stables stood nearby, lamplight marking the open doors through the morning mist and the sun shining but a sliver on the horizon. With Caer Drychau’s lord and prisoners freed and Stalker close at hand, the path lay open before the knight. Little need remained to contest Horrible Hilderic now that his villainy lay undone. Yet it galled Tempestuous Cathán to leave matters undone, stirred his shame to leave a knight so red to roam unrestrained and pricked his pride to think one so wrathful as he ran in his youth could overcome him [Footnote 18].
Putting path and prisoners both from mind, the knight quit the courtyard and sought Stalker within the stables. Hooves newly shod in steel and barding as complete as any of Constantinople’s Cataphractoi, the destrier stood arrayed for war. Taking to mount, Tempestuous Cathán took a lance from among his saddlebags, still lying in the dirt, and spurred Stalker into daylight. A pennon flew from the lance’s tip as he rode around to the castle’s gates, sewn with sides in opposite. Upon the right-hand, a dove rousant facing the sun on a field of azur. Upon the left-hand, a corvus recursant shaded by the crescent moon on a field of sable [Footnote 19].
The Bull Knight stood ready to meet him beneath the portcullis atop a sorrel stallion, his own armor and barding stained a gules brighter than flame. Man and horse both bore a pair of horns upon their helms, giving an appearance fierce as Ancient Astarion [Footnote 20]. This alone served to name the knight, for he carried no shield upon which to bear his crest. Rather, he wielded lances in pair to match the horns of his name, neither pennoned alike [Footnote 21].
When Tempestuous Cathán approached, the Bull Knight’s stallion stomped a greeting upon the stone, sparks scattered in the sky as though kindled in the man’s own heart. Recognizing anew a familiar flame in his foe, the knight of Arthur reigned Stalker to a stop and bade a moment for prayer anew, speaking intention to God and Mary in turn before the serpent-slayers of home and heaven [Footnote 22]. Only then with a quiet heart did he raise his lance in salute to Horrible Hilderic. Red to the core, the Bull Knight refused to return this courtesy and spurred his stallion forward. Yet Quiet Cathán remained calm, unsurprised to see such a show from one who would meet hospitality with treachery. Moreover, with no shield on his arm and twinned horns to avoid, Horrbile Hilderic proved a deadly danger to aim at. Taking wisdom from his travels with Shrewd Marhalt, he let patience lead him and spurred Stalker in kind.
The horses tore turf to shreds in their speed and the Bull Knight crashed down upon Quiet Cathán, yet the knight never couched his lance. Instead, he guided Stalker firmly to the right and took the pass in full upon his shield. Though Horrible Hilderic burned bright enough to smash his left-hand lance to flinders and rock Quiet Cathán in the saddle, the knight remained seated and uninjured, the serenity of his spirit strong enough to weather the red knight’s rage.
Steering Stalker around once more, Quiet Cathán charged the Bull Knight again. This time at the pass, he led his faithful destrier to the left and caught Horrible Hilderic’s second spear upon his shield once again. The shield rested uneasily over his chest, hoisted wrong-handed as it was, and the clash struck him harder than the first, yet still he sat firm even as lance shattered before him and saddle-straps snapped beneath him.
For a third time, Quiet Cathán fell upon his foe and only now that the red knight found himself disarmed did Solemn Arthur’s knight bring his lance to bear. With a single strike, Horrible Hilderic was unhorsed and crashed to the dew-soaked grass. Yet this alone could not quell the rage of a red knight and he drew his sword, demanding his opponent meet him in kind. Though it was a courtesy Quiet Cathán knew his foe would never grant in kind, the knight reined Stalker in and dismounted, even stowing his shield upon the saddle that the challenge may be equal in spirit and truth.
The Bull Knight charged with wrath worthy to his name, wielding a mighty sword in hand which could cleave a cleft through a hill of stone [Footnote 23]. Quiet Cathán let him come, never meeting a strike’s full force upon his graven blade and steering them to the side instead. As pass led to pass and minute led to minute, the red knight ran ragged and his rage could no longer rule arms grown leaden. When at the last he struck a sloppy slash, Quiet Cathán closed with the cunning of a corvus and clove horns from helm. Humbled in defeat, Horrible Hilderic fell to his knees and cried ransom. Seeing little use in wicked wealth, Quiet Cathán turned the man to the justice of Caer Drychau and Generous Judicaël.
When the sun rose in earnest, the spires of the crystalline castle shone bright as the adamant atop the arches of Atlantis awash beneath the abyss [Footnote 24]. No more did its halls hold mirage and mirror, its rightful lord measuring mercy from his throne in a feasting hall. Generous Judicaël bade Solemn Arthur’s knight stay for a time that he might repay his gratitude, but Quiet Cathán refused with all courtesy, claiming his quest required every bit of haste he could collect. In that way did the knight embark once more upon the Roman road, winding ever north through the Weald to wintering seas where serpents lurk in the wells and Selkie hide beneath the steel-grey waves.
