The Haunted Wizard - Wiz in Rhym-6 (44 page)

He braced himself against the storm of Brion's outrage and waded through the outburst with grim and unyielding determination. After all, Brion might have been the rightful king, but he was Brion's physician, as well as consort to the Queen of Merovence. When the sun rose the next morning, Brion's war-horse went in front of him, and a local horse—drafted by the druids—behind, with the king lying on a stretcher between them, grumbling every foot of the way.

Matt accepted his grumbling with good grace, but Rosamund, who rode beside him, spoke sharply to him every ten minutes or so, upbraiding him for his lack of chivalry in making those about him suffer. She must have known which buttons to push, because she always managed to make Brion subside into dark
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muttering for five minutes or so.

For his own part, Matt kept glancing at the Irish horse at the other end of the stretcher, wondering whether it was going to turn into a person or not. However, by the end of the day it was still a horse, and the most human thing it did was to turn greedy when he put on its feed bag. The next day, though, even Matt couldn't deny that Brion was well enough to ride. The Irish horse was quite happy to bear Rosamund, and three other horses had showed up during the night to carry Brock, Orizhan, and Matt, who rode gingerly, each wondering what he would find himself riding the next minute. At noon they turned off the road to rest and eat—and broke through a thicket into a lovely little grotto, decked with flowers, with a brook making a small waterfall into a crystal-clear pond where brightly colored fish darted.

Brion's gaze turned distant, and he reached out to rest one mailed hand lightly on Rosamund's. "Now could I stay in this grove all my days and let the world go hang, if you were by my side!" Her gaze snapped up to him in surprise and, since he wasn't watching her, the naked longing filled her face and stayed there.

"Could you not, also?" Brion's voice was low, seductive, and thrilling. Rosamund shivered and admitted, her voice very low, "Aye, my lord, and be mightily content in your presence and the beauty of this place."

Matt had to do something fast. "You can't seriously mean to stay in this grotto the rest of your lives!"

"Why should we not?" Brion reached out toward Rosamund, smile glowing, eyes devouring her. "What more would we need than each other?"

Slowly, shyly, she reached out to him, but her eyes were locked on his, and her face was beginning to glow, too.

"Well, there's the matter of midwives, for one." Matt spoke a little more loudly than he needed to, just to break the spell. "Or were you somehow going to live together all your lives without having babies?"

"Our love shall be as pure as any troubadour ever sang!" Brion declared. Rosamund drew her hand back a little, the glow starting to fade.

"There's also the minor matter of food," Matt pointed out. "I see wild grapes growing here, but that's hardly a balanced diet, and it won't last past the first frost. I suppose Brion could hunt enough meat to keep you through the winter, if you had any way of staying warm, but that's hardly a balanced diet, either."

"Must you be so confoundedly practical!" Rosamund cried.

Matt shrugged. "Somebody has to, and neither of you seem to be in the mood—at least, not that mood. But the biggest problem is that Brion is a knight, and one of the most chivalrous in Europe. How long do you think it would be before he grew restless and began to sicken for battle again?"
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"Never!" Brion declared.

But Rosamund withdrew her hand completely as the glow died. "Then I must know you better than yourself, Majesty, for I see that the Lord Wizard is right in every particular. You are a knight born and bred, and would chafe and grow ill-tempered if you could not take to the saddle and ride to defend fee weak and the poor."

Brion opened his mouth to protest.

Rosamund's voice sank low. "Indeed, if you were not such a man, I would not… esteem you so highly." Brion closed his mouth.

Rosamund turned away. "Let us find some other place to rest, Lord Wizard. I could not abide here now, and think of what might have been."

She rode out of the clearing, back straight as an exclamation point, and Brion followed, casting a black look at Matt as he passed. Matt let Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock ride by before he rode after, cursing under his breath. It wasn't always fun to know you were right.

Nonetheless, later in the afternoon Matt found himself riding beside the new and uncrowned king. Brion rode with his eyes straight ahead, not deigning to give him so much as a glance. Matt couldn't let that last, either. "I still have to learn who murdered your brother, Your Majesty. Your mother burns to make war on Merovence as long as she believes it was our fault he died."

