A Minstrel’s Quest (The Trouble with Magic Book 4) (19 page)

Half an hour later, during the brief lull that frequently follows a round of applause, the latch clattered and, with a shuddering bang, the door was flung back on its hinges. Framed in the doorway and looking straight at him, was the man with the braided hat-band. Corlin’s heart sank. It also seemed that everyone except him had taken one pace backwards.

Denzil leaned across the bar, his bearded chin jutting. “If you be lookin’ for trouble you’ve come to the right place. Now, you can come in an’ close the door quietly an’ behave the same way, or take yourself off an’ close the door behind ‘ee.”

The man doffed his hat, gave an impertinent little bow, took a step forward, turned and quietly closed the door. With all eyes on him he sauntered over to the bar. “My apologies, landlord. I am in pursuit of a fugitive, and I have reason to believe he is in this area.”

His eyes like flints, he looked slowly round the bar until his gaze rested on the table by the window. Corlin followed his gaze, and struggled to stifle a gasp. There was no sign of ‘Oliver’. In his place sat a stoop-shouldered old man wearing a snug-fitting soft leather bonnet and a long thread-bare woollen coat. He sat peering into a small leather purse and sorting through the contents with a skinny gnarled finger. The gimalin’s cover still lay where Corlin had left it, on the tabletop.

The man with the hatband turned, acknowledged the minstrel with a brief nod and took a pace forward. “Master Corlin. We meet again.” He gave a knowing smirk as he lowered his voice. “You’ll be pleased to know that your companion is recovering, albeit rather slowly.”

The minstrel returned the smirk with a grimace of contempt, and without replying, began to play as if the matter was of no consequence. The tension in the room drifted away like fog as hat-band turned on his heel and strode out of the bar without looking back. A few minutes later, the ballad finished, the old man shuffled away from the table and out into the night. Curious about where the old man had come from, and wondering what had happened to Oliver, Corlin leaned the gimalin against the stool and wandered over to the table. Suspecting more magic, he pulled it to one side, crouched down and peered into the dark shadows under the window-seat.

Smiling at his own gullibility he whispered “You can come out now Oliver. He’s gone.”

As the discomfited and dishevelled young prince wriggled out from under the settle, Corlin caught hold of his tunic front and rasped in his royal ear “Go straight up to your room and wait there until I come up. I’ll sort this out.”

Shame-faced and seeming close to tears, the young man scrambled to his feet and with undignified haste dashed across the bar-room and through the door to the upstairs rooms.

When he had gone, Denzil propped an elbow on the bar, his face alive with curiosity, but a frown on his brow. “What was all that about then?”

Corlin grinned and picked up his gimalin. “This is almost like a ballad come true. The best way I can explain is to sing it to you. If you listen, perhaps you’ll understand.” He looked around at the little sea of expectant faces. “Sing along if you know it.”

After the first few bars, a couple of the older men nodded at each other and exchanged knowing glances, as the minstrel entertained the room with an old traditional ballad concerning a young prince who had fallen in love with a lady’s maid in a distant city. Persuading his squire to accompany him, he had run away from his duties and responsibilities in order to be with this fair maid, but the king had sent his man to bring him back by any means. Although the ballad itself had a happy ending, as Corlin strummed the closing bars of the tune, he doubted very much whether the destiny of this real life young prince would be quite so rosy.

To the accompaniment of much laughter and a few ribald comments, a tankard of ale was passed across to him and he gratefully downed half the contents. Determined to get this tangled mess sorted out in the very near future, Corlin announced that the next song would be his last as he had been travelling since dawn and was very tired. He took a moment or two to finish his ale, and had just picked up his gimalin when the latch rattled and the inn door creaked slowly open. Half expecting the unwelcome reappearance of ‘hatband’, in a fit of pique Corlin strummed three dramatic chords in a minor key. The door opened a little further to admit the old man who had been sitting at the table earlier. With the aid of a curiously carved and twisted staff, he made his slow way further into the room.

Giving Corlin a long hard look, his thin lips parted in a gummy grin as he raised a gnarled and weather-browned hand. “Greetings to you all.”

It took a moment or two for Corlin to realise that no-one but himself and the old man were moving. Everywhere he looked his gaze was met by frozen expressions, gestures and actions captured in an unmoving fraction of time.

