Bear and the Goblin of Castle Hartland

Chapter Four: The Queen's Condition

That night there was, once again, in the great hall of Castle Hartland, a magnificent feast.

From the kitchens came platters of roast pork with thick crackling, and huge baked turkeys with crispy golden skin. From the cellars came barrel after barrel of beer, rum, and wine. It were as if Lord Wind himself had come to dine in King Pike's house: such was the calibre of the celebrations. The hall was a forest of men and women in lively chatter: they crowded at every table, and about the tables they stood cradling their drinks or balancing a plate. A hundred conversations blended into a sort of rumbling symphony which, after years of tentative whispers in a hall that echoed in want of guests, was blessed music to King Pike's ears. It was the sound of life.

King Pike presented to Bear a sword. Its blade was long and reflected the flicker of candlelight, as if it were cut from diamond—so grand was its design. In its handle was fixed a gold jewel that glowed of its own warm light.

"This is an ancient sword," revealed the king, "forged in Badtibira-that-was. There, in another age, the artisan smiths worked their unparalleled skill taught to them by Lord Fire, who had his house in Badtibira—or so the legends say. I am told this sword is Wormslayer. It is now yours, Sir Bear; I give it to you. You shall never need to sharpen its blade with a grindstone, for its sharpness will hold against flesh, metal, or stone. Use it well, my son."

All who were gathered in the great hall stared in silence at Wormslayer, enamoured by its beautiful glowing light. What a blade it was to behold!

Bear accepted it humbly. He said, in wielding it against whatever enemy he may in the future cross, that he would recall, with fondness and with fire, the spirit of both his glorious fathers.

The poet plucked his lyre and sang an ancient song: Little Lugal he resurrected with his sonorous voice. He told an episode of that hero's journey: when, after the fall of Gnome City, Little Lugal and the wizard came to the old garden and encountered the earth-shaking worm.

While the poet sang, Queen Treasure brought to Bear another cup of sparkling water, sat beside him, and took his hand in her own. "I am not interrupting, I hope," she whispered. "I trust you have heard this story before; there is the look of recognition in your countenance."

Bear nodded, smiled, and said, "My father was fond of Little Lugal, and told me many bedtime stories of his adventures."

"Indeed?"

"But his voice could not compare to that of your poet. His flows like a bubbling stream through a mountain valley."

"Then I shall be brief," she said. "Know, Bear, that for the cleansing of my house, for the chasing out of its shadows, I am without words to express my gratitude; for I am no poet.

"My husband, although his words are good, he feels as I do, that they are inefficient: so he has bestowed upon you many gifts, and still more he intends to give. You may expect to leave this castle tomorrow in a chariot drawn by eight war-horses born of a stock that come from the plains of Troy. No small gift! They are our best horses, yet I shall let you have them.

"My husband, he has also made you his son, which means you are my son also, and I welcome you as a mother should. But while the sons that I bore in my womb; that I brought into this world with pain; that I did suckle at my breast: while they live, I will not accept you as the next King of the Shieldings, for you have not the blood of Barley, which is blessed. If my husband gives to you, in blind generosity, the right to wear his crown, to sit on his throne when he has left this world, you shall refuse."

And Queen Treasure stared at Bear with eyes as hard as stone.

Bear nodded. He promised her that he should never be King of the Shieldings.

Then she smiled, and again she was kind with him. She bade him drink, and he drank. The water, he said, was good.

They listened to the rest of the song. When the poet concluded, strumming a final note that lingered in the great hall, there erupted a standing ovation.

It soon became a rowdy affair.

All were drunk. The stones were wet with spilled drinks. A ball was being whacked back and forth across the hall. On one of the tables, a warrior of Wintervale and a Shielding Knight of Castle Hartland were dancing to the cheers of their onlookers: their distance was intimate, their moves were serpentine, and when they came together and kissed. They inspired a tremendous cheer.

Before she retired for the night, Queen Treasure stood before the hall, which fell immediately silent.

The warrior of Wintervale and the Shielding Knight dropped from the table and, giggling, took a hurried seat.

The queen smiled at them. "Celebrate so long as you will," she said, "so long as the Light burns bright within. Were I younger, I should have joined you in drinking and singing and, yes, in dancing, until dawn brought with her bright morning light sudden fatigue. But my skin does not lie: my wrinkles are long and deep, and sleep commands me much as it did when I was a child.

"I wish to say, to Sir Bear, that I am honoured and happy to welcome you to our family. You are the hero of this house, and so now you are a part of it. Be a brother to my sons and daughters: show them strength; teach them wisdom; take their hand if ever they ask for yours. Do these things and you shall have more than my gratitude; you shall have my love.

"From Castle Hartland to the edge of the world, may they praise Sir Bear in song, and recall forever his memory when courage is sought. Let men and women invoke Sir Bear when their own courage fails."

She kissed his cheek, then left the hall for her room high in the house, where she lay in her soft bed with its many pillows.

The revelry continued, the rowdiness returned. King Pike soon followed his wife to bed after also kissing his new son and holding Bear long in his arms.

It was not until the early morning—the nothing hour of night when all is still in the consuming darkness, and even the dogs have ceased their howling, curling up in their kennels—when the barrels began to empty, and sleep began to claim the revellers. The poet took his lyre and left the hall. He was soon followed by the Shielding Knights and the many guests from Greater Hartland. Some were too drunk, and found instead a place in the great hall to sleep alongside the warriors of Wintervale. A few used their shields for pillows; one rested his head on a wheel of cheese.

Sleep soon claimed every soul in Castle Hartland; and except for the deep snoring that resounded through the halls, the house was silent.