The Curse of the Giant Hogweed (12 page)

“Then mey’d be laughing, too. That’s how you tell.”

“Great be my wisdom, druid. Or bard, or whatever ye be.”

“I think I’d like to go on being a bard for a while. You haven’t heard me recite ‘Casey at the Bat’ yet.”

“Verily, ye be unlike any bard lever ran across.”

“No doubt,” said Peter rather complacently. “Come on, then, let’s go nuzzle up to me trough. I’d suggest, however, that you lay off the boiled eels tonight.”

“But why, forsooth? I like boiled eels. And boiled eels like me.”

“These particular eels may not. Remember what I was just telling you about magic tricks? I have a hunch Medrus and Lord Ysgard may be trying a few, with the object of keeping you from ever getting back to Sfynfford.”

“For what reason, prithee?”

“Because Dwydd wants you dead and Medras may know why. Don’t you see it yet? That business of ruining your sword before you faced the wyvern, and then sending the hogweed to chase you into Gwrach’s clutches were just fancied-up attempts to murder you.”

“Then why did she not just kill me back at ye castle?”

“Probably because King Sfyn might have taken umbrage in a rather large way if she did. How do you get along with your great-uncle, by and large?”

“He thinketh I be ye wyvern’s whiskers. Or did, until Dwydd cooked up yon lie about me poofing old Ffyff.”

“There you are. You see, she’s undermining your position at court so that if she succeeds in getting you killed, she won’t get the punishment she deserves. Except of course that we’re not going to let her succeed, and we’re going to let King Sfyn know what she’s been up to.”

“He will believe you not.”

“He’ll believe me, never you fear. But anyway, that’s why it’s important for you to get not only the bridegrooms but also yourself back there safe and sound. So lay off the boiled eels. Also the drinking horn.”

“Then what be I to eat?”

“Only what I myself give you.”

“And why should I trust you?”

“Good question. You’re already profiting by my little speech, I see. Very well, then, if you’re nervous about relying on me, maybe you’d rather go out and hunt yourself a rabbit or something. Either that or go hungry. That wouldn’t kill you for one meal, surely.”

“It would do me no good,” Torchyld snarled, “gin we be heading for home betimes. A soldier needeth something to march on besides his feet.”

“Then use your head. Don’t take anything that would be easy to put poison into. That’s why I told you to leave the drinking horn alone. The person next to you could slip in a pinch of something deadly, knowing you pride yourself on draining the horn to the tip, so he wouldn’t be likely to kill anybody else. It would also be easy to poison one eel in the trencher—the biggest I’d say, because that’s the one you always grab unless somebody else beats you to it. But it would be hard to poison venison because the minions always bring on a whole haunch and the poisoner would have no way of knowing where you’d take a cut from. Do you see what I’m driving at?”

“I do. Well spoken, bard. Let us forthwith to ye banqueting hall. We must also guard lest ye archdruid or ye assistant archdruid eat poison meant for me. Or ye six young lords. Let my cousins poison them once they be wed, gin they wist. Right now, I need them alive.”

N
O, SHANDY THOUGHT A
little while later, you couldn’t call young Torchyld slow on the uptake. He’d already upset a trencherful of boiled eels all over Degwel’s paunch. Now he was pressing Lord Ysgard to take the first quaff from the newly filled drinking horn that had just been passed to him. Lord Ysgard was refusing.

“Not at ye moment, thank you. I have matters of grave import to discuss with my sons. Drink up, assistant bard of noble birth.”

He turned to his offspring. “Sons, I’m afraid ye must postpone your visit to King Sfyn. I need ye here to guard the castle. I have to tootle off on a secret mission.”

“What secret mission?” demanded his son Yfor.

“If I went around telling everybody, it wouldn’t be much of a secret, would it?”

“Blah,” said Yfor. “I be not going to sit around here cooling my heels, forsooth, for any secret mission. Ye but wist to hightail it over to King Sfyn’s castle before us and select ye fairest and fattest virgin for thyself, ye unpaternal old goat. Ye can stay here and guard thine own castle. I be not having you spoil my chances with Princess Imogene. Or was it Princess Gwendolyn?”

“I want Gwendolyn,” yelled Yorich.

“How do ye know?” said Torchyld. “Ye ha’ not seen her yet.”

