A Minstrel’s Quest (The Trouble with Magic Book 4) (12 page)

The grey-green waters of the river flowed swiftly beneath the wide and sturdy plank-and-iron bridge. The two men could see why this spot had been chosen for the crossing. The ends of the heavy supports across which the thick planks had been laid, had been set deep into massive blocks of granite bedrock, impervious to the fast-flowing water swirling around it. Broad enough to accommodate the widest of any carter’s wagons, the bridge further catered for the security of travellers, whether mounted or on foot, with a shoulder-high network of heavy hawsers strung from one side to the other and tied into the rock with large iron eyes. At the far side of the bridge stood a small single-windowed bothy, roofed with red tiles. A curl of smoke drifted straight up from a squat brick-edged chimney.

Otty nodded towards the tiny building. “Reckon we’ve got enough between us for the toll?”

Corlin’s mouth gave a wry twist. “You hang on to your coin. If the bridge-keeper doesn’t hand me back a few coppers, we’ll be giving those troopers a run to remember.”

The stocky man’s eyebrows flew up. “What troopers?”

The minstrel embellished his reply with a wicked eye-glinting grin. “Lurking in that stand of trees, just back from the road.”

Otty frowned. “I can’t see them, but if you say so.”

The two men turned their horses onto the short approach and began to cross the bridge. They were barely halfway across when the bothy’s rough wooden door opened. The bridge-keeper, a burly fellow with no hair and a wooden leg, stepped out and planted himself in front of them.

He greeted them affably enough as they reined in. “Good day gentlemen. Where be bound? If up country, ain’t no toll. If Tallard, then ‘tis five coppers.”

Their tired and travel-stained clothes and week-old stubble received an ill-disguised scrutiny from small cold eyes, while a filthy fingernail probed yellowed teeth for concealed delicacies. The finger was extracted and wiped on the sleeve of a coarse cotton shirt.

The bridge-keeper’s glance flicked briefly towards the stand of trees. “Reckon you’ll be for up-country, eh?”

The minstrel smirked at Otty who twitched an eyebrow in response. They both knew which way the wind was blowing here.

The bridge-keeper struggled to keep the scowl off his face as Corlin produced the quarter silver and handed it down to him. “Maybe another time. For now, we’re bound for Vellethen.”

Five coppers in change were grudgingly dropped into his outstretched hand. He nodded his thanks, slipped the coins in his pocket and took Megan at a slow walk to the end of the bridge, Otty holding Egg close by her flank. Turning left onto the coast road, Corlin kept an eye on the stand of trees only a few feet from the roadside, a distance which someone with ill intent could easily spring across. To the surprise of the two travellers, it was not the pair of troopers who emerged from beneath the trees. His face still concealed by the shadow of his broad-brimmed hat with its braided leather band, the lone rider tapped a finger to the brim in acknowledgment.

He said one word as he rode past them towards the up-country road. “Mercenaries.”

Corlin’s expression asked the question. Otty put it in words. “How in the name of D’ta did he get ahead of us?”

They weren’t given any more time to think about it. From the midst of the trees, two sorry looking figures staggered out onto the road. Bearing all the marks of having received a good pasting, they gave Corlin and Otty murderous looks as they stumbled towards the bridge.

Otty jerked his head, his grin almost as wicked as Corlin’s. “I think our mystery man has given them a lesson on proper behaviour on the King’s highway.” He looked across to the little bothy. “It doesn’t look as if the bridge-keeper thought it worthwhile to rush to their assistance.”

His companion gave a snort of derision. “What was he going to do; beat him over the head with his wooden leg? Anyway, they aren’t even troopers. I thought they were when I first saw them but there’s no insignia on their uniforms.” He looked around and frowned. “They were in the saddle earlier, so where are their horses?”

Otty chuckled. “Probably run off. Y’never know, we might round ‘em up, a bit further on.”

On a bend in the road at the crest of a long downhill stretch, the two travellers turned and looked back at the bridge. They grinned at each other then urged their mounts into a trot, not waiting to see whether the troopers’ argument with the bridge-keeper would come to blows.

The coast-road to Vellethen was quiet but not entirely deserted. A few friendly carters were even willing to pull in and pass the time of day, and greeted the story of the events at the bridge with uproarious laughter as Corlin told the tale. None of them had seen the two missing horses. The pair had just exchanged a passing greeting with an outlandishly clad chapman, whistling and jingling as he walked, when the rapid drumming of hooves and a shouted “Halloo! Make way!” had them urging their mounts in swift dancing sidesteps to the very edge of the rutted road. Dirt and stones spat into the air, thrown up by the speeding hooves of an impressively caparisoned black charger, its rider’s rich blue cloak flying back over the shoulders of his heavily embroidered and bejewelled doublet.

