by Dave Duncan
“Did you by any chance,” I asked, “notice his heartbeat?”
I knew from the priest’s surprise that my diagnosis was correct.
“I did. It seemed extremely strong and rapid, indeed racing.”
“Unsteady on his feet, dry mouth, confusion, fast heartbeat. These are all marks of a poison known as dwale, Father. It dilates the pupils, which is why his eyes were blinded by the light.”
“Rain was falling in barrelfuls!”
“I expect that was why you did not realize it was the light that distressed him. I thank you. He was poisoned before he even reached the hall. You have confirmed what I suspected.”
“And you have confirmed my secret fears. I apologize for misjudging you, my son. You are wise beyond your years.”
“That is gracious of you, Father.” And it was. How often did this stone-faced, stiff-necked pastor ever apologize to anyone other than God? He was handsome, nobly born, ordained young, and undoubtedly destined to be a bishop before he was thirty.
I slid awkwardly down off the stool and knelt to receive a blessing. Even if a priest is a sinner, his blessing is still valid. The Church says so.
Outside in the afternoon sunshine, I went back to the tiny chapel. The count had gone and two women kept vigil there in his stead, both so heavily veiled that I could only guess who they were. I went to the far side of the coffin and knelt to offer prayers for the soul of the man I had brought to Barton just the day before.
I also prayed for wisdom and guidance so that I might bring Rolf ’s killer to justice.
chapter 21
back at the sanctum, I told William what I had learned from the priest.
“You think that the sage was poisoned here, in his own sanctum?” He stared in horror at the two goblets still standing on the table like monuments to murder.
“I do. He could have been drinking with a visitor and turned his back on him for a moment too long. Or Archibald himself was trying to poison a visitor and took the wrong draft, but that would not explain who killed Rolf the next day.”
“‘Dwale,’ you said, master?” We both turned to look at the shelves.
“The Norman name for it is belladonne, because ladies sometimes put drops of it in their eyes to make them beautiful. In the old tongue it is called dwale, because it is used as a sleeping draft. Even a slight overdose is extremely deadly.”
“So what happened to the wine flask, master?”
“You tell me,” I sighed. “If the poison was in the flask, how did the poisoner escape its effects? And why not just tip the rest of the wine out in the alley or the privy and leave the flask itself here? If the dwale was in one of the goblets, why bother removing the flask? Unless . . . perhaps Archibald put it up on the shelf with the other bottles?”
William rose and went over to the shelves to inspect the undersides of the various flasks that resembled the one that had killed Sage Rolf. He found none of them unlabeled, as the wine flask should be, but he did find a jar labeled Belladonne and brought it over to me. It was half full of black dwale berries, likely gathered not long ago. I told him to put it back where it belonged. As few as ten berries can kill a man and no doubt the raw taste of the fall’s new wine might mask the flavor. On the other hand, anyone expecting wine in their mouth would notice an invasion of berries, so the raw material had been processed somehow. I would have to examine every jar and bottle to discover if there were any potions or ointments that might contain dwale extract.
William had completed a fair transcript of the responses. Doing the same thing for the sage’s versicles was going to be harder, because they were longer. Some words were almost illegible and there were a few whose meaning had to be guessed at. An incantation improperly performed or understood would either fail to work at all or produce unexpected results. Sage Guy had warned me not to try any of the grimoire spells on my own.
Sage Guy had not foreseen two murders.
This time I wrote while William read out the Latin text, translating as he went. He was fluent in Church Latin but had to be helped when the text shifted into the French version, because it was Parisian French, not the Norman dialect he would have grown up with. The important thing was that now he was willing to try, enjoying the challenge and the importance of what he was doing. Several times we had a studied argument about the meaning of a word or phrase, disputing like sages. For the time being we had become a team. When we reached the end, I felt stiff, and flexed my shoulders; he glanced at the windows and the warm light of sunset.