“I like ye name. Gwendolyn,” Yorich murmured dreamily, wiping venison grease off his chin with the back of his hand. “It soundeth like ye slow dripping of roasting eel fat into ye coals on a blustery winter night when ye hounds lie content around ye fire and a man dreameth of sharing his sheepskins with a fair and willing damsel. Be she lovely beyond compare, assistant bard?”

“She be willing,” Torchyld answered cautiously, “and she hath abundance of prime quality sheepskins. Ye could be comfortable with Gwendolyn, Yorich.”

“Not more comfortable than I with Princess Imogene,” cried Yfor.

“Nay, not more,” Torchyld assured him. “Imogene be fatter.”

“And she hath also good store of sheepskins?”

“In sooth. They all do. And fine gowns and rich embroideries and gewgaws and folderols. And they can dance right featly and make possets and sweetmeats and—“

“Take baths?” shouted Huw.

“Aye, verily. They take baths all ye time,” said their cousin grandly.

“With soap?”

“Think ye King Sfyn would stint his granddaughters on anything that pertaineth to their rank and dignity?”

“At least now we know what to give them for a wedding present,” Timothy Ames whispered to Peter.

Lord Ysgard’s sons were by now all a-clamor. “Father, how can ye even think of asking us to put off our wooing? E’en now, trains of noble suitors may be wending their way to ye palace of King Sfyn, lured by ye far-flung fame of ye fair-featured females.”

“I’faith, noble apprentice bard,” Medrus insinuated, “gin they be so fair, I marvel these princesses ye tell of be not all wed long ago.”

“They be maids of tender years,” Torchyld roared. “Dost give me ye lie, cave-dweller?”

“Of course he doesn’t,” said Peter. “Sit down, Torchyld.”

Peter wasn’t about to let his assistant get into any kind of brawl, in the course of which somebody could slip a poisoned dagger between his ribs. He suspected Degwel, the smarmy steward, could produce one if asked. He’d further venture to opine that Degwel wouldn’t take much coaxing. It was plain the steward didn’t care much for what was happening around here.

Understandably enough, Peter supposed. With no women around to interfere, Degwel had been running things to suit himself. Now here he was, faced with the prospect of six new mistresses in one lump. It was hardly to be supposed the steward wouldn’t be anxious about how he might keep hold of the reins, and quite possibly he’d decide he’d better do more than sit and worry. The sooner they cleared out of here, the better.

There was to be no wassailing around the banqueting board tonight, that was clear. Lord Ysgard was champing at the bit to get away, and Medrus was egging him on.

“I want no more argy-bargy,” Ysgard was roaring at his sons. “Ye can go and get ye princesses when I have performed my geste.”

“That be no fair,” shouted Yfan. “Ye already had a geste, when ye rode forth and rescued Mama from ye wandering minstrel.”

“Call that a geste? I had to rescue her six more times before I finally said ye hell with it and let her go. Be warned by your father, lads, never rescue a maiden until ye be sure she craveth to be rescued. Not that ye ever pay any attention to anything I say. It be not like ye good old days, when sons had some filial respect for their fathers. Now when I attempt some sage precept, ye just tell me to blow it out my ear and go on your merry way. Ye’ll go hotfooting after those princesses thinking they be going to have ye heralds out on ye drawbridge to welcome ye with fanfare of trumpets. And what will ye get? Like as not, they’ll just tell ye to buzz off because they be all in love with ye stable boy. Pour boiling oil down your necks, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“They will not,” snarled Torchyld. “Ye granddaughters of King Sfyn be models of deportment and good breeding. They say so themselves.”

“There, see,” said Hayward.

“Save it, Hay,” said his eldest brother. “Fare forth fearlessly, Father. We shall man ye battlements as ye command, and make plans for our own expedition whilst watching ye safely away.”

“Good boy,” said Lord Ysgard. “Well, come on, Medrus. We can’t lollygag around here all night. Be ye boat ready?”

“It be provisioned and waiting, Grandiosity. Thanks to ye good offices of thy faithful steward Degwel,” Medrus added diplomatically. Despite his humble beginnings, he appeared to have the makings of a courtier.

“Then we wayfarers will wish you a happy and successful—er—geste,” said Peter Shandy, “and thank you for your hospitality.”

“Ye pleasure will, I hope, have been mostly mine,” Lord Ysgard rejoined with a meaning look at Medrus.

