The minstrel nodded.
"We have trouble enough from him when he's just being mischievous," Matt said. "Can you imagine how bad he'd be if he really wanted to get back at me?"
Sergeant Brock shuddered, and Sir Orizhan said fervently, "Your act of mercy was not only chivalrous, but wise."
"Thanks," Matt said, "but you and I both know that chivalry is wisdom, in the long run."
Sir Orizhan looked up in surprise. "I did not know you were a knight as well as a wizard."
"Oh, I've been knighted, yes." Matt decided it was best not to go into the details. "Of course, in the short run the chivalrous action often looks foolish—for example, letting an enemy live."
"It seems so, yes," Sir Orizhan agreed, "but if you can turn that enemy into a friend by your mercy, it is the wiser course of action."
The minstrel stared. "You don't mean that you can turn a bauchan into an ally!"
"I'd better," Matt said. "He won't stay gone, after all. It'll take him some time, but he'll find a way to magic himself back to us—so let's hope I can find a way for us to be useful to each other. After all, bauchans aren't always malicious, are they?"
"Well, they have been known to help their hosts if the people really needed it," the minstrel said, but added, "There's no way to know, of course. They are completely unpredictable."
Prince John was playing chess against himself, moving all the pawns into the center of the board one move at a time, then having the knights, bishops, rooks, and queens take turns demolishing the little men. Even with his imagination putting the faces of his brothers on the pieces, it was still boring—he'd done it too many times before.
"Your Highness."
The prince looked up, mildly interested—anything to break the boredom. "Yes, Orlin?"
His squire was pale of face—bad news. This might be more interesting yet. If nothing else, it could be an excuse to beat the chap.
"Highness," the young man said, "there is word come from Woodstock."
Prince John frowned. He didn't particularly care for Rosamund, but he did lust after her, and treasured the notion of crushing the look of disdain from her haughty features and replacing it with total, abject fear. Besides, she came with the crown—and vice versa. Betrothal would strengthen his claim, and he knew enough of court intrigue to know that, even with Gaheris and Brion dead, he would need every bit of strengthening he could gain, to make the barons accept his reign.
"Highness?" The squire's voice trembled with fear.
John smiled, liking the sound. Everyone knew his father's rages and feared his would be every bit as bad, once he had power. "Your news had better not trouble me," he warned. "Speak."
"The princess is gone, Your Highness."
"Gone?" John frowned. "What do you mean, 'gone'?"
"Disappeared, Your Highness." Squire Orlin swallowed heavily. "The news is that the king went to bring her the news of victory himself, and found a lifeless likeness in her place—a wooden statue."
John smirked, having some idea of the way in which his father had intended to bring Rosamund the news, and gloating over his discomfiture. "Where was the true princess?"
"Nowhere." Orlin was used to John's ability to ignore what he didn't wish to hear. He took a deep breath and said, "She had vanished."
"Vanished?" John frowned. "How? She had guards at her door, a wall around her grange, and a moat around the wall! How could she have vanished?"
"I have no idea, Your Highness."
John finally registered the fact that his intended—well, he had intended to have her, anyway—was gone. "Say not so, knave!" He swung backhanded at the squire. Orlin knew from long practice just how far to lean back—enough to take most of the sting out of the blow, not enough so that John would think he had missed. He fell down for good measure.
"Poltroon and liar!" John raved. "Gone, do you say? Let her jailers be jailed! Let her guards be imprisoned! How could they have failed so in their duties?" Then he froze, eyes widening. "Witchcraft, that's how! Stolen away by witchcraft—and that means Mother!"
"But—But the queen is herself imprisoned!" Orlin protested from the floor. "The queen is not a witch!"
"Not a witch? Fool, could she have cost Father so dearly in battle if she were not? No, it must be Mother's doing!" John turned away, glowering, rubbing his left hand around his right fist. "She has found a way to cheat me of my prize again, to cheat me of my rights again! But I shall have my due! I shall be revenged!"
"Upon your own mother?" Orlin gasped.