“Food is provided in the hall around dusk,” I said.
“Can’t we try this now?” William asked, looking suddenly about five years younger than he was.
I shook my head. Ubi malum was definitely the sort of summoning spell that Guy had warned me not to chant after sundown. “We’ll have to go through it several times from back to front. And after that we may need to try it several times in earnest before it works, if it ever does. I’m not a sage, only an adept—as I believe you know.”
William ignored the sarcasm and just shrugged, disappointed. We looked at each other. Then we both grinned like kids, although it wasn’t clear whose idea that was. The sun had not quite set yet.
“Very well,” I said. “Just once tonight. It won’t work and we may be dragged down to Hell by an army of sharp-toothed demons, but let’s try it.”
The squire leaped up. “And I have to wear my sword?”
“If you wish.” A sword would be little help against the afore-mentioned demons, but in the unlikely event that the incantation did happen to work, we might stumble upon a dangerous killer.
William fetched his sword and two candles. I played along, laying one end of my staff on my thigh, ready to hand in case danger materialized. Then we gathered the tablets together and exchanged nods, and I began the chant: “Ubi malum est . . .” After the prologue came the evocations, starting with Argus. William responded. He had a good singing voice.
Back and forth we chanted, I appealing for help, William replying for each entity summoned. As the incantation progressed, his voice began to change timbre from response to response. I assumed that he was poking fun at the magic, which was a stupid and dangerous thing to do. It wouldn’t make any difference in this run-through, but he must be warned not to indulge in any such nonsense tomorrow, when we were really trying. Then I sensed what he must have felt sooner: acceptance! The spirits were responding.
I had the last word, calling on the entities assembled to expose the evil. Then I dropped the tablet, which clattered onto the table. My whole body seemed to come out in goose bumps as I felt the rush of joy and power. Never had I sensed numinous presences so strongly—but then I had never participated in such a major incantation before.
“Praise be!” I croaked, dry-mouthed. My first effort as not just an adept but as a sage, and it had worked at the first attempt! Well, it was doing something at the first attempt.
And William . . . William was staring straight through me, his face as wooden as Bottler Wacian’s.
“William? Squire Legier?”
Very slowly, William rose from his stool and drew his sword. His eyes did not lose their mindless stare into the far distance.
Oh, mercy! I scrambled to my feet also. What had I done? What had I summoned? I was an arrogant idiot to tamper with powers I did not understand or control! I might be going to die for my presumption. Quarterstaff against sword was a fair match outdoors, where there was room to wield the longer weapon, but indoors a man with a crippled leg would never withstand the likes of William, especially a William possessed.
“William, what’s wrong? Put up that sword!”
Showing no sign of hearing, William slowly turned until he faced the door, then began moving toward it, carefully placing each foot as if just learning to walk. God in Heaven . . . Guy had told me of his own experience with this incantation: the adept went into trance . . .
I followed, slamming the sanctum door behind me. I had been put int
o trances often enough. Going in is easy but coming out can be a painful and dangerous shock. Sword in hand, William paced along the grubby little alley to its opening, paused there like a dog sniffing the wind, then chose a direction and began to walk faster. I limped after him, staying close. The bell in the keep was summoning the residents to supper, and they were responding, men and women both. They stared in alarm at the sword-bearing youth advancing like a walking corpse, looking neither right nor left. And he was speeding up, outpacing the cripple who so frantically lurched after him.
A band of knights came around a corner, chattering loudly and generally ignoring everyone else, as was their way. They could not ignore this, though. Fortunately none of them was armed with more than a dagger.
“And just where . . .” one of them began, then stepped back hastily as the sword continued to head straight for him.
I recognized a flaxen mop higher than the other heads. “Sir Kendryck! Let him pass!”
The knights turned to see who dared give them orders, then stepped back.
“Sir Kendryck, I need you!” I panted as I hobbled by. “William is sleep walking. Someone go and tell Sir Hugh I need him, quickly.”
