Sorcerer of the North (15 page)

"Not too many visitors, then?" he asked, and the seneschal shook his head.

"As I said. Not that it's a surprise. We do expect a Lady Gwendolyn of Amarle to be passing through in a week or two—she's traveling to meet her fiancé in the next fief but one and sent word requesting lodging until the snow clears from the passes. But apart from her, there are just the normal castle folk. And there are fewer of them than normal," he added darkly.

Will chose not to pursue the matter. He set to work loosening the girth straps on the two horses. The seneschal glanced, around him.

"Forgive me if I leave you to it," he said. "That firewood will never get stacked if I don't see to it myself. Stables are over that way." He gestured to the right of the courtyard. "Once you've got your horses settled, ask in the castle for Mistress Barry—she's the housekeeper. Tell her I said you were to have one of the tower rooms on level three. My name's Agramond, by the way."

Will nodded his thanks. "Mistress Barry," he repeated. The seneschal was already turning away, yelling at two of the castle workers who were slowly stacking cut firewood in one corner.

"Come on, Tug," said Will. "Let's find you a bed."

The Ranger horse's ears pricked at the sound of his name. The packhorse, placid and unimaginative, followed Tug docilely as Will led the way to the stables.

Once the horses were tended to, Will found the housekeeper. Like most women of her calling, she was a stoutly built, capable woman. She was polite enough, he thought, but she had the same air of distraction that he'd noticed in Agramond. She showed him to his room—fairly standard accommodation for a castle of this size. The floors and walls were stone, the ceiling timber. There was a narrow window, fitted with a frame covered in translucent hide that allowed a half-light to filter through. A wooden shutter was available for severe weather. A small fireplace warmed the room and there was a bed in a curtained-off alcove. Several wooden seats and a small floor rug completed the home comforts. A washstand was on a small wooden table against the curved wall. Will hadn't spent a lot of time in tower rooms, and he realized now, looking around, that it could be no easy task finding furniture to fit a room where the greater part of the wall was semicircular.

Mistress Barry glanced at the mandola case as he set it down.

"Play the lute, do you?" she asked.

"It's a mandola, actually," he replied. "A lute has ten str—"

"Whatever. I imagine you'll be playing tonight?"

"Why not?" he said expansively. "It's a fine night for music and laughter, after all."

"Precious little laughter you'll find here," she said dourly. "Although I daresay we could use some music."

And on that cheery note, she moved to the door. "If you need anything, ask one of the serving girls. And keep your hands to yourself. I know what jongleurs are like," she added darkly.

You must have a long memory then, Will thought to himself as she left the room. He imagined many years must have passed since a jongleur had chosen to pinch that ample backside. He grimaced at the dog, lying on the floor near the fireplace and watching him intently.

"Friendly place, eh, girl?" he said. She thumped her tail at the sound of his voice.

The evening meal in the dining hall of the castle was a somber affair, presided over by Lord Syron's son, Orman.

He was a man of medium height, perhaps thirty years of age, ill thought—although his receding hairline made it difficult to judge. He was dressed in a dark gray scholar's robe and his mood seemed to match the color of his clothes. He was sallow-faced, and looked as though he spent the greater part of his time indoors. Altogether not the sort of man to inspire confidence in a community living in the shadow of fear, as Macindaw was.

He made no acknowledgment of Will's presence as he took his place at the head table in the dining hall. As was the usual custom, the tables were arranged in the form of a T, with Lord Orman and his companions, including Agramond, at the crosspiece. Will noted that there were several empty places at the head table.

The rest of the diners were seated at the table that made up the stem of the T, in descending order of importance. Will was placed a little more than halfway up the stem. As a Ranger, he would normally be accorded a seat at the head table—he'd had to resist the automatic urge to move toward it. Mistress Barry, supervising the serving of the meal, indicated his place at the table and he found himself seated with several of the lower-ranking Craftmasters and their wives. No one spoke to him. But then, he realized, they didn't speak to one another either, other than muttered requests for condiments and dishes to be passed.