Otty blew out his cheeks as he watched the rider along the road. “Whew! Who was that?”

The chapman stepped onto the road and followed Otty’s gaze. “That was one of the princes of Tallard. Couldn’t say which one, ‘cos they’re twins. Both hotheads sometimes, but a credit to their father all the same.”

Corlin turned Megan and looked down at the chapman. “Princes? I’d have thought the king of Albita would be in Vellethen.”

The chapman bobbed his head in acknowledgement, setting the trinkets round his hat jingling. “So he is. That’s King Vailin the Second. The one in Tallard is a refugee from some outlandish country on the far northern borders of Teloria. Been here about ten years or so.”

The two men were intrigued. Otty dismounted, led Egg back to the wide grass verge and unhitched the saddlebags. “Perhaps you’d like to share our victuals in exchange for the tale.” He looked up at Corlin, who nodded his agreement and also dismounted, leaving Megan to graze beside Egg. Once the trio had made themselves comfortable on the grass and were suitably armed with savoury pies, bread and fruit, the chapman began his tale.

“Although he might have been a king in his own country, here he’s just a duke.” The chapman’s eyes sparkled. “Can’t have two kings now, can we? Anyway, everybody calls him Duke Alexander ‘cos nobody can pronounce his real name which sounds something like it.”

Otty broke off a chunk of bread and seemed to be studying it. “So, what brought him all the way down here?”

The chapman raised an emphatic finger. “I was just coming to that. The gist of it is that shortly after Alexander was crowned king, he disgraced himself by having an affair with his younger brother’s wife and getting her with child. The woman’s father found out and took the matter to the queen dowager. They gave Alexander an ultimatum. Either he could abdicate and go into exile, or meet his brother in a duel to the death.”

Corlin gave a knowing smile as he nodded. “He did just what I’d have done; chose exile. Too fond of being alive.”

The chapman shook his head. “It wasn’t that simple. Shortly after it all came to light, the queen consort, Alexander’s wife, was taken seriously ill and in a matter of days she was dead.” He leaned closer to the two men and lowered his voice as if afraid of being overheard. “Rumour has it that she was poisoned by someone in the brother’s pay, but Alexander wasn’t going to wait around to find out. Fearing he might be next, he didn’t bother with an official announcement of abdication. He grabbed his two boys and as many of his household as were willing, and scarpered down here.”

Corlin stretched out his legs and brushed bits of old dry grass off his trousers. “So how did he get to be Duke of Tallard?”

The chapman pursed his lips. “No-one really knows. Some say he paid for it, but the favourite theory is that he sits somewhere in the far distance of King Vailin’s bloodline. Alexander and the boys stayed at the palace in Vellethen for a while, then the old Duke of Tallard died, leaving no heirs, so his title was ceded to Alexander. There was a bit of a stink to begin with but that soon died down, and nobody bothers any more. He’s just Duke Alexander, with no arguments.”

Otty looked puzzled. “How come you know all this? I wouldn’t think a chapman’s wares would be the sort of thing you’d see in palaces.”

The man gave a knowing smile. “A good friend of mine is in service at Tallard castle; has been ever since the duke took up residence. He brings me up to date whenever I’m down this way.” He stood up, brushed crumbs from the front of his jacket and reached down to pick up his bags of wares. “Well, I must be off.” He cocked his head to one side. “Can I interest you gentlemen in anything before I get back on the road?”

Corlin chuckled. “Not unless you’ve got a half decent hat tucked away in there somewhere.”

The chapman thought for a moment before crouching down and unbuckling the flap of the larger of his bags. Delving in the central one of its three capacious pockets, he drew out what appeared to be a flat piece of leather. With remarkable alacrity he had shaken it, flipped it and with deft fingers opened it out into a wide-brimmed herder’s hat with a straight-sided flat topped crown.

He handed it to Corlin. “Try that for fit.”

The minstrel examined the hat, turning it over in his hands. It had some signs of wear but nothing serious, and still had its rawhide cord to secure it under his chin in bad weather. He grinned as he settled it on his head. “How does that look?”

Otty returned the grin. “It’s a lot like the one you lost only not so tatty. How does it fit?”

Corlin left the hat on his head. “It fits very well. I like it.” He looked up at the chapman. “Now tell me the price.”

The man flapped a dismissive hand. “The full price is not for you. As you’ve been kind enough to feed me and give me an excuse to rest my limbs and converse, the price to you is just one copper.”

The minstrel was well pleased. He pushed himself to his feet and pressed the coin into the chapman’s hand. “Thank you. It’s an excellent hat.”

The chapman nodded, slung the straps of his bags over his shoulders and after hand-shakes all round, set off once more. As he passed the grazing horses, he glanced at them, turned and called back “If you’re a half decent minstrel, then you could do worse than call in at the castle on your way. The duke loves a good tune.”

