The farmer sprang on the mare’s back. The dragon began to run. So did the mare. The dragon galloped over a field puffing and blowing. So did the mare. The farmer bawled and shouted, as if he was watching a horse race; and all the while he waved Tailbiter. The faster the dragon ran the more bewildered he became; and all the while the grey mare put her best leg foremost and kept close behind him.
On they pounded down the lanes, and through the gaps in the fences, over many fields and across many brooks. The dragon was smoking and bellowing and losing all sense of direction. At last they came suddenly to the bridge of Ham, thundered over it, and came roaring down the village street. There Garm had the impudence to sneak out of an alley and join in the chase.
All the people were at their windows or on the roofs.
Some laughed and some cheered; and some beat tins and pans and kettles; and others blew horns and pipes and whistles; and the parson had the church bells rung. Such a to-do and an ongoing had not been heard in Ham for a hundred years.
Just outside the church the dragon gave up. He lay down in the middle of the road and gasped. Garm came and sniffed at his tail, but Chrysophylax was past all shame.
‘Good people, and gallant warrior,’ he panted, as Farmer Giles rode up, while the villagers gathered round (at a reasonable distance) with hayforks, poles, and pokers in their hands. ‘Good people, don’t kill me! I am very rich. I will pay for all the damage I have done. I will pay for the funerals of all the people I have killed, especially the parson of Oakley; he shall have a noble cenotaph—though he was rather lean. I will give you each a really good present, if you will only let me go home and fetch it.’
‘How much?’ said the farmer.
‘Well,’ said the dragon, calculating quickly. He noticed that the crowd was rather large. ‘Thirteen and eightpence each?’
‘Nonsense!’ said Giles. ‘Rubbish!’ said the people. ‘Rot!’ said the dog.
‘Two golden guineas each, and children half price?’ said the dragon.
‘What about dogs?’ said Garm. ‘Go on!’ said the farmer. ‘We’re listening.’
‘Ten pounds and a purse of silver for every soul, and gold collars for the dogs?’ said Chrysophylax anxiously.
‘Kill him!’ shouted the people, getting impatient.
‘A bag of gold for everybody, and diamonds for the ladies?’ said Chrysophylax hurriedly.
‘Now you’re talking, but not good enough,’ said Farmer Giles. ‘You’ve left dogs out again,’ said Garm. ‘What size of bags?’ said the men. ‘How many diamonds?’ said their wives.
‘Dear me! dear me!’ said the dragon. ‘I shall be ruined.’
‘You deserve it,’ said Giles. ‘You can choose between being ruined and being killed where you lie.’ He brandished Tailbiter, and the dragon cowered. ‘Make up your mind!’ the people cried, getting bolder and drawing nearer.
Chrysophylax blinked; but deep down inside him he laughed: a silent quiver which they did not observe. Their bargaining had begun to amuse him. Evidently they expected to get something out of it. They knew very little of the ways of the wide and wicked world—indeed, there was no one now living in all the realm who had had any actual experience in dealing with dragons and their tricks. Chrysophylax was getting his breath back, and his wits as well. He licked his lips.
‘Name your own price!’ he said.
Then they all began to talk at once. Chrysophylax listened with interest. Only one voice disturbed him: that of the blacksmith.
‘No good’ll come of it, mark my words,’ said he. ‘A worm won’t return, say what you like. But no good will come of it, either way.’
‘You can stand out of the bargain, if that’s your mind,’ they said to him, and went on haggling, taking little further notice of the dragon.
Chrysophylax raised his head; but if he thought of springing on them, or of slipping off during the argument he was disappointed. Farmer Giles was standing by, chewing a straw and considering; but Tailbiter was in his hand, and his eye was on the dragon.
‘You lie where you be!’ said he, ‘or you’ll get what you deserve, gold or no gold.’
The dragon lay flat. At last the parson was made spokesman and he stepped up beside Giles. ‘Vile Worm!’ he said. ‘You must bring back to this spot all your illgotten wealth; and after recompensing those whom you have injured we will share it fairly among ourselves. Then, if you make a solemn vow never to disturb our land again, nor to stir up any other monster to trouble us, we will let you depart with both your head and your tail to your own home. And now you shall take such strong oaths to return (with your ransom) as even the conscience of a worm must hold binding.’
Chrysophylax accepted, after a plausible show of hesitation. He even shed hot tears, lamenting his ruin, till there were steaming puddles in the road; but no one was moved by them. He swore many oaths, solemn and astonishing, that he would return with all his wealth on the feast of St Hilarius and St Felix. That gave him eight days, and far too short a time for the journey, as even those ignorant of geography might well have reflected. Nonetheless they let him go, and escorted him as far as the bridge.
