A Minstrel’s Quest (The Trouble with Magic Book 4) (35 page)

Before Jacob could comment, there was a heavy and frantic pounding on the barn door. “Jacob! Corlin! Have you two killed each other?”

The farmer strode across the barn, pushed the door open a foot or two and peered out at the irate landlord. “We came close to it a time or two, but for now we have a truce.” He looked back over his shoulder and gave Corlin a broad wink.

The minstrel pushed himself to his feet and made his way to the door, a sullen look on his face. He glared at Jacob as he eased past him into the yard. “I think we’d best be off now, unless there’s anything else you want to say.”

Jacob’s full lips made a tight straight line as he shook his head and started to make his way across the yard to the house, his two dogs trotting along behind him. Corlin turned towards the fence where Megan was tethered.

As he prepared to mount he called across to Ned who was opening the gate. “Megan will take two if you’re in a hurry to get back. She won’t like it, but it’ll be better than walking.”

He guided the mare through the open gate and as Ned turned to close it, Corlin looked back at the house. Jacob was standing by the door, a wide grin on his face. With Ned perched uncomfortably behind the cantle, Corlin urged Megan up the hill and onto the road to Redmire. He allowed himself a little smile, knowing he would be seeing Jacob Stockman again before too long.

Ned was not happy. With no fish, no wondrous news and little to tell Molly, except a short account of a heated confrontation between Corlin and Otty’s father, the landlord of ‘The Red Dog’ found himself wrapped in a glaringly obvious cloak of spousal silence. He had not brought Molly the juicy eye-widening details she wanted to hear, and that was bordering on the unforgivable. Corlin fared little better, knowing that Ned thought him partly to blame, although he was graced with a thin, almost apologetic smile whenever Molly managed to catch his eye. He had seen it all before, not too often, but enough to know that it would hopefully last only a few hours, and at the worst a day or two. He knew what he had to do, and attempting to repair fractures in the domestic bliss of others was definitely not part of it.

Dinner had been an awkward interlude, sprinkled with the minimum of sharp but necessary verbal communication. Afterwards, Corlin excused himself, made his way up to his room and tuned his gimalin. He was looking forward to playing again, especially the new songs he had learned while he and his brother Clies had spent a precious week together at Tregwald before Corlin had to return to Redmire.

Ned was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, the lines on his long face drawn into a map of deep concern.

His bony hand reached out and grasped Corlin’s arm. “Word has it that your playing won’t be welcome by some in the bar this night.”

The minstrel gave the man a long cold look. “I wonder why that would be, Ned. Have you been letting ill-founded rumours and half-fledged stories take flight before their time?” He jerked his head towards the stable-yard. “Or perhaps I have the blabber-mouth Dickon to thank for that.”

Ned seemed to shrink under Corlin’s gaze. “Molly and me said nothing, because we knew nothing. With some folks, what they don’t know they makes up, but that ain’t our way. I can’t speak for Dickon.”

Corlin thought for a moment, then tilted his head to one side. “You said ‘by some’. How many customers will you lose if I play?”

The landlord glanced towards the bar-room’s closed door. “I reckons only a couple of them what’s in there now.”

Corlin rolled his eyes. “And how many would that be Ned? I can’t see through wood.”

Ned looked crushed. “Oh! Sorry. Well, there was a good crowd when Molly went in, and I don’t think any of ‘em ‘ave left yet.”

The minstrel eased his weight onto his good leg and thought for a moment, his teeth worrying his lower lip. Eventually he nodded as if he had come to a decision.

He placed a hand on Ned’s thin shoulder. “What do you say we give it a try? It may turn out to be not as bad as you thought...” He gave the man a mischievous grin. “...and if it looks like getting awkward I shall have to tell the whole story, won’t I?”

Leaving the landlord standing open-mouthed and stuck for an answer, Corlin flicked the latch, pushed open the door and stepped into the beer-scented smoky warmth of the bar-room.

All conversation immediately ceased, an itchy blanket of silence falling over the room. Corlin looked around for a vacant stool, his preferred kind of seat when he was playing. A heavily built man, a market trader judging by his clothes, left his place near the fire.

As if despairing of the foibles of his fellow man he gestured toward the stool he had been sitting on. “Sit yourself there minstrel. I’ll be content with that settle.”