Giving Corlin no time to question or protest, the old man pointed to the far door. “Go and get Prince Olaf! Drag him downstairs if you must. Go on!”

Spurred into action by the old man’s urgent tone, Corlin thrust the gimalin into his hands, hurried out of the room and clattered unevenly up the stairs. Seconds later, his face thunderous, he dashed from the end room.

Seeing the old man at the foot of the staircase Corlin called down “He’s not here!”

The old man grimaced. “Just what I expected. Right. Get yourself to the stables.”

He turned, poked his head round the bar-room door and raised his hand. “Good night gentlemen.”

After closing the door very gently, he followed Corlin along the dim narrow passage and into the stable-yard, his brass-ferruled staff tapping on the flagstones. Grabbing the minstrel’s arm he pushed the gimalin back into his hands and ushered him towards the end stall which housed Olaf’s black stallion. “I think we’ll have some luck here.”

Corlin had his doubts. They were swiftly dispelled when he entered the stall to find the big horse sound asleep and the young prince cowering under a manger.

Utterly abject, he squinted up at Corlin. “I’m sorry. I was afraid he’d find me again.”

Hearing the soft scrape of a footfall behind him, Corlin looked over his shoulder. The old man was nowhere to be seen, but standing at the entrance to the stall was a slightly built man of middle years. The distinctive blue robe confirming his status of magician, only the carved and twisted staff gripped firmly in his hand betrayed his identity.

He waved it in the general direction of the shivering prince. “Help me get him onto his horse, and then stand out of the way.”

Together, magician and minstrel succeeded in calming the young royal and persuading him into the saddle. A lingering touch on the horse’s forehead had him awake and giving the magician the same long look he had given Corlin earlier. Almost certain what was coming next, the minstrel stepped out into the yard and walked down to Megan. As she whiffled a greeting he looked back along to the end. The stall was completely unoccupied, although Corlin thought he caught a brief glimpse of something sparkling in the air.

Anticipating a flood of awkward questions, Corlin made his way back to the bar. Conversation lulled briefly as he walked in, but the only comment as he picked up his gimalin was “Where did you get to?”

The minstrel thought fast and grinned. “I had to go. I was busting. It took me a few minutes to find the privy.”

As the magician had obviously done something to wipe his arrival from their memories, Corlin didn’t bother to ask any questions or volunteer any information. At their insistence he played a couple more bawdy ballads to round off the evening, before making it quite clear that the entertainment was over by slipping the gimalin into its case and fastening it. Denzil gave him a brief nod as he passed the bar.

Corlin turned aside and approached the affable landlord. “Am I still in your debt for anything?”

Denzil frowned at the question and shook his head. “Not unless you’ll be staying another day.”

The landlord made no mention of Corlin’s ‘unhappy friend’, the extra meal or the stabling. Suspecting that this was another memory that had been magically wiped, Corlin bid him a good night, and made his way from the room. All he wanted now was to sleep, but with the evening’s strange events still very fresh and clear in his mind, he doubted whether sleep would overcome the dozen or so questions tumbling over and over in his brain. He trudged up to his room, placed the gimalin on top of a wooden dressing chest, and with a deep sigh, flopped down fully clothed on the narrow bed.

Annie was waiting at the end of the passage when Corlin crept out about an hour after dawn.

Arms folded across her narrow chest, her grey eyes glinted as she looked up into his face. “Well, master minstrel, what was all that about?”

She didn’t have to explain to what she was referring, and realisation hit Corlin like ice cold water. Annie must have been in the kitchen last night. Unaffected by the magician’s spell, she had heard or seen the whole escape scenario. She took a step backwards as Corlin reached into his inside pocket.

With his hand closed into a fist he gave her what he hoped was a winning smile as he held it towards her. “Dear Annie. Is it possible I can swear you to secrecy? Lives may depend on it, particularly mine.”

Her mouth twitched at one corner, and she bobbed her head towards his closed fist. “If that be coin, ‘tis not needed. Get on your way, minstrel. The gods know I’ll say nothing.”

Corlin breathed a sigh of relief as Annie turned and pulled the door open. As he sidled past her he dropped the silver coin into her apron pocket. She tried to look offended but failed.

Corlin grinned. “You’re worth it.”