With that he gave the two men a final cheery wave and let his long-legged stride take him along the up-country road.

As they mounted and prepared to set off on their own journey to Tallard, Otty turned to Corlin. “What d’you reckon to the castle? Worth a try?”

The minstrel shrugged. “We’ll see how I feel when we get a bit nearer.”

Half an hour later the decision was taken out of their hands.

They almost missed it. On a part of the road that dipped and followed a long curve to the right, they were forced to move onto the grass verge. A large wagon pulled by a team of four heavy horses was coming towards them, taking up the full width of the rutted road. They watched it pass, its iron shod wooden wheels crunching and spitting on the ridges of dirt and stone. Otty raised his hand to his eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun and pointed across the road to a spot about a quarter mile distant, where the open grassland dipped and rolled between two small stands of wind-stunted trees.

He reached across and gave Corlin’s arm a prod. “What’s that over there?”

The minstrel’s gaze followed his friend’s pointing finger. “Well, whatever it is, it’s not moving.”

Unable to curb his natural curiosity, Otty kneed Egg across the road and moved at a slow walk towards the trees. Suddenly he pushed his sturdy cob into a gallop, waving his arm over his head in an urgent gesture for Corlin to follow. Knowing that the man wasn’t given to undue excitement, Corlin flipped the reins and gave Megan her head. In two strides she was over the ruts in the road and pounding across the grass in pursuit of Otty and Egg. By the time they caught up, Otty was out of the saddle and on his knees. What Corlin saw had him close to throwing himself off Megan’s back, his bent foot almost bringing him to grief as he dropped down beside Otty. Together, the two men carefully rolled the unconscious prince of Tallard onto his back.

Corlin placed his fingers at the side of the young man’s neck and nodded. “He’s still alive.”

In seconds Otty was on his feet and climbing into the saddle. He called down as he turned Egg towards the road. “Stay with him. I’m going for help.”

With that he was off, heading back towards the road, his horse’s hooves throwing clods of earth and grass into the air behind him. Not expecting Otty to be back any time soon, Corlin removed his woollen coat and draped it over the young prince’s upper body, tucking it snugly round his narrow shoulders. Carefully he lifted the tousled blond-haired head onto his thigh, relieved to see that there was no blood or any sign of injury.

As he rubbed the long slender hands in an effort to restore some warmth, the minstrel began to talk to him. “So, my fine young fellow. What’s happened to you? There we are, just riding along and what do we find? Nothing less than an unhorsed prince, seemingly dead to the world, and no sign of his horse. Now there’s a pretty pickle and no mistake. A good thing we came along, don’t you think?”

The young man moaned but showed no other sign of returning to consciousness. A shout went up from the direction of the road and Corlin looked up to see Otty waving at him. Seconds later the rear of the wagon which had passed them only minutes earlier, came into view, the waggoner standing on the seat as he reversed vehicle and team until he was able to turn their heads and steer them onto the grass. With Otty trotting ahead he drove them down to the nearest piece of level ground before turning the wagon so that the tail-gate was as close to Corlin as he could manage. Following a few helpful suggestions from the affable but no less concerned waggoner, a bundle of empty grain sacks became a makeshift mattress, and the three men linked hands beneath the young prince, carefully lifting him onto the bed of the cart. Once the prince was secure and in no danger of rolling about, Otty jumped down and climbed back into Egg’s saddle.

He called across to Corlin. “You ride in the cart with him in case he wakes up. I’m going to look for his horse, then I’ll follow on.”

Corlin raised a thumb in agreement, and with Megan tethered to the tail-board, the wagon with its royal casualty set off for Tallard.

Corlin checked on his charge once more before scrambling up beside the waggoner. “How far is it to Tallard?”

The man nodded towards a faint dark grey haze far over to their right. “ ’Tis a fair way to Tallard proper, but the castle be a few miles this side on’t. I reckons we’ll be inside the walls before nightfall.” He jerked his head to their rear. “If your friend don’t catch up soon he’ll lose us. We turns off the road a bit way ahead.”

Corlin felt a brief rush of panic. “I’ll get back in the wagon and watch out for him. If the prince wakes, then I can ride back for Otty. Otherwise we’ll have to take the chance.” Halfway back in, he turned to the waggoner. “We didn’t have chance to say thank you for going out of your way to help. It must have cost you.”

The man chuckled and winked at the minstrel. “Mark me, there’ll be a reward. Split three ways, I reckons it’ll still pay for the day.”

Twenty minutes later the waggoner brought the team to a halt. “Any sign of your friend?”

Corlin shook his head, and looked down at the prince lying on the bed of the wagon. To his surprise the young man was awake and seemed to be studying him quite intently.

The minstrel dropped to his knees beside him and looked into his face. “How are you feeling sire?”

