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    A Knyght Ther Was
    A Knyght Ther Was
    A Knyght Ther Was
    Ebook77 pages1 hour

    A Knyght Ther Was

    By Robert F. Young

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    About this ebook

    Robert F. Young was a Hugo Award nominated American science fiction writer. This is one of his stories.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStart Publishing LLC
    Release dateSep 3, 2014
    ISBN9781633556492

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      Book preview

      A Knyght Ther Was - Robert F. Young

      A Knyght Ther Was

      by Robert F. Young

      Start Publishing LLC

      Copyright © 2012 by Start Publishing LLC

      All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

      First Start Publishing eBook edition January 2014

      Start Publishing is a registered trademark of Start Publishing LLC

      Manufactured in the United States of America

      10   9   8   7   6   5   4   3   2   1

      ISBN 978-1-63355-649-2

      A Knyght ther was, and that a worthy man,

      That fro the tyme that he first bigan

      To ryden out, he loved chivalrye,

      Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisye

                        —THE CANTERBURY TALES

      I

      Mallory, who among other things was a time-thief, re-materialized the time-space boat Yore in the eastern section of a secluded valley in ancient Britain and typed CASTLE, EARLY SIXTH-CENTURY on the lumillusion panel. Then he stepped over to the control-room telewindow and studied the three-dimensional screen. The hour was 8:00 p.m.; the season, summer; the Year 542 A.D.

      Darkness was on hand, but there was a full moon rising and he could see trees not far away—oaks and beeches, mostly. Roving the eye of the camera, he saw more trees of the same species. The castle of Yore was safely ensconced in a forest. Satisfied, he turned away.

      If his calculations were correct, the castle of Carbonek stood in the next valley to the south, and on a silver table in a chamber of the castle stood the object of his quest.

      If his calculations were correct.

      Mallory was not one to keep himself in suspense. Stepping into the supply room, he stripped down to his undergarments and proceeded to get into the custom-built suit of armor which he had purchased expressly for the operation. Fortunately, while duplication of early sixth-century design had been mandatory, there had been no need to duplicate early sixth-century materials, and sollerets, spurs, greaves, cuisses, breastplate, pauldrons, gorget, arm-coverings, gauntlets, helmet, and chain-mail vest had all been fashioned of light-weight alloys that lent ten times as much protection at ten times less poundage. The helmet was his particular pride and joy: in keeping with the period-piece after which it had been patterned, it looked like an upside-down metal wastepaper basket, but the one-way transparency of the special alloy that had gone into its construction gave him unrestricted vision, while two inbuilt audio-amplifiers performed a corresponding service for his hearing.

      The outer surface of each piece had been burnished to a high degree, and he found himself a dazzling sight indeed when he looked into the supply-room mirror. This effect was enhanced no end when he buckled on his chrome-plated scabbard and red-hilted sword and hung his snow-white shield around his neck. His polished spear, when he stood it beside him, was almost anticlimactic. It shouldn’t have been. It was a good three and one-half inches in diameter at the base, and it was as tall as a young flagpole.

      As he stood there looking at his reflection, the red cross in the center of the shield took on the hue of freshly-shed blood. The period-piece expert who had designed the shield had insisted on the illusion, saying that it made for greater authenticity, and Mallory hadn’t argued with him. He was glad now that he hadn’t. Raising the visor of his helmet, he winked at himself and said, I hereby christen ye ‘Sir Galahad’.

      Next, he bethought himself of his steed. Armor clanking, he left the supply room and walked down the short passage to the rec-hall. The rec-hall occupied the entire forward section of the TSB and had been designed solely for the benefit of the time-tourists whom Mallory regularly conducted on past-tours as a cover-up for the illegal activities which he pursued in between trips. In the present instance, however, the hall went quite well with the Yore’s lumillusioned exterior, possessing, with its gallery-like mezzanine, its long snack table, and its imitation flagstone flooring, an early sixth-century aspect of its own—an aspect marred only slightly by the anachronistic telewindows inset at regular intervals along the walls.

      Mallory’s steed stood in a stall-like enclosure that was formed by the tourist-bar and one of the walls, and it was a splendid beast indeed—as splendid a one as the twenty-second century robotics industry was capable of creating. Originally, Mallory had planned on bringing a real horse with him, but as this would have necessitated his having to learn how to ride, he had decided against it. The decision had been a wise one: Easy Money looked more like a horse than most real horses did, could travel twice as fast, and was as easy to ride and to maneuver as a golp jetney. It was light-brown in color with a white diamond on its forehead, it was equipped with a secret croup-compartment and an inbuilt saddle, and its fetlock-length trappings were made of genuine synthisilk threaded with gold. It wore no armor—it did not need to: weapons manufactured during the Age of Chivalry could no more penetrate its hide than a tooth pick could.

      Come on, Easy Money, Mallory encephalopathed. You and I have a little job to do.

      The rohorse emitted several realistic whinnies, backed out of its stall, trotted smartly over to his side, and nuzzled his right pauldron. Mallory mounted—not gracefully, it

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