The Haunted Wizard - Wiz in Rhym-6 (20 page)

Superstitious fear froze King Drustan for several moments. Then he sprang from the bed, shouting angry curses.

The guard hammered at the door, his muffled voice crying, "Majesty! Are you well?"

"Well enough!" Drustan cried, and dove for his clothes. Dressed, he turned to the door, then with a last
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thought turned to kick Rosamund's gown under the bed. He turned back to yank the bar off the door. The guards tumbled in, weapons at the ready. "Who dares strike at Your Majesty?"

"A witch!" King Drustan pointed a trembling finger at the log. "Or perhaps that puling Lord Wizard of Merovence!"

The guards turned to stare, then paled with fear of the supernatural, making signs to ward off evil.

"Oh, be done with your womanish fears!" King Drustan snapped in disgust, all the greater because of the reminder of his own brief terror. "Send men out to seek for the princess! Send more to discover who has kidnapped her! Find me a wizard of my own, to discover whose work this is!" The soldiers bowed and ran from the room, all too glad to get away from the scene of witchcraft. Drustan stood his ground, glaring at the log and fuming. He didn't really believe that Matthew Mantrell had done this, but he would learn who had, and they would suffer for his embarrassment!

It was another night and another inn—but this time they were in Bretanglia, for during the day, they had crossed the Calver River, the border between Bretanglia and Merovence. Matt was constantly on edge now, and acting all the more casual because of it, very much aware of being an alien in his enemy's land. At least he was accompanied by a knight who had acquired the accent of Bretanglia's nobility, when he chose to use it, and a peasant who had been born with the burr of the village folk of the North Country. The common room was full, peddlers and carters jostling elbows with the local farmers as serving wenches threaded through the maze of tables with handfuls of mugs and laden trays. The companions elbowed their way through to a few seats and wedged their way onto the benches.

"Good e'en to you, travelers!" A jovial carter raised his mug in welcome. "Have you come far?"

"From Bordestang, good fellow," Sir Orizhan told him.

The man sobered at hearing his accent. "A weary trip, sir."

"Weary indeed," Sir Orizhan agreed, "but liable to prove unhealthy, if we had stayed."

"So!" The carter raised his eyebrows. "The rumors are true, then?"

"Which rumors?" Sergeant Brock asked.

"That Prince Gaheris was murdered in Merovence, and King Drustan may make war upon Queen Alisande in revenge?"

"True enough," Sergeant Brock said, "though who can tell how a king thinks?"

"But there's no proof that he has call for revenge," Matt said. "The killer might not have been a man of Merovence."

The carter turned to him, frowning. "You've an odd way of speaking, friend. Where is your home?"

"I grew up far to the west," Matt said, "very far." A peddler next to the carter leaned in and said, "We have heard it was a Merovencian sorcerer what
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struck the prince."

"It might have been a sorcerer," Matt agreed, "and it might have been a Merovencian—but the truth is that no one saw it happen, or who did it. They only know that a man leaped out the window right afterward, and he was both a sorcerer and a man of Bretanglia."

"Was he! We've not heard of that!" the carter said.

But the peddler frowned. "Where have you heard this, fellow?" Matt forced himself to ignore the "fellow"; after all, he was disguised as a peasant. "From those who saw it," which was true enough.

"Did they?" Another peasant leaned in, his hood still up. "How did they know he was a sorcerer?"

"Someone saw him work magic." Matt didn't feel obliged to say whom. "As to his being a man of Bretanglia, that was his accent."

"Phaw!" the third peasant said in disgust. "Any man can fake an accent!" Matt shrugged. "It's all just rumor, as our friend the carter said. But what news have you heard? There must be some folk come down from the north with word of the war there."

"Ah." The carter glanced to left and to right, checking who was in earshot, then leaned even farther forward and said in a conspiratorial tone, "They say that when the Earl Marshal left Prince Brion alone, on foot and unarmed, one of his troopers turned back and saw a blue knight come riding down upon the prince and slay him."

Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock sat stiff with shock, but Matt's mind leaped past the emotion and onto what was, to him, just as important "Prince Brion was slain? And mere was a witness to it?"

"Aye, but he says the prince claimed the right to know who slew him, and the Blue Knight raised his visor."

Matt braced himself. "What face did he see?"

"None." The carter's voice was hollow with dread. "The helmet was empty. Dark, and empty." The other peasants muttered and crossed themselves—but the one with his hood still up howled as though he'd burned his hand and leapt up from the table, stalking away. The other peasants stared, watching him go. Then one said, "What bit him?"

"Guilty conscience, maybe." Matt watched, too. "He's got awfully hairy hands, hasn't he?" They all looked and nodded. "Most marvelously hairy," said the carter. "I know a plowman who is almost as bad."

Matt made a mental note that the bauchan was allergic to the Sign of the Cross, then realized it would probably do no good if he deliberately used it as a weapon. He sighed and braced himself for more mischief.

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Apparently it was going to be delayed, though. A sudden commotion of talk swept through the room. Everyone turned to everyone else, either asking or telling.

The carter leaned over to the next table. "What has happened?"

"A minstrel!" a farmer told him. "He has just said that Princess Rosamund is gone from her moated grange!"

"A minstrel! Will he sing of it?"

"Not until he has finished—there! He has swallowed the last bite of his dinner!" The minstrel stepped into the clear space near the hearth, lifting his lute. As he tuned it, the bauchan, on his way out the door, stopped and turned back to listen. As the strains of the lute grew louder, the people gradually fell silent, and Buckeye settled down, leaning against the wall. Matt made another mental note—that the bauchan liked music—for it might come in handy, whether he meant to use it as a charm or not.

The minstrel began to sing.

"Queen Petronille was a sick woman,

And afraid that she should die,

So she sent for a monk of Merovence

To come to her speedi-lye.

King Drustan called down his nobles all,

By one, by two, by three,

Then sent away for Earl Marshal

To come to him speedily."

The minstrel slipped into a slightly higher voice for King Drustan.

"Do you put on one friar's coat,

And I'll put on another,

And we shall to Queen Petronille go,

One friar like another."

The women in the crowd exclaimed in indignation, and the men muttered in agreement—everyone seemed to think that hearing confession under false pretenses was pretty low.
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"Now, God forbid, said Earl Marshal," the minstrel sang in a deeper voice,

"That such a thing might be.

Should I beguile madame the queen,

Then hanged I would be!"

A murmur of approval ran through the crowd. The true knight had remained true. The bauchan looked up and turned his head, frowning at the crowd's idealism. The minstrel slipped into Drustan's voice again.

"I'll pawn my living and my lands,

My scepter and my crown,

That whatsoever Queen Petronille says,

I shall not write it down!"

"Which conveniently explains any lack of evidence," Matt muttered to Sir Orizhan. The knight looked surprised, then nodded slowly.

The minstrel went on.

"So thus attired, they both did go

Till they came to Whitehall,

And the bells did ring, and the choristers sing,

And the torches did light them all.

'Are you of Merovence,' she said, 'As I suppose you be?

For if you are Bretangl'n friars, Then hanged you shall be!' "

"They really like hanging people in your country?" Matt muttered to Sergeant Brock.

"Just a minstrel's nonsense," the sergeant said, but he didn't look all that sure.

" 'We're monks of Merovence,' they said,

'As you suppose we be,

And we have not been to any Mass

Since we came over the sea.' "

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Matt frowned. "Why's that important?"

"Monks say Mass every day," Sir Orizhan explained, surprised. "They had only arrived that day, and after Mass-times."

"Oh, of course," Matt said, abashed. "Silly of me."