As usual, Will silently cursed the flamboyant jongleur's outfit he wore, with its wide, flowing sleeves. More than once he managed to trail them in the gravy of passing dishes.

The standard of food served matched the overall atmosphere—a plain mutton stew, with a rather chewy venison roast and platters of stringy boiled vegetables that seemed to have come from long storage in the cellars.

The meal, without conversation or diversion of any kind, was soon finished. Then Agramond left his seat and spoke quietly into Orman's ear. The temporary lord of the castle listened, grimaced slightly, then looked down the table until he picked out Will.

"I believe we are privileged to have an entertainer with us," he said.

If he felt privileged, the tone of his voice certainly didn't betray it There was a weary acceptance of the inevitable and an unmistakable air of disinterest in his words. Will, however, chose to ignore the insulting delivery of the introduction. He stood and moved slightly away from the table to deliver an ornate bow, deep and accompanied with much flourish. Then he smiled widely at Orman.

"If it pleases my lord," he said, "I am a humble jongleur with songs of love, laughter and adventure to share with you."

Orman sighed deeply. "I very much doubt that it will please me in any way," he said. His voice was nasal and high-pitched. Altogether, he was a most unimpressive specimen, Will thought, with not one saving grace evident.

"I suppose you have the usual repertoire of country jigs, folk songs and doggerel to put before us?" he continued. Will thought the best answer was to bow once more.

"My lord," he said, grinding his teeth as he kept his eyes down, and wanting to step up to the head table and throttle the sallow-faced man.

"No faint chance that you might know something of the classics? Some of the greater music?" Orman asked, his tone making it obvious that he knew the answer would be in the negative. Will smiled again, wishing that he had the skill to suddenly burst into the first movement of Saprival's
Summer Odes and Interpretations
.

"I regret, my lord, that I am not classically trained," he said, around the fixed smile. Orman waved a dismissive hand.

"As do I," he said heavily. "Well, then, I suppose we must endure the inevitable. Perhaps my people will find some enjoyment in your performance."

Not likely after that introduction, thought Will, as he passed the strap of the mandola over his head. He hesitated, looking around the room, taking in the stolid expressions of all present. I think I am about to learn what it is to die on stage, he thought to himself, as he struck up the opening bars of
Katy Come and Find Me
, a lively reel from Hibernia. It was a safe song for him, one of the first he had ever learned, and the opening instrumental passage was simple but stirring.

And of course, still seething with anger at Orman's attitude, he managed to botch it totally, playing in such a ham-fisted manner that he had to abandon the melody line and strum the chords instead. His ears burned with embarrassment as he plowed doggedly through the song, mistake building on mistake, missed note following missed note. He finished with a thwarted note on the bass string that summed up the ineptitude of the total performance.

Stony silence greeted him for what seemed like minutes. Then, from the back of the hall came the sound of ringing applause.

Will turned to look. A group of five men, dressed in hunting clothes, had entered the hall as he sang. Now they applauded, encouraged by the one who was obviously their leader.

Stocky and muscular, he had a square, open face and a wide grin. He moved down the hall now toward Will, continuing to clap as he moved closer. Then he held out his hand in greeting.

"Well done, jongleur, particularly in view of the frosty reception you've been given!"

Will took the hand that was offered. The handshake was firm, and the hand felt hard and callused. Will knew that feel. It was the hand of a warrior.

"What's your name, jongleur?" the man said. He was taller than Will and looked to be in his thirties. He was clean-shaven, with dark, curly hair and lively brown eyes. His four companions stood slightly behind him. Warriors as well, Will noted.

"Will Barton, my lord." The quality of the man's clothing left him in no doubt that this was the correct address. The title was greeted with laughter, however.

"No need for ceremony here, Will Barton. Keren's the name. Sir Keren perhaps on formal occasions, but Keren's good enough any other time." He turned to the top table, raising his voice as he addressed Orman.

"Apologies for our late arrival, cousin. I trust there are some scraps of food still left for us?"

