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

Ned gave Molly a nudge, and they lay very still, listening to Corlin’s uneven footsteps feeling their way downstairs in the dark. The latch of the door into the bar clicked quietly, followed by the soft squeak of the kitchen door as it was opened and closed again. Ned’s mind conjured a picture of Corlin stepping carefully across to the door which opened onto the yard and the stables.

The innkeeper murmured as he patted Molly’s shoulder. “You stay there for a bit longer. I’ll go down and see if he needs anything.”

Knowing that the minstrel had things to do before he could be away, Ned took the time to get fully dressed. He then pulled on a warm woollen jacket and made his way quickly and quietly downstairs. He found Corlin in the stable, a lantern hung on a beam and his head pushed hard against Megan’s side as he tightened the girth. The gimalin, wrapped in its blue cloth, was secured behind the saddle’s cantle.

Corlin looked up and gave a little grimace. “Sorry Ned. I tried not to disturb you.”

The innkeeper flipped a dismissive hand. “Don’t bother your head. I’m glad I was able to see you before you left.” He unhooked the lantern from the beam as Corlin began to lead Megan out of her stall. “So, are you travelling alone? We got interrupted last night.”

Corlin eased the mare to a stop and looked across at the innkeeper, his face a mask of dark shadowed planes in the lantern’s steady light. “It would seem I have little choice. No-one was willing to ride with me when I started out, so alone it is.”

Ned stood the lantern on the flat top of a buttress and slid back bolts. His voice was sombre, his manner uneasy as he pushed back one half of the wide double doors. “Then you be careful, even though the road to Tregwald is an easy one, and I’ve ‘eard say that the Duke Ergwyn is an affable sort of fellow. As for his gimalin, well, I ain’t ever ‘eard of anyone who’s made the attempt, if it exists in the first place.”

He moved closer to Corlin and lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “But if you finds yourself needing to travel further to the north, then you’d best be on your guard. You’ll come to the City of Tregwald easy enough, but beyond that I’ve ‘eard there’s a forest, miles wide, that lies across the way. They call it ‘The Whispering Forest’ and I’ve ‘eard that those who ventured in never came out again. Travellers nowadays go round it, even though it adds over fifty miles to the journey.” He retrieved the lantern and held it high. “You just remember what I’ve said, young feller.”

A flicker of apprehension crossed Corlin’s face. He held out his hand and Ned shook it. “Thanks for that, Ned. In fact, thanks for everything.”

He stepped round to Megan’s right side, led her out into the street and clambered into the saddle. Gathering up the reins he looked down at the innkeeper. “I wonder whether you’d do me one more favour.”

Ned frowned and rubbed his chin. “Depends what it is.”

The minstrel grinned. “Would you take care of Hobb for me? It’s too cold for him to be travelling far. I’ve left a silver on the bar so you can buy a cage for him.”

Ned’s face was all angles in the combined light of the lantern and the first grey light of a late winter dawn. “I suppose so. Where is he?”

Corlin jerked his head towards the stables. “Roosting in the tack-room. Plenty of creepy-crawlies for him to feast on, but he likes some chopped apple now and then; oh, and a hard dry biscuit for his beak.”

The innkeeper nodded, and the two men shook hands again. Pulling a wide-brimmed felt hat onto his head, Corlin turned Megan’s head towards the end of the street and trotted away. As they rounded the corner he looked over his shoulder. A grey shape in a pool of yellow light, Ned stood watching him leave. Corlin raised a hand in farewell, then urged Megan towards Fore Street, where only yesterday he had stood with Ned and enjoyed, if not fully understood, the hectic and noisy game of barrel-ball.

* * *

With the stable doors once again barred and bolted, Ned made his way back to the kitchen. Molly was up and dressed and already had kindling alight under the oven.

She looked up as Ned came in. “Has he gone?”

The innkeeper looked worried. “He has, but I’ve got a feeling we might see him back here in a few days’ time.”

Molly dropped sticks on top of the blazing kindling. “Why’s that then?”

Ned rubbed his hands over his face and sat heavily on a kitchen stool. “He’s going to Tregwald. It seems that Otty has told him the tale of the duke’s gimalin.”

Molly chuckled. “Well, if the tale’s true, I reckon our Corlin Bentfoot’ll be the one to play it.”