The other knights guffawed at the idea of a mere adept summoning the marshal, but by then I was past them and I had my oversized Saxon friend striding along at my side.
“Is this sorcery, Adept? You enchanted him?”
“Yes.”
“Scitte!”
“Don’t let anyone stop him until you know where he’s going. But don’t let him hurt himself—or anyone else.”
“Me especially,” Kendryck said in his usual breezy fashion, but nothing would ever ruffle him. He lengthened his stride until he was close behind the madman.
Rounding one more corner, William headed straight for the main gate, which the guards were just swinging shut. I foresaw disaster, but sent Heaven a quick prayer of thanks for Kendryck, who bellowed at them to wait a moment, to let the squire through, and also the adept just coming . . . and to send word to Sir Hugh that all three would need to be allowed back in again.
Gasping, perspiring with both exertion and terror of what might still happen, I ran the gauntlet of the guards’ suspicious stares and left the stockade. The gate thundered shut behind me. I might have to spend the night out here, but I had much worse trouble on my hands than that. Whatever had drawn William out here could not be the murderer, who had proved himself to be a trusted resident of the castle. We might be hot on the trail of a poacher or a heavy-thumbed, price-gouging butcher. Guy had warned me the effects of the spell were unpredictable: he walked out into the town and tried to break into the home of a complete stranger . . .
But William had not gone into the village. Still clutching his sword, he was stumbling along the edge of the moat that encircled the stockade. He was finding the bank hard going in the dusk, for it was overgrown with thistles and brambles, sloping down into rushes at the water’s edge; and it was much harder going for me. My clerical gown had not been designed for rough terrain or my lopsided hobble. Soon I lost sight of my quarry, but I could see some of the guards from the gate parading along the top of the stockade, watching the chase. Other people had begun to join them. Whatever was going to happen was not going to lack witnesses.
Then shouts broke out ahead—Kendryck’s roars of anger combined with shrill, almost animal, screams that could only be coming from the entranced William. There was a fight going on. While the kid was a brawler and tough as chain mail, he was no match for a hulking, seasoned warrior like Kendryck. He would be slaughtered. Again cursing my own folly and presumption, I tried to go even faster, but my good foot slid in the mud and I promptly fell flat on my face. The spectators on the battlements were laughing at something, although apparently not me, so nobody was dying yet.
By the time my staggering gait had brought me to the battlefield, the fight was over. William was sitting in the brambles, sobbing like a whipped child. Kendryck was standing over him, drenched in the blood that still ran from his damaged nose. He was also supporting his right arm with his left hand in the way people do when they have broken a collarbone.
“What in the name of Hell have you done to him, Adept?” he roared. “I’d rather fight a she-bear any day.”
“He’s pugnacious,” I conceded, going down carefully on one knee to examine the squire. “William?”
“He stopped us,” William sobbed in a twisted, warbling voice quite unlike his own. “We were going to get it and he stopped us! It’s over there.” He pointed an arm at the moat.
There was no sign of his sword anywhere, and that would have to be found. The crowd of spectators along the top of the stockade had grown. Many held torches as the October dark closed in.
“William, say a prayer. Say a Paternoster.”
“We couldn’t get at it from the other side, so we came around, and then he stopped us. We were going to kill him, Sage, but he was too strong for us.”
“You did a job on him.” There would be the devil to pay over this, I was certain. “Now say a prayer.”
“We’ll get it for you now.” William tried to rise and I pushed him down.
“Say Pater, William. Say it! Now say Noster.”
The boy repeated the words as if they were just noises at first, and then faster, and gradually more in his own voice. When he had finished and crossed himself he peered up at me and said, uncertainly “Adept?”
“Yes. Say another Paternoster, just to be sure.”
“Sir Kendryck!” bellowed a voice from the other side of the moat. “What is going on over there?” It was the marshal himself.