"And you know that if I overthrow my upstart puppy of a brother, I shall loose her from her prison?" Brion nodded. "You would rightly dread her then! Yes, she might make war upon Merovence of her own accord, and I would surely march to support her."

"But not if Gaheris were murdered by a man of Bretanglia, who was frying to shift the blame onto Merovence," Matt countered.

Finally Brion turned to frown at him. "Who had you in mind?"

"Practically everybody who was there, or anybody who knew Gaheris." Matt didn't mention that the list included Brion himself. "I was hoping you might have seen or heard something that would help me learn who the murderer was, even though I know you weren't at the inn."

"In that you are wrong," Brion said. "I knew my brother of old, and followed him to that inn disguised as a common soldier."

Matt stared. "You followed your brother because you know him? I'm sorry, but that doesn't make sense. You're leaving something out. Why did knowing him make you want to follow him?"

"I knew he would begin a brawl of some sort," Brion answered, "and so he did. I followed both to protect him from those with whom he picked his fight, and to protect those others from him. If the whore's pimp had not stepped up to protect her, I would have done so myself."
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Matt's head reeled in amazement. "A belted knight, fight to save a prostitute?"

"I am sworn to protect the weak, my lord, no matter their virtue, or lack of it," Brion said severely. Then he seemed to thaw a little and added, "Besides, I have never been certain that prostitutes were not more victims than sinners."

He spoke softly, but Rosamund heard nevertheless, and looked up at him in surprise. Then her gaze turned thoughtful.

"So you saw the fight," Matt interpreted.

"I saw it begin," Brion corrected. "Once the melee began, though, and I saw the harlot was safe, I leaped to defend my brother's back."

Matt stared. "You defended Gaheris? I thought you hated each other!"

"He was my brother," Brion said simply.

Once again Matt was amazed by the medieval concepts of honor and duty.

"I turned three blows that would have felled him," Brion reported, "and stretched their assailants cold on the floor. They were common men, only enjoying a good fight. I doubt they knew Gaheris for a prince."

"So how come you didn't see who struck the killing blow?"

"Because some foul knave came upon me from behind, and laid me low." Matt looked Brion up and down in one quick glance. He was taller than Matt, which made him much taller than most men of his time, and even more broad-shouldered and muscular. It was hard to imagine anyone being able to hit hard enough to knock him out, especially through a trooper's boiled-leather helmet.

"So you don't know who knocked you out."

Brion shook his head.

"Was anyone else helping you guard Gaheris?"

Brion stared, then swung about in his saddle to transfer that stare to Sergeant Brock. Brock stared back, then frowned slightly, puzzled.

Brion turned back. "It was your sergeant! I did not recognize him until now!"

"That figures," Matt said with chagrin. "That's why he and Sir Orizhan are with me—they both lost honor when a prince who was officially under their protection was slain."

"As though any could protect Gaheris from the consequences of his own wickedness!"

"Just a matter of time, huh? But I thought Brock was fighting in front of Gaheris."
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Brion shrugged. "It was a melee, Lord Wizard, a mass of confusion. Like as not the ebb and flow of battle carried him around the prince, fighting as strongly as he could, until he was beside me. However, it was not long after that the world went dark around me."

"Well, you can't fault a man for protecting his prince from every possible direction," Matt said.

"Unfortunately, he's already told me everything he remembers, and that ain't much." Brion sighed. "My brother died in combat, Lord Wizard, albeit it was a brawl in a tavern, not a battle on the field of honor. Is that not enough for you?"

"For me, yes," Matt said. "For your mother, no." Old Meg was waiting in the moonlight with her little boat, though how she knew to which stretch of rocky beach they were coming, Matt didn't know, especially since he had steered the party well away from their original landing place on the theory that unwelcome visitors might have been waiting for them along the road they had already traveled.