"Of course not!" John turned back to him, scowling. "What fool would risk his mother's love? No, I'll be revenged by finding the princess!"
Orlin reflected that John had lost his mother's love long ago, but was wise enough not to say so.
Mama and Papa walked the high road dressed as peasants, but Papa's staff was of rowan, and would focus his spells with the accuracy of a rifle. Mama's hazel wand was hidden in her flowing skirts. Neither expected to use them, of course—they'd found that broadcast spells worked much more effectively, though with less intensity. Still, it never hurt to be prepared, and peasants weren't allowed swords.
Papa frowned at the trees about them. "Strange to see so much ivy! I hadn't known that England grew it by the mile."
"It doesn't," Mama told him with certainty, "at least, not in any of the herbal books I've read. And so much moss!"
"I knew England was wet, but not so soggy as this," Papa agreed. "See how many of those vines are mistletoe! Almost as bad as kudzu in our universe!"
"Mistletoe?" Mama looked more closely. "Yes, it is. I didn't know you had taken up botany, husband."
"I haven't." Papa turned to her with a gleam in his eye. "But if there is one plant I will recognize, it is mistletoe."
Mama blushed and turned away, but reached out for his hand nonetheless. Lifting her gaze, she looked for a change of subject. "They are as thick as ever, Ramón."
"The ravens?" Papa looked up, frowning. "Yes, I know. I would have expected them to cluster thickly around old towers, but there seem to be a dozen of them on every tree, too."
"And the nights are filled with the hooting of owls," Mama said. "I could swear someone doesn't want us to sleep."
"Don't swear," Papa said quickly. "You never know what it will bring, here."
"Of course," Mama said with scorn. "Oh, look! A crossroads, and a village. It will be good not to have to eat biscuit and jerky again."
But as they came near the village green, a voice behind them called, "One side! Make way!"
They had been in medieval Europe long enough to know what that meant. They scurried to the side of the road and watched the knight come trotting past, grinning, with a dozen men-at-arms behind him. Several of them leered at Mama, but apparently decided she was too old, and turned away with scorn.
"You may relax, husband," Mama said gently. "They could see I was old enough to be their mother."
"Really?" Papa turned to her with a smile, relaxing a little. "To me, you always look to be nineteen."
Mama gave him a roguish smile, then turned serious. "Let us follow quickly, husband. There is something about that entourage that troubles me."
The knight drew up in front of the inn, crying, "A fabulous victory! A grand triumph! I stood beside Prince John as he cut down the Count Haltain! I was his shield mate as he hewed and hacked like a madman! The king is still king and has locked the queen into a castle for a prison! Bretanglia is whole again!"
"How did he spell that?" But Papa spoke absently; he was watching the parents and sons of the village crowd around the warriors with loud cries of praise while the young women turned away, not daring to run. Taken by surprise, they could do no better than turn their faces to the nearest wall.
From his mount, the knight caught sight of a form that was shapely even in the baggy peasant skirt and blouse. He pushed his horse through, grinning at the lone despairing cry, and leaned down to catch the peasant girl by the shoulder and turn he
r around. "Here, lass! Let's have a look at your face!"
The girl tried to twist away, but the knight caught her chin and held it fast. He wet his lips and nodded. "Not bad, not bad at all." He dropped her chin, caught her by the arm, and tossed her to one of his men. "Here, Sergeant! Bring her to my chamber! Landlord, take me to your finest room, and quickly!"
But the girl managed to twist free from the sergeant's hold and dodge behind the broad back of the innkeeper. "Father, no! Hide me!"
"Oh, she's your get, is she?" The knight grinned, reveling in the double pain he would cause. "Well, you should be honored to send her to a knight."
"Nay, sir!" the innkeeper protested, looking up at the knight. "She is still a virgin!"
"What, at her age?" the knight said in scornful disbelief. "She can have one of me or twelve of my men, innkeeper. Choose!"
"Why, you scoundrel!" Mama cried, and ran to put herself between the knight and the innkeeper. "How dare you call yourself a man of chivalry when you would debauch a virgin?"