Keren, thought Will, remembering the name. He was Syron's nephew and, by all reports, he was the one holding the castle together in the Lord's absence. He was said to be a capable warrior and a good leader. And, if first impressions were anything to go by, he was a totally different kettle of fish to his cousin.

Orman was speaking now, the distaste in his voice obvious. "The hall is used to your ill-mannered late arrivals by now, cousin," he said. Keren looked back at Will and gave him a conspiratorial grin, accompanied by a histrionic raising of the eyebrows.

"If you'll take your place, I'll have the servants bring food," Orman continued.

Obviously, the empty places at the head table were intended for Keren and his companions. But Keren waved the suggestion aside.

"Let's have places set here," he said, indicating the table close by Will. "We'll eat while we enjoy some music from Will Barton. It's about time a little fun blew through these dowdy old walls," he added, with a glint in his eye. "Let's hear something lively, Will! Do you know
Old Joe Smoke
by any chance?"

"Indeed I do," Will replied. He was glad he had spent the previous weeks practicing the correct words to the song. He was confident now that he wouldn't make the mistake of mentioning "Graybeard Halt." Halt, after all, was a name famous throughout the kingdom and it would do no good to suggest that he had any connection with the legendary Ranger.

It was amazing what a difference a small group of interested listeners could make. As he began the rippling melody, his fingers were sure and confident. Keren and his friends stamped and clapped along, joining in the chorus—and, gradually, so did the others in the room.

Not Orman, of course. As the applause for
Old Joe Smoke
died away, Will heard the noise of a chair scraping back at the high table. He glanced around to see the castle's lord leaving by a side door, his face set in a scowl.

"Well, that lightened the mood!" Keren said cheerfully. Will wasn't sure if he was referring to the song or his cousin's departure. "Let's have another, what do you all say?"

He looked around the table at his companions. For a moment there was little response from any of them. Keren leaned forward. His smile widened and he spoke a little louder.

"I said, let's have another. What do you all say?"

There was a sudden surge of enthusiasm as they chorused their agreement. Will regarded them with some surprise. Keren seemed to be extremely popular among his followers. Whatever he wanted, they seemed happy to go along with. But Will certainly wasn't complaining. After Orman's dismissive comments, it would make a nice change to have an enthusiastic audience.

He grinned around at them and flexed his fingers experimentally. The night was going to be better than he had expected, he thought. Much better.

The evening continued for another hour and a half. Then people began drifting off to their beds. Will, satisfied with his night's work, packed the mandola away and was ready to follow them when Keren stopped him. The cheerful grin had disappeared and his face was serious as he gripped Will's forearm.

"I'm glad to see you here, Will Barton," he said in a lowered tone. "People here need some diversion from their troubles. And they get precious little from my sour-faced cousin. Let me know if there's anything you need while you're with us."

"Thanks, Sir Keren," Will began, but the hand squeezed his arm a little harder and he amended the statement, "Keren, then. I'll do whatever I can to raise the people's spirits." Keren's ready grin lit up again.

"I'm sure you will. Remember, if you need anything, just ask."

And with that, he led his companions away.

Suddenly tired with the letdown that all performers feel after a successful night, Will trudged slowly up the stairs to his room. The dog greeted him with a questioning look and the usual thumping of her tail.

"Not a bad night," he told her. "Not bad at all. You can work with me tomorrow."

She dropped her nose onto her paws and fixed her gaze on his. Those steady eyes held an unmistakable message for him.

"You don't, do you?" he said hopefully. "Surely you could wait till morning?"

The eyes were unwavering and he sighed softly. He buckled on his saxe knife and pulled the black-and-white cloak around his shoulders.

"All right," he told the dog. "Let's go."

She padded obediently behind him as he made his way down the stairs and into the castle courtyard. It was a cold, clear night, with a definite hint of frost in the air. Above him, the stars blazed down, while a quarter moon hung low in the east.

Revived by the cold air, he breathed deeply as he looked around the courtyard. There was enough light from the stars and moon to throw definite shadows across the yard and it occurred to him that this might be as good a time as any to look around the vicinity.