Her worried husband reluctantly agreed. “Yes; if it’s true. But what
is
true is ‘The Whispering Forest’. Travellers have been in here that got too close, and they reckon they’d heard it. If Corlin is successful and gets held up at the castle, he might try and make up some time by cutting through instead of going round.”

While Ned, lost in thought, picked at some rough skin on his finger, Molly cut chunks of bread, cheese and sausage onto a plate and put it in front of him. “Give him credit for a bit of sense. He’s got too much at stake. I don’t think he’ll take the risk.

Nobody took much notice of him in the two small villages he passed through. Both had a full water trough, but only the second one had a small, ramshackle sort of a tavern where he was able to quench his own thirst. He didn’t hang about long, a decision prompted by his being over-charged for a chunk of coarse brown bread and a thick slice of spiced sausage. He was glad he had given Megan some oats before they left.

In complete contrast to the previous day, the sky was a dull and overcast leaden grey, and the north-easterly wind had a cruel edge. He breathed a sigh of relief when, some two miles past the last village, he rounded a bend in the rutted, stone-packed road and saw, straight ahead of him, dark against a darkening sky, the silhouette of Tregwald castle. He kneed Megan into a fast trot until half a mile further on, in the middle of the road, two mounted soldiers in half armour raised their hands to bring him to a halt.

Corlin smiled and nodded as he recognised one of the soldiers. “Well met Jouan!”

Jouan returned the nod, but not the smile. “Well met, minstrel. The Duke of Tregwald is expecting you. We’ve been sent to escort you to the castle.”

Corlin’s mouth gave a wry twist. “Would I be right in thinking that Duke Tregwald’s amazing foreknowledge night have something to do with you Jouan?”

The soldiers turned their horses and drew alongside him. Jouan shrugged. “It is possible that something slipped out in conversation.”

Corlin gave a short derisory laugh. “And is the lord Duke in the habit of engaging in conversation with common soldiers? I think rather that you couldn’t wait to get back here and blab to your liege; a boon in the offing was there?”

Jouan scowled but offered no reply. Corlin decided not to mention the note with the name that had worried Ned so much. It seemed possible that Jouan hadn’t sent it after all. Another mile at a steady jog brought them to the gates of the castle, cold and forbidding in the moonlight which struggled through thinning cloud. Corlin was not impressed. The heavy iron-studded wooden gates hung drunkenly on hinges intent on leaving the masonry, and the deep moat was empty. He guessed it was probably full of weeds. Even in the poor light he could see the bare tops of a couple of small trees thrashing in the brisk wind which howled down its length.

They clattered into the bailey, one wind-tossed torch on each wall struggling to dispel the darkness, and dismounted. Clumps of weeds and mats of moss and grass made shadowy shapes across the entire width of the large flag-stoned courtyard. The whole place seemed as if it had lost the will to carry on.

Jouan jerked a thumb towards Corlin’s saddle. “Judging by the shape, it looks like you got your gimalin back.”

The minstrel placed a protective hand against it. “No. This was a gift.” He started to un-strap it from the cantle. The other soldier peered at him over Megan’s back. “You can leave it there. It’ll be quite safe. My lord Duke takes a very dim view of theft. Anyway, there’ll be a guard on the stables.”

Corlin’s face was dark against the flaring torch-light and his eyes glinted. “And can the guard be trusted?”

The soldier’s mouth stiffened as his chin came up. “The guard will be myself.”

Corlin shrugged a vague apology and patted Megan’s rump. As the soldier led her away across the bailey towards the keep and the stables, Jouan ushered the minstrel through a tired and dilapidated wooden door into the interior of the castle. A narrow spiral stone staircase led up to a short dark corridor, its stone walls hung with musty and threadbare tapestries.

As they approached the door to the duke’s rooms, Jouan lightly touched Corlin’s sleeve. “Don’t let Grumas get under your skin.”

The minstrel frowned. “Grumas?”

Jouan sniffed with contempt. “He’s the duke’s resident magician. If you succeed in playing the gimalin, Master Grumas will be
very
unhappy.”

Corlin quickly suppressed an evil grin as Jouan knocked on the splendidly decorated and gilded door. The duke didn’t get to his feet as Corlin entered, and the minstrel didn’t bow. He shivered. The large, sparsely furnished room was icy. No fire burned in the wide fireplace, even though kindling and logs were laid as if the intention was there.