Papa stiffened in alarm, but the innkeeper, with vast relief, turned to a boy nearby and snapped, "Friar Thomas! Run as you never have!"
The boy sped away, even as the knight turned purple and roared, "How dare you so address a belted knight, fishwife? Aside!" He swung a backhanded blow at her.
It struck hard against Papa's staff. The knight howled and cursed, then called to his men, "Strike down this impertinent cur!"
Mama whipped out her wand and chanted a quick Spanish couplet.
The men-at-arms shouted in anger and charged Papa—but he swung his staff in a circle, hand over hand like an airplane's propeller, and a series of knocks sounded as the first three men reached him. They fell back into the men behind them, who jammed back against the six still trying to get forward, and the whole dozen churned into a scrambled, shouting mass.
"Witchcraft!" the knight cried, whipping out his sword.
"Overconfidence, more likely," Papa replied. "Haven't you taught your men never to underestimate an enemy?"
The knight froze with his sword high, glowering down from his mount in suspicion. "You do not talk like a peasant."
"A man's rank should make no difference to a true knight," Papa lectured. "Chivalry extends to all regardless of rank, and a virgin peasant should be as sacred to you as any lady of the highest station."
Anger warred with wariness in the knight's face. "Who are you to school me so?"
"A schoolmaster and scholar indeed," Papa replied, and probably would have gone on at some length if a lanky man in a brown robe hadn't come running up, the top of his head shaved in a tonsure. "Here now, Sir Knight!" he scolded. "Would you break your vows of chivalry by robbing a woman of her virtue?"
The knight looked up in surprise, then darted a glare of pure venom at the innkeeper. He turned to the friar, snapping, "It is no concern of yours, shave-pate!"
"The welfare of every soul in this parish is my concern!" The friar took up a stance between Mama and the knight. They stood four deep between him and his quarry now—the friar, Papa, Mama, and the innkeeper. "You are in my parish this moment, so your soul, too, is in my care! Remember the Commandments, O Man of Might! Remember especially the Sixth Commandment!"
"She isn't married, if she's truly a virgin, as her father says," the knight grunted. "That's not adultery."
"No, but it is fornication, which is almost as bad, and the despoiling of a virgin makes it far worse! Then, too, if she is not willing, which she plainly is not, you speak of rape, which is worse than either! Our Lord Himself has commanded us to refrain from fornication—and scandal! If your actions lead a child into sin, it would be better for you to be cast into a river with a millstone tied around your neck!"
The knight swung his sword high with an oath. "Who says so?"
"Our Lord said so!" The friar stood stiff and unflinching before that blade. "What, Sir Knight! Will you imperil your immortal soul for mere amusement? Will you send yourself to an eternity of torture for a few minutes' pleasure?"
The knight sat his horse, sword poised, wavering.
Mama made a small set of gestures, and her lips moved, but her voice came from the middle of the crowd, behind the knight's back:
"Amazing grace,
How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like thee!
You once were lost,
But now are found,
Were blind, but now you see!"
Everyone looked up and about, startled by the sweet sounds, eyes widening as joy burst within them—and even the knight's face was transformed. He sheathed his sword, nodding in acceptance. "Even as you have said, Father! Nay, let the lass stay whole—and I thank you for saving my soul!"
He turned to his men. "Away and go! We'll spend this night at another village's inn!"
A murmur of relief swept through the crowd as the entourage rode away—but the friar beckoned the little boy to him and said, "Take two friends and run to Renved Village by the beeline through the woods. Tell Friar Nollid there to welcome these men as they come into his parish, or there may yet be mischief this night."
The boy dashed off, feeling very important, and the friar turned to the innkeeper. "You are safe now, Goodman Dalran, Maid Darsti."
"Yes, thanks to you, friar!" The innkeeper wrung the clergyman's hand, then turned to Mama and Papa. "And to you, good friends! By what magic you held the knight at bay until the friar could arrive, I know not, but I thank you deeply!"
Darsti caught Mama's hand and covered it with kisses.