“What’s going on here, Sir Hugh,” Kendryck roared back in a very nasal distortion of his own voice, “is that I have just had the scitte beaten out of me by a runt half my size. The adept cast a spell on him. I got his sword off of him, but had to throw it in the moat to keep him from taking it back. He’s stronger than a stud bull! He’s broken my arm, loosened half my teeth, and mashed my face to jelly.”
“Saints preserve us. What was he doing, anyway?”
“He was trying to walk across the moat, Marshal.” Kendryck was having trouble holding his nose to stop the bleeding while his only good hand was holding up the opposite elbow. Even in his pain and humiliation, he still gave the impression that he was enjoying himself, with laughter lurking just below the surface.
“Adept, you’d better explain all this.”
“I think . . . can you see anything below you, Sir Hugh? The squire thought there was something . . . down in the rushes, I expect. In the water.”
Torches were held out, arms pointed, voices mumbled.
William began to rise, spurning the hand I offered.
“Better now?”
“The voices have all gone. You enchanted me!”
“Entranced you. It was part of what we were doing. What were you looking for, do you remember?”
William shook his head, frowning, still somewhat dazed.
“Hope you know how to shtop my node beeding, Adep’.” Kendryck was taking his humiliating injuries amazingly well, but there was no disgrace in a swordsman being overcome by enchantment.
Men cried out in alarm on the castle side of the moat—they had found something. The marshal’s bellow drowned out the rest, shouting across, “Sir Kendryck, come back to the gate and bring those two lunatics with you.”
chapter 22
the gate was opened just enough to admit the three curfew-breakers, bringing them face to face with a torch-bearing crowd. The man in front and indisputably in charge was Sir Hugh Fiennes, but Master of Horse Alwin stood right behind him, together with several of the knights whom I had met at midday dinner, which felt so long ago now. And at least half the population of the castle, it seemed, had gathered in the background to watch.
“Sweet Jezebel!” the marshal roared at the sight of Kendryck. Then he looked at the scratched and waterlogged, but otherwise unharmed, William. “This brat did that to yo
u?”
If he expected Kendryck to apologize or whine, he should have known better. The big Saxon was determined to find it funny—which was the best defense when all his peers certainly would. “Well, Marshal,” he said in his stuffed, nasal voice, “he did start with a sword. I got hold of it, but I needed both of my hands to overpower one of his, so he still had a fist free to punch with. I think he broke a few of my ribs. And after I got the sword away from him and threw it in the moat, he went after it and I had to go after him and haul him out. . . .”
The marshal rounded on me. “Adept, you enchanted this squire of yours?”
“Um, yes, sir. Well, entranced, but not . . . not like that, sir.”
“Not like what? Explain!”
Almost without realizing it, I saw a chance to wrest some advantage from this setback. “I tasked him with finding the evildoer, sir. I did not grant him magical fighting powers. He is by nature an extremely powerful fighter. I shall reprimand him for losing his temper with Sir Kendryck.”
Sir Hugh turned to stare at William. “Are you, indeed?” he demanded of William. “I was told you accepted several challenges at dinner today.”
“Yes, sir.” William had recovered most of his wits and was having trouble keeping a straight face—small wonder when he had roughed up a man so much bigger than himself.
Hugh could still glare, but his voice gave him away. “What’s going to happen when you have to make good on those contests?”
If any of them would dare face him after this.
“I’m not planning to inflict any serious damage on them, sir, just adjust some of their manners.”
Someone at the back started to laugh. Sir Hugh swung around in anger. “What are you all doing, standing around there gawking? Go and eat if you want any supper. Alwin, find dry clothes for the squire and clean ones for Kendryck. Adept, you’d better treat this victim of yours. As soon as you’ve done that, report to me. I’ll likely be with His Lordship.”
“Yes, Marshal.” But I could not restrain a question. “May I ask what it was that William had located in the moat at the base of the stockade?”