Sir John lay in bed, his skin the colour of unbleached wax and his
breaths coming and going in little puffs that scarcely stirred the flame of his
waning candle. Beneath the sags and creases of his hanging skin, the muscles of
his face were wincing; his eyelids laboured and his lips strove to utter. Sir
Timothy, kneeling by his side, marked the fever-dew that beaded on his father’s
brow and felt the devil’s-heat consuming his body. No, he couldn’t watch; he
hadn’t the courage for that. He
twisted away; eyes squeezed shut to hold in the burning drops that filled them.
“Tim… Timothy…”
“Father!”
The old knight’s eyes were open wide, but bleared and misted,
unfocussed, not looking at his son.
“Timothy of Pendrake,” he whispered, “why do you come here?” It was the
rite of investiture, spoken as he had spoken it before, when he had made
Timothy a knight.
“Father?”
“Why—why come you here? Why come
you here?”
“I—I—” the boy stammered, with white face uplifted. “Sir—to receive the
honour and degree of knighthood at your—”
All the bitter grief in him welled forth, gushing down his cheeks like
liquid stars in the candlelight.
“Know you what… what all this means?”
“Yes — yes, I know, now. It
means to be like you. When I was
small,” the words streamed forth, “I was a fool. I was even ashamed—ashamed—of
you. I had never been afraid then; I didn’t know enough. So I thought that I
was brave…and I…” the young man faltered, “I thought you were a coward.”
“…to defend the weak…”
“And that day, when you ran from
the Beholder, I—”
“…cast down the proud… “
“Even when Venger made me his prisoner, I wasn’t afraid at first. I was
ashamed and angry. I even wished…
“…to reverence your lords and…”
“I even wished you weren’t my father. I didn’t know that you were doing
it for me. I only thought I saw you crawling to him out of fear. ”
“…to bear yourself humbly…”
“But then I thought, ‘What if… what if I never see my father again?’ and
suddenly I didn’t care if you were a coward or not — I couldn’t bear to be
without you. And I was afraid. It was
then that I cried out for you to come and save me.”
“Will you…will you swear to be …a true knight… to fight bravely in a
just cause…
“I had thought that to be brave meant not to be afraid. I hadn’t known
what fear was — that awful sick twisting inside you, that feeling that all your
joints have come unknotted — and you
faced that feeling, to fight the Beholder, for me, and for those whom you had
given your word. I knew then that to be really brave was to be a knight like you.”
“…and… to die …”
“Oh, Father!”
“…before ever you commit dishonour? Do you … swear all this?”
“All this—all this I do
swear.”
“Rise up,” the old knight’s voice swelled like an anthem, his eyes
ablaze, his face flushing ruddy in the dying candlelight, “Rise up, Sir
Timothy… be forever a true knight…” He reached forth trembling hands. Timothy
caught them and drew his father close, and the old man kissed him, in a solemn
and joyful accolade. Then with a sigh, he sank back with closed eyes, softly,
softly, into his everlasting rest.
The young knight bowed his head, silent for a while. Then, rising up, he
crossed his father’s arms on his breast, and disposed the coverlet as a pall;
his sword he drew, laying it at the old knight’s feet, till Sir John looked
like the marble image of an ancient paladin, laid to rest in some honourable
fane. At last, bending down, Timothy kissed the old man’s cheeks, and said in a
gentle voice:
“Rise up; rise up, Sir John of Pendrake, forever a true knight; and my father.”