They climbed into the glorified skiff, which somehow managed to hold all of them, and Brion's war-horse, too. Since it had been just barely large enough for the four of them and the old woman on the way to Erin, Matt wasn't about to ask questions. Instead, he made sure he was the last one aboard, on the excuse of saying good-bye to the horses. "We appreciate the favor," he told them. "Back to your homes, now, whether they be in the meadows or the barns." He withdrew four silver coins from his wallet and slipped one under each saddle. "That's to thank your masters for the loan. 'Bye, now." He turned and walked away, and was about to get into the boat when the old woman commanded,

"Shove off!"

Matt stared, deciding that he ought to be angry, until he realized that she meant the term literally. "Well, that's what I get for being last."

"What, Lord Wizard?" Brion asked, frowning.

"Wet clothes," Matt sighed, and set his feet. He shoved hard, and the little craft floated free. He waded out knee-high before he clambered over the gunwale, not wanting his weight to ground it again. Then he looked back at the shore, already receding—and saw a man in peasant's clothes holding all three horses. The fourth was missing.

Matt stared.

The peasant lifted a hand in farewell.

Matt waved back, then turned around to shiver with his companions.

Sir Orizhan noticed. "What troubles you, Lord Wizard?"

"I just found out that poukas can shift their shapes to include clothing," Matt said. "Makes sense—what else would they do with all that horsehair?"

Sir Orizhan glanced back at the shore, then forced a smile, though he shivered, too, as he turned back.

"They came to us with saddles and bridles, my lord. Who can say what was in the saddlebags?"
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"Good point," Matt acknowledged. "Me, I didn't check."

"Nor did I," Sir Orizhan confirmed. "There were other matters more pressing." Old Meg was a very poor host, at least for the original three companions—she spent the whole crossing in quiet but earnest conversation with Rosamund, who seemed dazed by what she learned, then with Brion, and the young man's face became more grave with every sentence. Matt felt indignation mushroom within him, but tried to stifle it—the old druid priestess had paid enough attention to him on the way to Erin, after all, most of it unwelcome.

But when the ship grounded on the Bretanglian shore and Old Meg clambered out after her passengers, Matt had an even bigger surprise in store, for the old woman knelt stiffly before Brion and cried, "Hail, rightful King of Bretanglia! Long may you live, and long may your line flourish!" Matt stared, astounded, and Rosamund's face seemed to close into a mask, no doubt resenting Meg's presuming the princess' part in the flourishing of the royal line, but Brion seemed to grow and swell with every word, becoming something greater than human. Matt realized all over again that in this universe it was no mere fable that the king became the embodiment of his people and his land.

"You have given me honor and countenance," Brion told her, "and for that, I shall name you—"

"You shall name me nothing!" the woman said sharply, glaring up at him. "I am only Old Meg, as I have been these many years, and nothing more—nothing that any king or sheriff need know of, at least."

"Meaning that you are and always have been a druid priestess," Matt said quietly. Old Meg turned her glare upon him. "The fisher-folk know me only as a wise woman, young man. Who are you to say otherwise?"

"A wizard," Matt answered, "and one whom you sent to Erin. But if you're a druid, why do you kneel to a king of Bretanglia, and one who, moreover, hasn't an ounce of Celtic blood in him?" Brion stared at Matt, startled, but Old Meg said evenly, "Not all of us fled to Erin or Scotland, or even Wales. I am a druid and a Celt, aye, but I am a Celt of Bretanglia, and no matter his parentage, this young man is rightwise born king of this country. By his deeds and his actions he has shown that he cares immensely about the common people and their land, cares as much as he does for the nobility and their castles— and more than he cares for the lands in Merovence from which his mother and father sprang."

"That is so," Brion said quietly. "I fought to inherit my mother's patrimony and would have taken it gladly, but my heart was truly in Bretanglia."

"Then you are the first of your line of whom that is true," Old Meg said, "since the first of those foreign hussies wed your great-grandfather and turned the eyes of your house southward. It is for that I kneel to you, not for your father's crown or your mother's heart."