End Part II
Footnote 1: Notably, this is one of the first geographical oddities in Cathán’s tales. If one is to consider the common interpretation of Camelot as an ancient Caerleon, then Cathán’s path should take him nowhere near the British Weald. Even if one were to consider London to be the origin of Camelot, the city is still further north than the Weald. Regardless, if the descriptor of ‘Roman road’ is taken at face value, the most likely candidates are either Fosse Way or Ermine Street, respective to the common candidates of Camelot.
Footnote 2: ‘The Hawk of May’ is a slantwise reference to Gawain by way of Gwalchmei. While this reference is used more than once through the body of work, never is the connection explicitly stated. The author of the original work seemed to assume readers would know the title connects to him. The closest explanation here is the descriptor of ‘courteous’.
Footnote 3: While ‘Wine-dark Sea’ is a blatant reference to Homer, ‘Paladin Wall’ is somewhat more confusing. Not only should the term ‘Paladin’ be considered as anachronistic for the era in which the tale is set, but no particular wall between Britain and France or France and the Mediterranean can be assigned this descriptor. As best I can figure, it’s meant as a poetic title for the Alps; the ‘wall between broader Europe and Roman Italy’. On the other hand, when the Alps are directly approached later, they are not referred to as the Paladin Wall.
Footnote 4: Much as in the first part, these serve mostly as a needless connection to elder tales of antiquity, few of which particularly relate to the core of Arthurian mythos. The most notable of this bunch is the ‘Great Queen of Death’, both through the nominal connection to Morgan le Fay and a certain thematic tie to Cathán’s own struggle with death, in a sense.
Footnote 5: This is an instance in which glas is used, but for the purposes of the alliterative poetic form, I chose to translate it thusly.
Footnote 6: Caer Drychau is something of an artificial name for the castle. A more direct translation would be something like ‘The Crystal Castle of Many Doors and Glamoured Mirrors’, but that’s a bit wordy. For the sake of brevity, I shortened it to ‘Castle of Mirrors’ and made the best translation I could for authenticity’s sake. Neither Caer Drychau nor Lord Judicaël seem tied to any particular location or figures, seemingly invented for this tale. That Judicaël is granted an epithet and that the epithet is ‘Generous’ comes across as odd, but there is seemingly no explanation as to why.
Footnote 7: The Bull Knight himself has seemingly no connection to Ireland – by his name and descriptor of ‘from the east’, he is likely either of the Angles or Saxons – though the symbology as it pertains to Cathán is curious. While bulls are certainly significant to Irish mythology, they aren’t precisely a part of the nation’s heraldry. This seems to be a reference to either Donn Cúailnge or Finnbhennach from The Táin, but nothing conclusive can be gathered. This is seemingly another attempt to connect Cathán to these older Irish tales, much as with the references to ‘the Radiant’ in the previous part. The most interesting thing to glean from this reference is that Cathán may be from either Connacht or Ulster, but which of the two is intended cannot be gleaned. More can be discussed on that matter at a more relevant time.
Footnote 8: The Bull Knight’s act of ‘turning Caer Drychau’s mirrors upon themselves’ and the eventual restoration of the castle seems indicative of some form of Fisher King situation in which the castle’s magic depends entirely upon its ruler.
Footnote 9: The ‘Milesian women’ of this passage refer to Banshee. Again, this is perhaps an interesting tie to Cathán’s origins as it may indicate he is of the original families who settled Ireland, according to the folktales. Likewise, if this is meant as a warning of death for Cathán, it serves as another example of his apparent conflict with death.
Footnote 10: Cathán’s apparent ability to ‘hear magic’ is the kind of skill simply brought up by the text as is convenient; like it’s assumed as something everyone can do. Curiously, the description of listening to wind and earth may be indicative of a kind of ‘white wizardry’ the knight is capable of, in manipulating the God-blessed forces of creation.
Footnote 11: Celadon was not, naturally, the original term used. Malachite would have been a more direct translation as a ‘pale green stone’, but for the sake of the linguistic scheme, I chose something evocation of a similar color over geological and historical accuracy.
Footnote 12: While ‘red’ is often used as a descriptor for dishonorable or villainous knights in Chivalric Romances, the Bull Knight is somewhat less than subtle in this descriptor. Something of this is likely meant as more literary than literal; that the Bull Knight was not brazenly proclaiming his villainy for all to see. It’s of note, however, that in ascribing a red theme to his garments, the use of copper provides a somewhat ironic counterpoint to more valuable metals often used. As if to state that a red knight’s villainy can only earn a hollow reward.