‘To our next meeting!’ he said, as he passed over the river. ‘I am sure we shall all look forward to it.’
‘We shall indeed,’ they said. They were, of course, very foolish. For though the oaths he had taken should have burdened his conscience with sorrow and a great fear of disaster, he had, alas! no conscience at all. And if this regrettable lack in one of imperial lineage was beyond the comprehension of the simple, at the least the parson with his booklearning might have guessed it. Maybe he did. He was a grammarian, and could doubtless see further into the future than others.
The blacksmith shook his head as he went back to his smithy. ‘Ominous names,’ he said. ‘Hilarius and Felix! I don’t like the sound of them.’
The King, of course, quickly heard the news. It ran through the realm like fire and lost nothing in the telling. The King was deeply moved, for various reasons, not the least being financial; and he made up his mind to ride at once in person to Ham, where such strange things seemed to happen.
He arrived four days after the dragon’s departure, coming over the bridge on his white horse, with many knights and trumpeters, and a large baggage-train. All the people had put on their best clothes and lined the street to welcome him. The cavalcade came to a halt in the open space before the church gate. Farmer Giles knelt before the King, when he was presented; but the King told him to rise, and actually patted him on the back. The knights pretended not to observe this familiarity.
The King ordered the whole village to assemble in Farmer Giles’s large pasture beside the river, and when they were all gathered together (including Garm, who felt that he was concerned), Augustus Bonifacius rex et basileus was graciously pleased to address them.
He explained carefully that the wealth of the miscreant Chrysophylax all belonged to himself as lord of the land. He passed rather lightly over his claim to be considered suzerain of the mountain-country (which was debatable); but ‘we make no doubt in any case,’ said he, ‘that all the treasure of this worm was stolen from our ancestors. Yet we are, as all know, both just and generous, and our good liege Ægidius shall be suitably rewarded; nor shall any of our loyal subjects in this place go without some token of our esteem, from the parson to the youngest child. For we are well pleased with Ham. Here at least a sturdy and uncorrupted folk still retain the ancient courage of our race.’ The knights were talking among themselves about the new fashion in hats.
The people bowed and curtsied, and thanked him humbly. But they wished now that they had closed with the dragon’s offer of ten pounds all round, and kept the matter private. They knew enough, at any rate, to feel sure that the King’s esteem would not rise to that. Garm noticed that there was no mention of dogs. Farmer Giles was the only one of them who was really content. He felt sure of some reward, and was mighty glad anyway to have come safely out of a nasty business with his local reputation higher than ever.
The King did not go away. He pitched his pavilions in Farmer Giles’s field, and waited for January the fourteenth, making as merry as he could in a miserable village far from the capital. The royal retinue ate up nearly all the bread, butter, eggs, chickens, bacon and mutton, and drank up every drop of old ale there was in the place in the next three days. Then they began to grumble at short commons. But the King paid handsomely for everything (in tallies to be honoured later by the Exchequer, which he hoped would shortly be richly replenished); so the folk of Ham were well satisfied, not knowing the actual state of the Exchequer.
January the fourteenth came, the feast of Hilarius and of Felix, and everybody was up and about early. The knights put on their armour. The farmer put on his coat of home-made mail, and they smiled openly, until they caught the King’s frown. The farmer also put on Tailbiter, and it went into its sheath as easy as butter, and stayed there. The parson looked hard at the sword, and nodded to himself. The blacksmith laughed.
Midday came. People were too anxious to eat much. The afternoon passed slowly. Still Tailbiter showed no sign of leaping from the scabbard. None of the watchers on the hill, nor any of the small boys who had climbed to the top of tall trees, could see anything by air or by land that might herald the return of the dragon.
The blacksmith walked about whistling; but it was not until evening fell and the stars came out that the other folk of the village began to suspect that the dragon did not mean to come back at all. Still they recalled his many solemn and astonishing oaths and kept on hoping. When, however, midnight struck and the appointed day was over, their disappointment was deep. The blacksmith was delighted.
‘I told you so,’ he said. But they were still not convinced.
‘After all he was badly hurt,’ said some.
‘We did not give him enough time,’ said others. ‘It is a powerful long way to the mountains, and he would have a lot to carry. Maybe he has had to get help.’
But the next day passed and the next. Then they all gave up hope. The King was in a red rage. The victuals and drinks had run out, and the knights were grumbling loudly. They wished to go back to the merriments of court. But the King wanted money.
