The World's Finest Mystery...

by Ed Gorman

  "Damn," Owyn said softly. "Now we're in for it."

  Logan strode angrily to us, his hand on his sword. "What madness is this? You struck my father's steward!"

  "He asked my daughter's price and paid a small part of it. Are you here for the rest?"

  He blinked, eyeing me more in surprise than anger. "Are you offering me a challenge, commoner?"

  "He asked the price, I'm simply telling you what it is. Your life. Or mine. Is that plain enough?"

  It was a near thing. Young or not, he was a warrior chief with a small army at his back. I was but a cat's whisker from death. He cocked his head, reading my eyes.

  "Do you know who I am?" he asked quietly.

  "I only know I'm not your man, nor do I owe that hog on the ground any fealty."

  "I'm Sir Logan DuBoyne—"

  "He's lying!" Noelle snapped, pulling free of Owyn's grasp.

  "What?" DuBoyne and I said together.

  "Any DuBoyne would be noble," she continued coldly. "At the convent they said I could tell the nobility by their scent and fine manners. You smell like a horse and show your breeding by insulting my father who was a soldier before you were born. Yet you claim to be a knight? I think not."

  For a moment, I thought he might butcher us both. His eyes darkened, and I could see why the villagers hid their children. But the rage passed. He shook his head slowly, as if waking from a dream.

  "You were convent raised, miss? Then clearly I've… misunderstood this situation. I apologize. I've fought two skirmishes today, and I'm not as young as I used to be. I meant no offense to you. But as for you," he said, turning to me, "if you ever lay hands on a man of mine again, I'll see your head on a pike."

  Reaching down, he hauled Kenedi to his feet. "Come on, Gillespie, let's find some ale."

  "The bastard struck me!" Kenedi said, outraged.

  "He saved your life," DuBoyne said, leading him off. "The girl would have cut our hearts out."

  "You idiot," Owyn said angrily, spinning me around. "You could have gotten us all killed!"

  "And if she were yours? Would you have sold her?"

  For a moment I thought I'd pushed him too far. But Owyn is nothing if not agile. "Sweet Jesus, Tallifer. You may not be the world's greatest singer, but by God you're never dull. And you, girl, you've enjoyed my hospitality long enough. It's time to earn your keep. Come, sing for us. If I'm to be slaughtered defending your honor, you'd better be worth it."

  I wanted to fetch my lute to accompany her but I was afraid to risk letting her out of my sight, even for a moment. Black Logan was prowling the camp, talking with pedlars and travelers. And glancing my way from time to time.

  It didn't bode well. Most men with black reputations have earned them. His own people shied from him as if he wore a leper's bell and I knew that if he snatched up Noelle, none but me would oppose him.

  And so I watched tensely as Owyn led Noelle into the ring of firelight, introduced her, then stepped back. It was an impossible situation. Drunken revelers were bellowing jests, laughing, groping their women. A clown troupe juggling lions with their manes ablaze wouldn't satisfy this lot.

  Yet, as that slip of a girl began to sing, the crowd gradually fell silent, listening. She sang a simple French lullaby in a voice so pure and true that my heart swelled with longing, not for Noelle but for all I'd lost in my life. And would lose.

  When she finished there was a long moment of stone silence, then the crowd erupted with a roar of applause and cheers. They called for more and she gave it, singing a rousing Irish war ballad I'd taught her and then a love song that would have misted the eyes of a bronze idol.

  I was as transfixed as the rest, until I realized that Black Logan was standing a few paces to my left. He was eyeing Noelle like a lion at mealtime, but if her song moved him he gave no sign, not even applauding when she finished. He turned to me instead.

  "I didn't know the girl was blind."

  "What difference does it make?"

  "I don't know. But it does. I've asked around the camp. Folk say you truly were a soldier once. Whom did you serve?"

  "I was a yeoman for the Duke of York, bodyguard to his son for a time. Later I fought for Sir Ranaulf de Picard."

  "At Aln Ford?"

  "I was there, and at a hundred other scuffles you've never heard of."

  "Then you must know troops. Whose men did you pass on the road here? How were they armed?"

  "I was a soldier once and now I'm a singer. But a spy? That I've never been."

  "Minstrel, you're trying my patience at a bad time. My father's health is failing, and his neighbors and enemies have begun raiding our stock and gouging taxes from our people. When I answer their aggression with my own they whine to Edinburgh, branding me an outlaw. My father has invited some of those same neighbors to the feast in hopes of a truce, but I know they've brought troops with them. Perhaps they fear treachery. Perhaps they plan it. Either way, you'd best tell me what you've seen."

  "Suppose we compromise, and I tell you what I didn't see instead? We saw no heavy cavalry on the road, nor any siege engines, nor did we encounter any supply trains. The soldiers were carrying a few days' provisions, no more."

  "Then they aren't planning a siege; they're escort troops only. Good. How many men did you see, and whose were they?"

  "I took no count, and I don't know the liveries of this land well enough to identify them."

  "And wouldn't if you could?"

  "They did us no harm, DuBoyne. We've no quarrel with them."

  "Nor with me. Yet." The camp erupted in a roar as Noelle finished her song, with Owyn standing beside her leading the cheers.

  "Your daughter sings well."

  "Yes, she does."

  He started to say something else but his voice was drowned by the throng as Owyn led Noelle back to me. DuBoyne turned and stalked off to rejoin his men.

  "Tallifer, did you hear?" Noelle's face was shining and Owyn's grin was as broad as the Rede.

  "You were in wonderful voice, Noelle, and they knew it. What was that French lullaby? I've never heard it before."

  "A woman sang it to me when I was small. I don't know why it came back to me tonight. Was I foolish to sing it?"

  "Au contraire, cherie, it was brilliant," Owyn countered. "By singing softly, you made them quiet down to hear. You won many hearts tonight, little Noelle, including mine."