"The first vile sin that e'er I did, To you I shall unfold…'" Indignant or not, everybody leaned forward, eager for gossip. Some sixth sense made Matt look at Buckeye just in time to see the bauchan's lips moving as he made an intricate, double-handed gesture toward his mouth, then blow a kiss toward the minstrel. Matt turned back to watch, his stomach roiling. The minstrel sang on in happy ignorance.

"…Earl Marshal had my maidenhead

Underneath this cloth of gold.' "

The whole room broke into a furious hubbub, everyone denouncing such a vile accusation—but doubt shadowed many faces. The minstrel himself looked shocked at his own words, but his lips kept moving, as though of their own accord.

Matt glanced at the bauchan and saw him grinning. He didn't know how this was going to rebound onto himself, but he braced for the worst The minstrel began to sing in the King Drustan voice: "

'That is a vile sin,' said the king,

'God may forgive it thee.'

'Amen, amen,' quoth Earl Marshal,

With a heavy, heavy heart spoke he.

'The next vile thing that e'er I did,

To you I shall uncover—

I poisoned fairest Rosamund

There in her Woodstock bower.' "

The crowd went wild, and the minstrel clapped his hand over his mouth, appalled. People were on their feet, shaking their fists at him and shouting angrily—but he was a veteran and realized that he had to get them under control somehow. He kept playing until they had quieted a little, then called out over the noise, "I only sing what I have heard, good folk! But if it offends you…" He stopped playing and started to swing the lute over his shoulder.

Matt had to admire the man for a graceful exit from an explosive situation. It almost worked.

"No, no! Go on!" a dozen people cried at once.

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The minstrel hesitated, looking uncertain.

"A penny to sing us the rest!" one man cried, and a copper flew through the air to land near the minstrel's feet.

"A silver penny!"

"A shilling!"

Coins rained on the singer. Reassured, he took up his lute again, playing while he waited for silence.

"Nice technique," Matt said slowly. "I can see minstrels are going to be singing this version of the song all over the country, if it brings them that kind of cash."

"There are a few towns loyal to the queen," Sir Orizhan said noncommittally.

"So they won't perform there. I wonder how this song would have sounded if the minstrel could have sung it the way he intended."

Sergeant Brock stared at him. "What makes you think he does not?" Matt jerked his head toward the bauchan. Sergeant Brock looked, saw, and went stiff. The minstrel, not one to let a good thing go, lifted his lute again and took up the song.

" 'That is a vile sin,' said the king,

'God may forgive it thee.'

'Amen, amen,' spoke Earl Marshal,

'And I wish it so may be.'

" ‘The next vile thing that e'er I did,

Or for which laid my plan—

I brewed a box of poison strong,

To poison King Drustan!' "

The crowd took it in stride, exclaiming in tones of delighted horror but staying in their seats. The minstrel managed to look nonchalant, as though those were the words he had planned to sing. When they quieted, he went on.

" 'And do you see yonder's little boy,

A-throwing of that ball?

That is Earl Marshal's son,' she said,

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'And I love him the best of all!' "

The crowd erupted into exclamations of excited condemnation.

"That conveniently explains why Earl Marshal let Prince Brion live," Matt said, thin-lipped. "Very neat."

"Who could have invented such calumnies?" Sir Orizhan protested.

"The bauchan." Sergeant Brock nodded toward Buckeye.

Sir Orizhan stared at the spirit, then whipped his gaze back to the minstrel. "You mean the creature makes the words come out of the minstrel's mouth?"

"No, he can't do that." Matt frowned, suddenly alert. "I thought he was just putting the thoughts into the minstrel's head, but… Watch the singer's lips, closely!"

His companions stared at him as though he were mad, then shrugged and turned to watch the minstrel again. The man sang,

" 'And do you see yonder's little boy,

A-catching of that ball?

That is King Drustan's son,' she said,

'And I love him the worst of all!' "

"By my troth, it's true!" Sir Orizhan exclaimed. "His lips form sounds we're not hearing!" Matt nodded. "Buckeye is blocking the words the minstrel's really saying."