He took leave of his loyal subjects, but he was short and sharp about it; and he cancelled half the tallies on the Exchequer. He was quite cold to Farmer Giles and dismissed him with a nod.
‘You will hear from us later,’ he said, and rode off with his knights and his trumpeters.
The more hopeful and simple-minded thought that a message would soon come from the court to summon Master Ægidius to the King, to be knighted at the least. In a week the message came, but it was of different sort. It was written and signed in triplicate: one copy for Giles; one for the parson; and one to be nailed on the church door. Only the copy addressed to the parson was of any use, for the court-hand was peculiar and as dark to the folk of Ham as the Book-latin. But the parson rendered it into the vulgar tongue and read it from the pulpit. It was short and to the point (for a royal letter); the King was in a hurry.
‘We Augustus B. A. A. P. and M. rex et cetera make known that we have determined, for the safety of our realm and for the keeping of our honour, that the worm or dragon styling himself Chrysophylax the Rich shall be sought out and condignly punished for his misdemeanours, torts, felonies, and foul perjury. All the knights of our Royal Household are hereby commanded to arm and make ready to ride upon this quest, so soon as Master Aegidius A. J. Agricola shall arrive at this our court. Inasmuch as the said Aegidius has proved himself a trusty man and well able to deal with giants, dragons, and other enemies of the King’s peace, now therefore we command him to ride forth at once, and to join the company of our knights with all speed.’
People said this was a high honour and next door to being dubbed. The miller was envious. ‘Friend Ægidius is rising in the world,’ said he. ‘I hope he will know us when he gets back.’
‘Maybe he never will,’ said the blacksmith.
‘That’s enough from you, old horse-face!’ said the farmer, mighty put out. ‘Honour be blowed! If I get back even the miller’s company will be welcome. Still, it is some comfort to think that I shall be missing you both for a bit.’ And with that he left them.
You cannot offer excuses to the King as you can to your neighbours; so lambs or no lambs, ploughing or none, milk or water, he had to get up on his grey mare and go. The parson saw him off.
‘I hope you are taking some stout rope with you?’ he said.
‘What for?’ said Giles. ‘To hang myself?’
‘Nay! Take heart, Master Ægidius!’ said the parson. ‘It seems to me that you have a luck that you can trust. But take also a long rope, for you may need it, unless my foresight deceives me. And now farewell, and return safely!’
‘Aye! And come back and find all my house and land in a pickle. Blast dragons!’ said Giles. Then, stuffing a great coil of rope in a bag by his saddle, he climbed up and rode off.
He did not take the dog, who had kept well out of sight all the morning. But when he was gone, Garm slunk home and stayed there, and howled all the night, and was beaten for it, and went on howling.
‘Help, ow help!’ he cried. ‘I’ll never see dear master again, and he was so terrible and splendid. I wish I had gone with him, I do.’
‘Shut up!’ said the farmer’s wife, ‘or you’ll never live to see if he comes back or he don’t.’
The blacksmith heard the howls. ‘A bad omen,’ he said cheerfully.
Many days passed and no news came. ‘No news is bad news,’ he said, and burst into song.
When Farmer Giles got to court he was tired and dusty. But the knights, in polished mail and with shining helmets on their heads, were all standing by their horses. The King’s summons and the inclusion of the farmer had annoyed them, and so they insisted on obeying orders literally, setting off the moment that Giles arrived. The poor farmer had barely time to swallow a sop in a draught of wine before he was off on the road again. The mare was offended. What she thought of the King was luckily unexpressed, as it was highly disloyal.
It was already late in the day. ‘Too late in the day to start a dragon-hunt,’ thought Giles. But they did not go far. The knights were in no hurry, once they had started. They rode along at their leisure, in a straggling line, knights, esquires, servants, and ponies trussed with baggage; and Farmer Giles jogging behind on his tired mare.
When evening came, they halted and pitched their tents. No provision had been made for Farmer Giles and he had to borrow what he could. The mare was indignant, and she forswore her allegiance to the house of Augustus Bonifacius.
The next day they rode on, and all the day after. On the third day they descried in the distance the dim and inhospitable mountains. Before long they were in regions where the lordship of Augustus Bonifacius was not universally acknowledged. They rode then with more care and kept closer together.
On the fourth day they reached the Wild Hills and the borders of the dubious lands where legendary creatures were reputed to dwell. Suddenly one of those riding ahead came upon ominous footprints in the sand by a stream. They called for the farmer.