The duke leaned on one arm of his massive wooden chair and rested his face on his hand as if he was inescapably bored. “And you are?”

Corlin returned the gimlet gaze of the man in the shabby and food-stained blue robe who stood to the left of, and just behind, the duke. “Corlin Bentfoot sire.”

The duke’s glance travelled down to Corlin’s feet and the laced and buckled boot. He flicked a finger at it as if it were a small matter of little consequence. “My magician will correct that for you in time, Corlin Bentfoot.”

The corner of Corlin’ mouth curled in derision. “If he is a proven Physician-Mage, then after much very careful consideration I might let him try.”

To Corlin’s surprise the duke released a huge bellowing guffaw and turned to look over his shoulder at his magician who had already turned an unflattering shade of puce at the perceived insult.

The duke pushed himself out of his chair and, right hand extended, strode up to the minstrel and clapped him on the shoulder. “At last! A man who doesn’t snivel and scrape and constantly call me by titles I neither possess nor aspire to.” He called across to his discomfited magician. “Thank you Master Grumas. Let’s have some comfort in here please!”

The magician glared at Corlin then stepped in front of the fireplace. From his outstretched hands tongues of flame speared into the kindling and licked over the neatly laid logs. Satisfied that it was going as it should, he turned, and facing into the room inscribed a circle in the air above his head. Almost instantly the severity of the room was transformed as rich hangings appeared on the bare stone walls and torches sprang to life in decorative wrought-iron torchéres.

With one hand under Corlin’s elbow the delighted duke steered him to a large table in the middle of the room. “Take a seat; make yourself comfortable. Now we shall eat.”

Corlin wasn’t going to argue. As the duke struck a small gong, Corlin settled himself with his back to the roaring fire. Half expecting Grumas to wave his hands over the empty table, the young minstrel was pleasantly surprised when a side door swung open to admit a heavily built man wearing a grubby white apron and almost staggering under the burden of a large wooden tray loaded with a variety of dishes ranging from roast meats to fish and vegetables, although the few pieces of fruit looked rather tired. After the dishes had been arranged on the table and the servant had left, Grumas pulled up a chair and sat opposite Corlin.

Duke Ergwyn gestured towards the food. “Help yourself Master Bentfoot; first we will eat and enjoy some wine, then we will discuss the reason for your presence in my castle.”

Once again Corlin saw no reason to argue, but mindful of his upbringing, and sensing that it might give him an advantage, he offered to carve meat for the duke first. Seeming to be enjoying himself immensely, the duke graciously accepted and poured wine while Corlin carved roast beef, chose the best vegetables and filled his host’s trencher before filling his own. Grumas sat and scowled while he picked at a chicken leg. Although Jouan had told him not to let the magician get under his skin, Corlin had the distinct impression it was, more than likely, the other way round; although, having seen him in action, the minstrel decided that it might be a good idea to tread a little more lightly round the miserable mage. It also occurred to him that the man might have something to lose if the gimalin could be made to sing. Corlin found himself wondering what that could be.

He wasn’t allowed much time to dwell on it as the old duke was an interesting and amusing conversationalist. To Corlin’s surprise, as the evening progressed even the taciturn Grumas began to thaw after a couple of goblets of wine. Both he and the duke expressed great interest in the rearing of livestock, and Corlin was happy to share the knowledge he had gained at his father’s side on the small-holding. It was when the duke stood up from the table and carried his goblet over to his chair near the fire that Corlin knew it wouldn’t be long before the interrogation concerning his quest would begin; but it was not to be yet.

As the duke settled in his chair he glanced at Grumas then gestured to Corlin with his goblet. “Do you have your gimalin, Corlin Bentfoot?”

His mind already back on how things stood with Grumas, Corlin was almost caught off guard by the question. “Er...yes sire. The last time I saw it, it was on the back of my saddle.”

The duke responded with a knowing smile and a tilt of his head. “Then that is where it will still be.”

He nodded at Grumas. The magician closed his eyes and held out his hands in front of him, palms upwards. He stood unmoving for two or three minutes, occasionally murmuring a short phrase. The air in front of him shimmered, and Corlin gasped as his cloth-wrapped gimalin materialised to hang about three feet from the floor.