Footnote 13: This conversation and much of the interaction which follows between Cathán and the Bull Knight is, in essence, two conversations given at once. Both knights speak in terms meant to hint that they know the truth of the situation and are challenging the other to break hospitality first.
Footnote 14: Everything listed in this paragraph is meant as a backhanded insult to Cathán that would come across as obvious to the audience of the era. The food and drink given are notably peasant food presented to a member of the nobility as a knight would be and Cathán’s place a the Bull Kight’s left hand indicates he was deliberately placed in a seat of lower honor.
Footnote 15: The specifics of the poisoned arrows and javelins are… curious to consider. That they seemingly come from the walls themselves with no obvious archer seems to indicate something of a mystical nature to them. Especially when considering the ‘lavender scent’ of them. While lavender is known for helping stimulate relaxation and slumber, merely relying upon this quality for the basis of a poison which is never claimed in any other texts I’ve found comes across as something more metaphoric. Furthermore, the lack of archers somewhat ties to the general population of Caer Drychau as a whole. Servants and courtiers are mentioned, but in so little detail it’s unclear if they’re meant to be seen as people living in the castle or some kind of spirits tied to its magics. Especially with how blase they are in regards to the change in master.
Footnote 16: While Herne the Hunter is mentioned here – and in regards to a hanging tree no less – it’s likely this is a later addition to the tale, after Shakespeare’s works. Especially when considering the specific description of the spear as ‘sycamore’, in regards to the folktales relating to the wood’s mystical properties, yet Herne’s tree is known to be an oak.
Footnote 17: With the third bird appearing and the repeated references to Christianity’s Holy Spirit, it must be noted that it’s unclear precisely how mystical these birds are meant to be taken. The feathers they give are one matter, as touched upon in later instances, but it’s difficult to say if these particular birds are literally the beings they represent. While the guidance given by the dove aligns neatly with the role of the Holy Spirit, it comes across as somewhat odd how mundane the encounters with pigeon hawk and crow are, given the temperaments of the beings they represent.
Footnote 18: This shift of Cathán’s epithet is a phenomenon unique to him in the tale and only ever between ‘Quiet’ and ‘Tempestuous’. As best as can be figured, it indicates something of a shift in temperament between Cathán the knight of Arthur and Cathán the glory-seeking black knight.
Footnote 19: Much like with the epithets, the two-sided pennon is not coincidental. The attitudes of the birds particularly confirm the application of the epithets. In that same way, they can almost be tied to the stages of Cathán’s life – corvus for the past, pigeon hawk for the present, and dove for the future. If we extend the metaphor and consider the corvus as representing death, that death is assigned firmly to Cathán’s past is intriguing and touches upon certain occurrences later.
Footnote 20: With a reference to the minotaur, it should be noted that it’s unclear how thorough the Bull Knight’s helmet is. Only its horns are described, but it may well be that readers are meant to assume his entire helmet is patterned after a bull’s head and his armor gives the appearance of a red minotaur.
Footnote 21: Yes, Hilderic wields no shield here despite prior passages making it very clear he had a shield which bore his crest and gave his title.
Footnote 22: The ‘serpent-slayer of heaven’ mentioned here is not the last reference to the Archangel Michael. While he is not quite as blatantly prevalent in the tale’s metaphors as corvus, hawk, and dove, the virtue of humility he represents is critical to the course of the tale in much the same way as Cathán’s conflict with death.
Footnote 23: The Bull Knight’s sword is described in terms similar to the likes of Caladbolg, but there is no particular indication that it’s anything but a regular sword. The description seems to be for dramatic flair, as Cathán is not shy about taking any and all magic swords he is offered or wins through combat. To his credit, he often needs to and does not here, but the point stands.
Footnote 24: This reference is rather curious among its kind. While this is neither the first nor last time the author mentions details of the Greek epics and mythologies, comparing a castle newly restored to its proper virtue to Atlantis comes across as somewhat odd when considering the island’s role as a metaphor for pride. Especially when the Bretonic legend of Ys would have provided a similar example with a better culture backing. If the original document did call upon Ys instead of Atlantis however, with the confusion coming in translations, that only makes the comparison to Caer Drychau all the stranger. While Atlantis was struck down by the Olympians for its people’s hubris, Ys was very explicitly destroyed as a consequence for its people’s sinful ways and the varying vices of Princess Dahut. Why the text would make a comparison between such a city and the supposedly just Caer Drychau is a mystery, all the more since this castle is never seen again.
Post Footnote 1: ‘Uh… So, yeah. It’s been a bit and I kinda forgot how to properly do this whole website thing. So, yeah. That’s why I’m the post author again. Whoops. Let’s say it’s the Neurotic Hermit’s fault for not being very active here.’ — the Twisted Jerk
Post Footnote 1A: Rude! I’ve had angst! Angst I say!
Post Footnote 2: Also, see here for Part I.
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