‘What are these, Master Ægidius?’ they said.
‘Dragon-marks,’ said he.
‘Lead on!’ said they.
So now they rode west with Farmer Giles at their head, and all the rings were jingling on his leather coat. That mattered little; for all the knights were laughing and talking, and a minstrel rode with them singing a lay. Every now and again they took up the refrain of the song and sang it all together, very loud and strong. It was encouraging, for the song was good—it had been made long before in days when battles were more common than tournaments; but it was unwise. Their coming was now known to all the creatures of that land, and the dragons were cocking their ears in all the caves of the West. There was no longer any chance of their catching old Chrysophylax napping.
As luck (or the grey mare herself) would have it, when at last they drew under the very shadow of the dark mountains, Farmer Giles’s mare went lame. They had now begun to ride along steep and stony paths, climbing upwards with toil and ever-growing disquiet. Bit by bit she dropped back in line, stumbling and limping and looking so patient and sad that at last Farmer Giles was obliged to get off and walk. Soon they found themselves right at the back among the pack-ponies; but no one took any notice of them. The knights were discussing points of precedence and etiquette, and their attention was distracted. Otherwise they would have observed that dragon-marks were now obvious and numerous.
They had come, indeed, to the places where Chrysophylax often roamed, or alighted after taking his daily exercise in the air. The lower hills, and the slopes on either side of the path, had a scorched and trampled look. There was little grass, and the twisted stumps of heather and gorse stood up black amid wide patches of ash and burned earth. The region had been a dragons’ playground for many a year. A dark mountain-wall loomed up before them.
Farmer Giles was concerned about his mare; but he was glad of the excuse for no longer being so conspicuous. It had not pleased him to be riding at the head of such a cavalcade in these dreary and dubious places. A little later he was gladder still, and had reason to thank his fortune (and his mare). For just about midday—it being then the Feast of Candlemas, and the seventh day of their riding—Tailbiter leaped out of its sheath, and the dragon out of his cave.
Without warning or formality he swooped out to give battle. Down he came upon them with a rush and a roar. Far from his home he had not shown himself over bold, in spite of his ancient and imperial lineage. But now he was filled with a great wrath; for he was fighting at his own gate, as it were, and with all his treasure to defend. He came round a shoulder of the mountain like a ton of thunderbolts, with a noise like a gale and a gust of red lightning.
The argument concerning precedence stopped short. All the horses shied to one side or the other, and some of the knights fell off. The ponies and the baggage and the servants turned and ran at once. They had no doubt as to the order of precedence.
Suddenly there came a rush of smoke that smothered them all, and right in the midst of it the dragon crashed into the head of the line. Several of the knights were killed before they could even issue their formal challenge to battle, and several others were bowled over, horses and all. As for the remainder, their steeds took charge of them, and turned round and fled, carrying their masters off, whether they wished it or no. Most of them wished it indeed.
But the old grey mare did not budge. Maybe she was afraid of breaking her legs on the steep stony path. Maybe she felt too tired to run away. She knew in her bones that dragons on the wing are worse behind you than before you, and you need more speed than a race-horse for flight to be useful. Besides, she had seen this Chrysophylax before, and remembered chasing him over field and brook in her own country, till he lay down tame in the village street. Anyway she stuck her legs out wide, and she snorted. Farmer Giles went as pale as his face could manage, but he stayed by her side; for there seemed nothing else to do.
And so it was that the dragon, charging down the line, suddenly saw straight in front of him his old enemy with Tailbiter in his hand. It was the last thing he expected. He swerved aside like a great bat and collapsed on the hillside close to the road. Up came the grey mare, quite forgetting to walk lame. Farmer Giles, much encouraged, had scrambled hastily on her back.
‘Excuse me,’ said he, ‘but were you looking for me, by any chance?’
‘No, indeed!’ said Chrysophylax. ‘Who would have thought of seeing you here? I was just flying about,’ ‘Then we meet by good luck,’ said Giles, ‘and the pleasure is mine; for I was looking for you. What’s more, I have a bone to pick with you, several bones in a manner of speaking.’
The dragon snorted. Farmer Giles put up his arm to ward off the hot gust, and with a flash Tailbiter swept forward, dangerously near the dragon’s nose.
‘Hey!’ said he, and stopped snorting. He began to tremble and backed away, and all the fire in him was chilled. ‘You have not, I hope, come to kill me, good master?’ he whined.
‘Nay! nay!’ said the farmer. ‘I said naught about killing.’ The grey mare sniffed.