All eyes on his progress, he crossed the room and made himself comfortable on the high-backed wooden settle where Corlin had first seen Otty, slumped in a drunken stupor with his battered old gimalin in his lap. Corlin slipped the strap of his own gimalin over his shoulder, and the trader was forgotten as the minstrel fingered the opening bars of a popular song. He quietly breathed a sigh of relief, as, contrary to Ned’s prediction, nobody walked out although two men seated at the bar had quite deliberately turned their backs on him. It was only when he began to sing that it became clear what form his ostracism was going to take.

Conversation resumed, suddenly and very loudly. Jokes were shouted across the room to be greeted with raucous laughter and ribald comments, making it impossible for anyone more than a pace away to hear what Corlin was singing, or if he was singing at all. Undeterred, he finished the song and smiled and mouthed his thanks as Ned slipped from behind the bar and pushed through the crowd with a tankard of ale. He took only a couple of mouthfuls before putting the ale to one side and starting to play one of the lively High-country folk songs that Jouan and a couple of his bowmen had taught him.

This time the noise in the bar-room was more subdued, as the jokers and chatterers became aware that the minstrel was playing what was for them a new song, one that few, if any of them, had heard before. Corlin strummed the closing bars of the tune, and as the last note faded amongst a few murmurs of approval and a brief ripple of applause, one of the men sitting at the bar turned round. His grey-eyed gaze was cold and hard, a deep scar running from his left cheek-bone to his chin serving to turn the derisive twist of his mouth to a contemptuous snarl.

At variance with his appearance, his voice was deep, mellow and cultured. “Perhaps now, Master Bentfoot, you would slake the thirst of curiosity of all here gathered, and entertain us with a true tale, possibly of a perilous quest and its astounding consequences?”

From the other side of the room another voice, equally cultured, had all heads turning in the direction of the street door. “I too, would appreciate hearing such a tale.”

The owner of the voice took a step forward into the room. “In my own small way, I could, perhaps, add something to the telling of it.”

Everyone stared at the slightly built, middle-aged man in pale blue robes who had apparently slipped into the room without making a sound. Corlin simply smiled and nodded as Bardeen, the brass tip of his staff tapping the flag-stoned floor, eased his way through to stand beside him.

His blue eyes twinkling, the magician tilted his head to one side. “I assume you have applied yourself to composing some verses since you left Tregwald.”

Corlin gave a wry smile, mimicking an obsequious servant as he tipped his forefinger to an imaginary hat. “Just a few sir; just a few.”

He wished he could have done more, but he had enough to perform a part-sung, part narrated ballad, something which he was rather fond of doing. Such a style also tended to keep the audience interested, especially if, like Corlin, the narrator had a strong, well modulated voice. Bardeen waggled an appreciative eyebrow before turning aside and weaving his way over to the scar-faced man.

The two clasped fore-arms and Bardeen chuckled. “Good to see you Alrick but...what are you doing here?”

The scar twitched, synchronising with a derisive grunt. “Baby-sitting your minstrel. Earl Jouan thought there might be trouble when he got back here, so he sent me to keep an eye on him. Judging by the general mood it seemed like a good idea to get him to tell the full story; clear the air, that sort of thing.” One bristling black eyebrow rose in query. “Of course, you’re here for the game tomorrow, right?”

Bardeen’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world!” He held up a finger. “Now, be still and listen.”

He turned round, edged forward a little to get a clearer view of Corlin, and leaned on his staff. The minstrel had begun his ballad with a short narrative and softly played musical accompaniment, and his clear voice soon had everyone’s attention. Word had obviously spread, as over the next hour the bar-room gradually filled until it was standing room only. Everyone who came into the inn did so quietly, ordered their drink and found themselves a seat or a space in which to listen to Corlin’s ballad. Even Dickon managed to squash himself up against the jamb of the kitchen door.

Only one person came in through the back door from the stable-yard. A low whisper rippled round the room, like leaves in a breeze as space was made at the bar for Otty’s father. Nothing was said by either man as Ned placed a large tot of spirits in front of Jacob, who turned and raised it in salute to Corlin. The minstrel acknowledged with a slight smile and a nod as he continued with what he realised could be the performance of his life.

Of necessity he skipped some of the less interesting parts of the story, while the action scenes were portrayed in dramatic verses sung to strong heroic chords. Bardeen concentrated, following the story closely, and at a nod from Corlin, added narrative of his own at the appropriate intervals. The minstrel wondered briefly whether the magician might decide to embellish his narrative with conjured scenes, but Bardeen relied on the impressive timbre of his voice to create stirring and lasting images in the minds of those around him.