Grumas’ eyes snapped open and he glared at Corlin. “Take it. I can’t hold this much longer.”

The minstrel darted forward and wrapped his arms round the hovering instrument. The magician’s shoulders slumped and Corlin watched as he walked with slow heavy steps across to a cushioned window seat and flopped down on it.

Corlin grinned as he un-wrapped the gimalin. “I think Master Grumas would have felt better if I had simply gone down to the stables and fetched this.”

Seemingly oblivious to his magician’s discomfort, the duke inclined his head. “Now perhaps you will play for us, Corlin Bentfoot?”

Perched on the edge of a chair, Corlin slipped the soft leather strap over his shoulder and checked the instrument’s tuning. “It will be my pleasure sire, although it was not
this
instrument I anticipated playing.”

Irritation flickered in the duke’s eyes. “Nevertheless, I would hear you play, if only to assess your worthiness to make the attempt on this house’s cursed instrument.” He leaned forward. “After all, that is the reason for your presence here, is it not?”

Corlin’s long fingers caressed the strings, sending melodious chords and harmonics singing through the warm air of the room. He stopped the sounds and, determination in his grey-green eyes, looked across at the duke. “Perhaps, my lord Duke, you would tell me the story of your gimalin and its curse. Then, while I play, I can consider the best way to approach this task which, believe me, I don’t undertake by choice.”

His eyes alive with curiosity, the old duke’s eyebrows twitched. “Then, unlike those pathetic few before you, fame and riches are not your goal?”

Moving the gimalin to rest, Corlin shook his head. “Not at all. A certain WestLands lord who owns what was my father’s small-holding, has taken my younger brother into slavery. He will release him only if I find and present him with some supposedly magical clock before the next Winter Festival.”

The duke clasped his hands under his chin. “And what were you hoping to achieve by coming here?”

Corlin’s gaze drifted across to the magician, who seemed to have recovered and was listening intently. “I thought that if I was able to play your ‘unplayable’ gimalin, you might give me some kind of help.”

A long anguished groan escaped from Grumas’ lips. “You were doubtless thinking of asking my Lord Duke if he knew where this clock can be found.”

Stunned, Corlin nodded. Grumas’ expression grew pained. “There are certain things I must tell you before you make the attempt. If you are not successful, everything I tell you will be erased from your memory. If you cannot accept that, then you will not be allowed to try. Is that understood?”

Corlin looked at the duke, who was now gazing into the fire, apparently lost in thoughts of his own. His lips pressed tight together, the minstrel nodded his agreement.

The magician sat quietly for a few moments, then began his tale. “The clock that you seek does indeed exist. It is a large and ornate mechanical clock, crafted and empowered in this castle by an evil mage, whose name I’m sure you have discovered but evidently have so far had the sense not to say aloud. When the work was completed the clock was dismantled and separated into three pieces.”

He held up a hand to forestall the question that Corlin was about to ask. “When and if the gimalin is sounded, certain memories will be awoken in Duke Ergwyn’s mind. I suspect that the boon which is spoken of is not wealth but simply the locations of those pieces.” He wrung his bony hands together. “The mage who crafted it sent me into Tregwald on an errand. When I returned the deed had been done, and clock and mage had vanished.”

Corlin’s mind was in a whirl and he struggled to frame a sensible question. “Do you...I mean...were you...you were here when it was made?”

The magician grimaced. “Indeed I was. I had been his apprentice for five years and had qualified as Master Magician only the year before. The duke had only just come of age, and I think the mage planned to use the clock to gain the lands and entitlements due to the Duke of Tregwald.”

The minstrel scratched his head and frowned. “But how could he if he’d blocked the duke’s memory...unless...” He gave a grim smile as the truth dawned. “Something went wrong. No-one was able to play the gimalin, and the duke lived on.”

Grumas nodded in agreement. “Thankfully. I seem to remember there being an inscription somewhere on the clock, but I can’t recall what it says. That may be the key to its power.” His shoulders sagged and he slumped on the seat like a half empty grain sack. “My lord duke has drifted off again. Perhaps now you would play something for him? You will rest here tonight, and tomorrow I will bring out the old gimalin and see what you make of it.”