Thus with fair words and much display of courtesy, the parties separated: most of them to the battlements; Medrus and Lord Ysgard, looking sickeningly pleased with themselves, to the jetty. Daniel Stott shook his majestic head as he watched them embark in the little boat that had brought him and his companions to the castle.

“I hope Medrus has inside information as to whether that coracle is indeed a regular ferry between his castle and the vicinage of Gwrach’s cave. To the best of my recollection, such assumptions are not always safe to be taken for granted.”

“All the more reason, then, why we be loath to dally here waiting for them to come back afore we embark on our own geste,” said Yfor.

“But you promised to stay and man ye battlements,” Huw objected.

“I said we’d man ye battlements to watch him safely away. I made no promises about afterward. Once ye boat gets around yon bend, we march. Right, brothers?”

“Right,” they howled. “Strike up a brave marching song, Obard.”

“Not so hasty,” said Peter. “First, how many of us are going on this expedition?”

“I be,” said Torchyld.

Shandy damned well was, and so were Stott and Ames, or he’d know the reason why. None of the six brothers would be left behind. That left Degwel and the men-at-arms, along with the scullions, minions, and whatever other lower orders there might be, to defend the castle. Degwel expressed himself as being perfectly fit for the job. Shandy decided he probably was, since it wouldn’t be for long anyway.

Lord Yfor, as regent in his father’s absence, summoned the castle’s entire complement to a conference in the great hall. Boiled eels were served and flagons of ale passed around; then he delivered his oration.

“Men of Ysgard! As ye know, my father hath embarked on a geste we know not whither with ye clerk Medrus. Little do we wot how long he may be away, or in what state he may return. We wish him good fortune on his parlous journey, but in his absence, we must think of ourselves. This sudden turn of events putteth us even more at risk than our womanless condition hath heretofore left us.

“Bethink yourselves! For lo, these many moons there hath been no patter of little feet within our walls, save when a cook beheadeth a fowl. All solace, all softening female influence, all mending of tunics and combing of nits hath been denied to us. For ye welfare of us all and ye survival of Ysgard, therefore, my brothers and I have sworn a mighty oath. We propose to make ye journey so many of our maidens have already accomplished: namely and to wit, to Sfynfford.”

“Do not leave us,” came the frantic cries.

“Nay, list,” shouted Yfor. “We do not stay. We but woo and win ye six fair granddaughters of King Sfyn and bring them back here along with their chambermaids and serving wenches, all of whom be plump and comely, according to last recorded estimate.”

Torchyld nodded enthusiastically. “And unattached, and eager to meet a bunch of strapping men-at-arms and lusty minions of all types. And they all hath sisters, too, ecod. In sooth, owing to ye recent influx from Ysgard, King Sfyn be somewhat overstocked with nubile maidens at ye moment. At Sfynfford be wives enough for all.”

“Then on to Ysgard,” shouted the corporal of the guard.

The cry was taken up and the situation threatened to get out of hand, until Daniel Stott arose, laid down the eel he’d been eating, and surveyed the company with that air of benign but implacable calm he used on Bashan of Balaclava when the college’s prize bull was feeling rambunctious.

“The union of man and woman in lawful wedlock,” he reminded them when the racket had subsided, “is not a matter to be undertaken in a spirit of ribaldry and untrammeled lust.”

There was one shout of, “Huzzah for untrammeled lust,” but it was quickly suppressed. Stott continued.

“The march to Sfynfford will be carried out in a spirit of due solemnity and knightly courtesy. The participants will be Lord Yfor and his five brothers, Sir Torchyld, Arch-druid Ames, myself, and Bard Shandy. It will be your privilege to remain on guard here under the direction of your officers and your able steward Degwel.”

He exchanged a courteous nod with that other grave and portly dignitary. “Guided by the honorable Degwel, you must proceed forthwith to cleanse the castle and prepare it by every means in your power for the reception of the six princesses and their attendant ladies. It may be here stated that before we leave, the archdruid will entrust to the honorable Degwel his secret formula for making soap.”

Murmurs of awe and reverence spread through the assemblage. Degwel swelled even larger than usual with this new augmentation of his importance. “There will be soap for those who merit ye largesse,” he announced with lofty benignity.

“You will manage everything with wisdom and justice, I’m sure,” said Shandy. “Er—you needn’t worry about the contents of the strong room. The archdruid has put a strong spell on the lock, so that a fearsome fate will overtake any miscreant who gets any funny ideas about Lord Ysgard’s treasure.”