When he rode under the arch some fifteen minutes later, and past the end of the side alley, Annie was waiting. She scurried forward and thrust a package wrapped in cabbage leaves and muslin into his hand. “Good luck minstrel.”

Deeply moved, Corlin felt his eyes stinging and a lump forming in his throat. He pushed the package of victuals into his coat pocket. “Thanks Annie.”

As he kneed Megan forward he looked back over his shoulder. “It’s Corlin. Corlin Bentfoot.” When he looked back again the street was empty.

* * *

For want of a better idea, he headed back through the village the way he had come in. Just as he reached the end of the last row of cottages, he caught sight of a workman preparing to mend a partly collapsed wall.

Corlin reined in. “Good morning!”

The man looked up and acknowledged the greeting with a curt nod. Being country born and bred himself, Corlin knew that this wasn’t rudeness.

He touched the brim of his hat. “What’s the best way to the River Lowen?”

The man pointed along the road. “Two ways, about three mile on. Low road be shorter, through the gorge. Upper road be longer, easier. Best stay outa the gorge.”

Having said all he was going to, he bent down and began to sort through a pile of walling stone.

Corlin tipped his hat. “Thanks. Have a good day.”

Letting Megan set her own pace, he spent the next hour turning over the previous night’s events in his mind. The clatter of hooves broke his train of thought and he looked up to see a wagon drawn by a pair of broad-hooved shaggy-maned heavy horses coming towards him. Easing Megan close to the hedge he waited for the waggoner to draw past. As he drew level Corlin gave the burly man a polite nod.

The waggoner returned the nod, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “If you be headin’ south, the upper road be blocked by a rock-fall. They reckon’s it’ll be a week afore it’s clear.”

This was not news that Corlin wanted to hear, but he nodded and thanked the man for the warning. He had intended to take the longer road, but it seemed that the waggoner had come through the lower road with no trouble. Resigning himself to no choice at all, Corlin rode on to the place where the ways parted, and steered Megan through the trees and down towards the gorge.

The emergence of a robed figure from behind a lichen encrusted outcrop a few yards ahead, started Corlin wondering whether he was in some awful dream and hoping that if he was, he would soon wake up. Corlin sighed, finally resigning himself to the fact that there was no escaping the involvement of magic and magicians in any part of his quest.

Stepping into the middle of the trail, the figure leaned on a tall and intricately carved staff and waited. As Corlin reined in, the man took a pace forward and stood close to Megan’s head.

He looked up, his welcoming smile gathering the lines and wrinkles on his beardless face and brightening his blue eyes. “Well met again, Corlin Bentfoot.”

Corlin nodded and returned the smile. “Well met yourself. And you’re a long way from anywhere without a horse.”

The robed man chuckled. “I don’t mind. I love to walk in the mountains. This was a most welcome opportunity to see them again.”

With both gnarled hands clasped round his staff, the man’s smile faded as he leaned forward. “You’ll reach no other habitation before nightfall. Why are you travelling without provisions?”

Corlin gave him a wry smile. “I wasn’t. It’s just that my travelling companion was taken ill and got whisked away along with his horse. The provisions were on the back of that horse.” He patted his pocket. “I do have a little parcel that the landlady made up for me though.”

The robed man gave a nod of approval before his expression darkened. “What do you mean ‘whisked away’?”

Corlin shook his head. “It’s a long story.”

The man stepped back, a determined glint in his eyes. “Then I would be obliged if you would dismount and share my provender while you tell me your story.” He hefted the large leather satchel which hung from his shoulder. “There is more than enough for both of us in here.”

Corlin could see no reason to argue. Not only was he hungry, he was also curious as to who this robed man was, what he was doing here so far up in the mountains without a horse, and what had he done with prince Olaf. He clambered out of the saddle and, leaving Megan to graze on whatever patches of grass she could find, joined the old man in a sheltered spot between two massive rocks. He leaned back on one of the rocks and stretched out his aching legs.

While the man was delving in his satchel and bringing out leaf-wrapped packages of food, Corlin led up to his first question with an observation. “You’re another magician, aren’t you?”

The man smiled, cocking his head to one side to look at Corlin. “I am indeed.” He held out his hand. “I had no chance to introduce myself last night. My name is Bardeen. So, How many magicians have you met on your travels?”