The prince pushed himself onto his elbows, winced, frowned and looked around at as much as he could see. “There have been times when I’ve felt worse.” His voice was clear with only a slight trace of accent. He fingered Corlin’s woollen coat. “Is this yours?”

Corlin nodded. “Yes. My friend and I found you face down in a field a way back from here. I put that over you so you wouldn’t catch chill.”

The young prince groaned. “What about my horse. Father will be very unhappy if Nightstar is lost.”

Corlin gave a snort. “Huh. He’d have been even more unhappy if you’d broken your silly neck.”

He felt his colour rise as he suddenly remembered who he was talking to. Instead of going into the expected rage of indignation, the young prince managed to look rather shame-faced and gave Corlin an apologetic smile. “Of course, you are right.”

Corlin shrugged. “Anyway, Otty is out looking for your horse, and if he doesn’t find it soon, it looks like we’re going to lose him as well.”

The prince rolled onto his knees, pulling Corlin’s coat round him as he peered over the side of the wagon. “Who is Otty? The driver of this cart?”

The minstrel grinned and shook his head “ No. Otty is my friend. We’re travelling together. I’m Corlin, by the way.” Without thinking, he stuck out a hand.

With no apparent concern for status or etiquette, the prince took it and squeezed it in gratitude. “I am Harald.” He turned, an impish glint in his blue eyes, and looked up at the waggoner who was sitting quietly, facing front. “And who is our coachman?”

Corlin’s eyebrows lifted. “D’you know, I never thought to ask.” He reached forward and gave the waggoner a prod on the shoulder. “Prince Harald wants to know who you are.”

The man twisted round on his seat and made the best semblance of a bow he could manage from such an awkward position. “I be named Rywald, your highness, from up Habberly way.” He tapped the top of his forehead. “Pleased to be of service sire.” He glanced up at the sky. “Now I thinks we should be movin’ on if we means to get to the castle before dark.” He frowned at Corlin. “Any sign of your pal Otty, yet?”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a piercing whistle that could have cut grass dared them not to hear it. Waggoner, minstrel and prince looked around for the source. It was the waggoner looking behind who first caught sight of Otty, keeping Egg at a slow walk, riding down towards them along the broad central ridge of the coast road. Close behind on a leading rein was the prince’s black charger. Harald scrambled forward then screwed up his face and leaned on the side of the wagon.

Corlin noticed. “You’d best stay on the wagon, your highness. It looks as if you might have twisted something.”

The prince shuffled back to the pile of sacks. Lowering himself onto it, he wrapped both hands round his knee. “I was hoping to ride Nightstar back to the castle.”

Otty drew up beside the wagon. “You’ll not be riding him for a while, your highness. He’s lame.” The stocky man cocked his head to one side. “Was you still galloping when you and he parted company?”

The prince gave Otty an appraising glance before replying. “I do believe we were. He loves to run.”

Otty gave a disapproving grunt. “Not a good idea on a rutted cart-road with stones kicking loose...sire. He’s got a flint in his hoof.”

The young prince looked as if a friend had died. Rywald ended the conversation by releasing the wagon’s wooden brake and getting his team moving onto the bridle road. Not comfortable on the bed of the wagon, Corlin scrambled down, unhitched Megan and climbed into the saddle, well aware that the prince was watching his movements with some interest. Otty rode back to join him, and the two friends stayed to the rear of the wagon, its trundling speed ideal for the comparative comfort of the prince’s lame charger.

Conversation was minimal, each man letting the steady rumble of wheels and the jingle of harness accompany his thoughts. An hour later the square turrets of Castle Tallard came into view above the horizon. By the time they arrived at the castle’s broad open gates the sun had almost set, and torches were burning in their sconces, casting planes of light and shadow across the entrance.

Seeing their prince in the back of a wagon and seemingly escorted by a pair of ruffians, with their master’s favourite horse in tow, a quartet of armed guards rushed forward, pikes aslant as Rywald guided the team into the castle’s broad bailey.

The prince raised his arm and waved the guards back. “Stand easy. I owe these men my life.”

The guards stood back, alert and watchful as Otty and Corlin dismounted, tethered Egg and Megan to the wagon, and stationed themselves one on each side of the prince. A groom appeared as if by magic from some secret place concealed in the masonry and took charge of the prince’s horse.

Otty called across to him. “He’s lame...a bit like his rider.”

With the prince hopping on one leg and supported on their shoulders, they passed under the high arch which led from the bailey into the castle keep. Harald called back. “Come on Rywald. Father will want to hear your story too.”

The waggoner’s mouth dropped open and he looked across at the guards. One of them nodded, a broad smile on his weathered face, and gestured towards the archway. Rywald shrugged, climbed down off the wagon and followed the trio into the castle keep.