"It was our pleasure," Mama assured him. "No woman should be subject to the whims of such a bully, virgin or not!"
"No woman should be forced, most certainly," the friar said with feeling.
"You must be my guests this night!" the innkeeper said.
"It shall be my honor to serve you myself," Darsti assured them.
Mama and Papa exchanged a glance; then Papa turned to the innkeeper. "Under the circumstances, I think we will accept your kind offer, mine host—but we were glad we could help."
A few hours later they finally managed to close the door of a private room on their grateful hosts. Papa poured them each a glass of wine and said, "A most interesting afternoon, my dear."
"It was indeed," Mama agreed. "At least the brutes still respect the clergy."
" 'Still' is the word," Papa cautioned. "I have difficulty believing the knights of this land have always been such oafs."
"Not in this universe," Mama agreed. "Not if Bretanglia has been a godly kingdom for centuries, as we have been told."
"Ah, but you are speaking of the past," Papa pointed out. "King Drustan has, wittingly or not, unleashed the forces of cruelty and oppression upon his people."
"He has," Mama agreed, "but they are not very far gone in decadence yet. Friars can still defend the weak from the mighty but corrupt."
"Yes, but only because the knights and their men still have enough respect for the clergy to heed their words," Papa said. "How long can that last, my love?"
"How thickly can the ravens flock to this land?" she returned.
"Up, lazybones!" the voice shouted in Matt's dream. "Why do you lie here sleeping when you should be seeking my murderer?"
Even in his dream Matt came up fighting. "You dare to wake me up! You dare to deprive me of sleep when I've been hiking all day and seeking whatever scraps of information I can to—"
"How dare you talk so to a prince!"
"We've been through that already," Matt said through his teeth. "Do I have to recite an exorcism verse and kick you out of my head so I can get some sleep?"
"No, no!" Gaheris' ghost said quickly. "Not that!"
"Sure, because once I kick you out, you can't get in again." It didn't take much figuring. "So far I'm leaving the mental door open because you might be able to give me information about the crime. No, I don't have anything to tell you yet—but I do have a job for you."
"A job?" the prince cried, highly insulted. "F
or a prince?"
"Any ghost would do, but you're most likely to know the party in question. Tell me, has Prince Brion showed up on the other side?"
"Brion?" Gaheris pounced on the name. "Has he been slain, then?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out," Matt told him, "and the reports aren't exactly conclusive. It would help a lot if you could tell me you've seen his ghost roaming around looking for that tunnel of light you told me about."
"It would seek out him, not he it," Gaheris said quickly, "but he would be no quicker to go into it than I, if he'd been murdered. No, I have not seen him here..."
"Sure you might not have missed him in the crowd?"
"There are not so many who can or wish to resist that last journey, wizard! Besides, those of us related to one of the newly slain are drawn toward his ghost—several here have told me that! I assure you, if Brion were here, I would know it!"
"That helps." Of course, Matt suspected Brion might have been more likely to seek out that tunnel of light, and its exit to the afterworld, than Gaheris was, especially since for him it would probably be the express route to Heaven, or at least to a short stay in Purgatory. Still, Brion was worldly enough to want justice for his own murder. "Yes, that helps. Okay. Thanks. Check in now and then, and I'll let you know if I learn anything solid."
"If! You had confounded well best learn something or I'll—"
"Be kicked out of my head," Matt said, cutting him off. "Now get out of here, before I do my daily exorcises."
"But I—"
"Out!" Matt dream-shouted. "Go 'way and let me sleep!"
"Gone?" Petronille stared, her face ashen. "From a moated grange with a dozen guards and jailers? How could she be gone?"
"I know not, Majesty." Lady Ashmund spoke with tears in her eyes; she too had been fond of the princess. "I know only the news I have been given—that the king went to bring her the news of his victory himself..."
"And I am sure how he meant to celebrate it!" Petronille snapped.
"Perhaps, Majesty, but he found only a wooden statue. Of the real princess, there was no sign."
The Haunted Wizard Page 17