Corlin shook the outstretched hand. “Only a couple that I’m certain of, but they were both in service to dukes. There was Cadomar, Lord Tallard’s Physician-mage. Before him there was Grumas, the distinctly odd magician at Duke Ergwyn’s castle at Tregwald.”

Introductions over, magician and minstrel concentrated for a few minutes on filling their stomachs until, with a prompt from Bardeen, Corlin began to tell the story of his quest. The magician said very little, allowing the minstrel to tell his story in his own way. It was only when Corlin was telling him about Otty’s dreadful experience that Bardeen’s expression changed to one of deep concern.

He placed a hand on Corlin’s arm. “Describe these creatures which attacked your friend.”

To his dismay Corlin found he was unable to remember all the details. The only thing he could clearly recall was how the things looked and felt, and his revulsion as he rid Otty of the clinging parasites.

Bardeen gently gripped Corlin’s arm to reassure him. “Not to worry. You did exactly the right thing I’m sure. Now, who was it that ‘whisked’ your friend away?”

Corlin’s brow furrowed as he shook his head. “I’ve no idea who he is. All I know is that he’s been turning up nearly all the way along, and he always seems to manage to get ahead of us. He even turned up at the inn last night, with some tale about looking for a fugitive. He has a short black beard, and a black horse...oh, and a hatband made of coloured plaited leather. You must have seen him. You were there...weren’t you?”

An undefinable expression flickered across Bardeen’s face, giving Corlin a suspicion that he knew who this occasional guardian might be. The magician gathered the few scraps into his satchel, stood up and brushed crumbs from his robe.

He threw a quick glance up towards the top of the trail where it emerged from the canyon. “Yes, I was there, and thanks to you I was able to keep Prince Olaf out of his clutches. Now, I think it would be advisable to get away from here as quickly as possible.”

Corlin looked around for Megan. Following the best patches of grazing, she was now a couple of hundred yards away. With his fingers between his teeth, Corlin blew a piercing double-noted whistle.

While they waited for the grey mare to amble back, he gave Bardeen a long hard look. “You know who that man is, don’t you?”

The magician stuffed his hands into the pockets of his robe and studied the ground at his feet for a moment before replying. “I have my suspicions, and if it’s who I think it is, then his presence raises more questions than answers.”

Corlin pushed himself to his feet, crossed to where Megan stood patiently waiting, and began to check her hooves.

As he lifted the hoof with the strangely patterned shoe, Bardeen hurried forward and stood leaning on his staff. “I take it that’s the shoe that you said was fitted at the smithy in Carthold.”

Corlin straightened up and nodded. “Yes. Do you know what those marks mean?”

Bardeen gestured. “Lift the hoof again.”

For a few moments the magician studied the unusual shoe then indicated that Corlin should let go of the hoof. “I think it might be a good idea to get that replaced as soon as possible. Someone has gone to great lengths to craft a tracing spell into it. Until the shoe is removed you can be easily followed.”

Corlin scowled. “By the man with the hatband I suppose.”

The magician made a non-committal gesture. “It’s possible. The sooner we get to Vellethen the sooner we shall find out. Now, I’d be obliged if you’d give me a hand up onto the back of your mare, then we can be off.”

The minstrel grinned. “You won’t be very comfortable sitting on my gimalin. I’d better untie it, and then you’ll have to hold it.”

Megan made it clear that she was not happy about having two up, but eventually Corlin calmed her. With Bardeen at his back, the gimalin and his staff cradled in his arms, they left the foothills behind and followed the road through the gorge and down towards the meadows and woods below. With the forest’s tree-line only a hundred yards away, Corlin suddenly found himself reliving his experience at Duke Tregwald’s castle. His teeth chattered, a cold wind rushed past his ears and he was sitting astride Megan on top of a hill over-looking a small village nestled in the valley far below.

Feeling a little nauseous, he swallowed hard and looked over his shoulder at Bardeen. “Some kind of warning wouldn’t have gone amiss. That’s the second time that’s happened, and I didn’t enjoy the first one either. Anyway, where are we?”

Bardeen clambered down and secured the gimalin back behind the saddle. Leaning on his staff, he looked up at Corlin. “That village down there is Hanbrook. By the time you get there it will be near mid-day and you can stop at the inn and refresh yourself. I will see you later.”

Before Corlin could say anything, the magician had vanished, leaving Corlin to make his way alone, down into Hanbrook.