With short breaks for drinks to lubricate his dry throat, and a quick dash to the privy to ease his bladder, by closing time, in song and narrative Corlin had told his story.

There had been various reactions during his performance, ranging from murmurs of indignation and gasps of surprise, to groans of horror and disgust. Apart from a heartfelt cheer when Corlin sang a colourful verse about Otty pitching Lord Treevers into the moat, there was very little laughter, except from one or two whose sense of humour could be considered a little suspect. At the end of his performance the applause consisted solely of a loud and prolonged clapping of hands. Not a single call or whistle was heard to denigrate the import of the occasion.

Both Corlin and Bardeen modestly acknowledged the applause before Corlin slipped the gimalin’s strap off his shoulder and placed the instrument on a nearby table.

He stood up to stretch muscles which were threatening to cramp from being in one position for so long, and one by one the listeners in the packed bar-room pushed forward to give his shoulder a soft punch of appreciation or to shake his hand. Only Otty’s father declined. Instead, as if a job had been well done, he raised his hand, cocked a thumb and slipped quietly out the way he had come in. In twos and threes the inn’s customers drifted out into the night until the only persons left in the room were Corlin, Bardeen and Alrick. Behind the bar, Ned and Molly stood grinning like fools with their arms round each other’s waist. It was clear to Corlin that trade had been good, the couple’s thirst for details had been quenched, and they had enough material to keep any newcomers, and whoever else would listen, enthralled for weeks.

Bardeen ambled across the room and gave Corlin’s sleeve a gentle tug. “Come and meet Alrick. He’s one of Earl Jouan’s bodyguards.”

Alrick slid off his barstool and the two men met in the middle of the room. Corlin winced as the big man gripped his hand before reaching inside his surcoat and producing a folded and sealed sheet of vellum.

The scar gave his grin an evil cast, but his eyes were warm as he handed the letter to Corlin. “You did well Bentfoot. A lot of questions answered and minds at rest, although no doubt the story will improve with the telling.” He tapped a finger on the letter in Corlin’s hand. “I was asked to give you that by your brother when he found I was ordered here.” He looked round, but Ned and Molly were busy carrying trays of tankards into the kitchen to be washed. “You are also requested by Earl Jouan to return with me to Tregwald.”

Corlin jiggled Clies’ letter in front of the bodyguard. “Would this have anything to say about that?”

Alrick shrugged, an action reminiscent of Otty’s characteristic mannerisms. Corlin felt his eyes stinging and he turned away, disguising his emotion by breaking the wax which sealed the vellum. The note, written in a large upright script, opened with a brief greeting followed by a rather cryptic message which had Corlin baffled.

It read “Do not wurry about me I am well setled. Do what you have to do and I am sur we will meet agen befor to long.”

He passed the note over to Bardeen. “Ignoring the bad spelling, what do you make of that? What is it that I ‘have to do’?”

His expression thoughtful, the magician re-folded the note and handed it back to Corlin. “What you have to do is make a decision. Clies has decided to train as a soldier...”

Alrick butted in “...and it looks like he’ll make a darned good one too.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed Bardeen’s face before he continued “...but what are you going to do with the rest of your life?”

Corlin tucked Clies’ note into his pocket, picked up his gimalin and looked at Alrick and Bardeen in turn. “Well, for the next few hours of it I’m going to sleep. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.” He jerked his head towards the door leading to the stairs. “I presume you’re staying here.”

Alrick nodded, but Bardeen stepped aside and leaned on his staff. “I have a matter to deal with elsewhere, so I will see you both on the morrow.”

The air around the magician shimmered, and he vanished in a swirl of blue and silver.

Looking decidedly unimpressed, Alrick gazed at the spot. “That was slow. I’ve seen him disappear a lot faster than that.”

Corlin was surprised. “You know him well then?”

The big man gave a brief nod. “Well enough. He’s taken the post of Earl Jouan’s magician. The Grollart Ragar is going to instruct him on how to work with the Fade-lizards. There’s still a lot of work to be done at Tregwald, and those big queens that inhabit Throngholme take some handling.”

The minstrel stretched and yawned. “I can imagine so, if it was them I saw coming out of the moat. So, what’s happened to Grumas?”