  "All of it?" she asked sweetly. "Or just the parts your wives aren't using at the moment?"

  "Get back to your tent, imp," Owyn snorted. "I swear, if you weren't so pretty I might believe you really are Tallifer's child. Your tongue's as sharp as his." Laughing, Noelle set off, but Owyn grasped my arm before I could follow.

  "What did Black Logan want? More trouble?"

  "He has trouble of his own." I quickly sketched the situation DuBoyne had described.

  "I've heard the old laird's mind is failing," Owyn nodded. "And vultures gather early along the borders. Do you think there will be quarreling at the feast?"

  "I hope not. That boy may be young, but he's already a seasoned fighter. I half believe that nonsense about him leaping from his mother's womb to his saddle and riding off to fight the Ramsays."

  "He won't have far to ride tomorrow," Owyn sighed. "The Ramsays are among the honored guests. A baker's dozen of them. And that captain I spoke to yesterday, the one who's probably watching us from the hills at this moment? He was a Ramsay man."

  "Damn it, you should have warned me away from this, Owyn."

  "I tried to, remember? Besides, Noelle likes it here. Thinks the blasted place is lucky."

  "She may be right. But good luck or bad, I wonder?"

  * * *

  The evening feast of All Saints Day was a rich one, probably to atone for the carousing and deviltry of the night before. It was also a display of wealth and power by the laird of Garriston, Alisdair DuBoyne. Food and drink were laid on with a will, steaming platters of venison and hare and partridge, wooden bowls of sav
ory bean porridge spiced with leeks and garlic; mulled wine, ale, or mead, depending on the station of the guest.

  The great hall, though, was great in name only, a rude barn of a room, smoky from the sconces and cooking fires, its walls draped with faded tapestries probably hung when the DuBoynes first came to this fief a generation ago.

  Seated at the center of the linen-draped high table, flanked by his wife and two sons, Laird DuBoyne was even older than I'd expected, seventy or beyond, I guessed. Tall and skeletal with a scanty gray beard, it was said he'd once been a formidable warrior, but his dueling days were long past. He seemed apathetic, as though the juice of life had already bled from him and only the husk remained.

  His wife was at least a generation younger. Dressed in green velvet, she was willowy as a doe, a striking woman with aquiline features and chestnut hair beneath a white silken cap. Her youngest son, Godfrey, nine or so, had her fairness and fine features, while his brother, Black Logan, with his dark beard and burning eyes, sat like a chained wolf at the table, seeing everything, equally ready for a toast or a fight.

  Kenedi, the stocky steward, and his wife sat at the far end of the high table beside the chubby priest I'd seen at the Samhain fest. Father Fennan, someone had said, was a local man who'd risen from the peasantry to become both parish priest and chaplain to the DuBoynes.

  Two lower tables, also decked in fine linen, extended from the corners of the high table to form a rough horseshoe shape, which was appropriate since the guests were probably more familiar with war saddles than silver forks.

  Three family groups of DuBoyne's neighbors, the Ramsays, Duarts, and Harden clans, nearly thirty of them, were seated in declining order of status. A hard-eyed crew, wary as bandits, they'd brought no women or children with them. Nor had they worn finery to honor their hosts, dressing in coarse woolens instead, clothes more suited to battle than a banquet.

  Randal Ramsay was senior among them. A red-bearded descendent of Norse raiders, Ramsay conversed courteously with his host and the other guests but kept a watchful eye on Logan, an attention the younger man returned.

  In England, strict protocols of station would have been observed, but along the borders the Scots and their English cousins act more like soldiers in allied armies, jests and jibes flying back and forth between high and low tables. But I noted the exchanges were surprisingly mild and politely offered, lest harmless banter explode into bloodshed.

  Owyn delayed beginning the entertainment as long as he dared. Scots at table can be a damned surly audience, and the tension in DuBoyne's hall was as thick as the scent of roasting meat. Later, with full bellies and well oiled with ale, DuBoyne's guests might be more receptive.

  Not so. When Piers LeDoux and his troupe of Flemish acrobats opened the performance, their energetic efforts received the barest modicum of applause.

  After a juggler and a Gypsy woman who ate fire fared equally poorly, Owyn took the bull by the horns and strode to the center of the room. He stood silently for a bit, commanding attention by his presence alone. Then, instead of singing, he began to recite a faerie story of Wales and then ghostly doings in the Highlands and Ireland, delivering the tales with such verve and drama that even the bloodthirsty warriors at the low table leaned forward to hear.

  It was a masterful performance. Owyn entranced the DuBoynes and their restive neighbors alike, holding them spellbound for the better part of an hour. He finished to rousing cheers and applause, the first enthusiastic response of the night.

  "Match that if you can," Owyn whispered with a grin as he passed us in the doorway.

  The minstrelsy is a free-spirited life, but it has protocols of its own. As Noelle and I had joined Owyn's troupe last, we were scheduled to perform last, the toughest position of all.

  Ordinarily, I warmed up a crowd with a few rowdy ballads before bringing on Noelle, but after the way she won over the revelers at the Samhain, I simply introduced her and began strumming my lute, softly, softly, hoping the crowd would quiet.

  Facing her unseen audience, Noelle sang the French lullaby, even more beautifully than the previous night. And with the same wondrous effect. The room fell utterly silent, every eye fixed on Noelle as she poured all the pain and longing of her blighted life and our own into that song. Angels on high couldn't have sung it one whit better. My eyes grew misty as I played the accompaniment, and I wasn't alone.

  As I glanced about, reading the room, I noted Randal Ramsay's fierceness had softened, Lady DuBoyne was crying silently, while her husband… was up and moving. Laird DuBoyne was shuffling past the low table, coming toward us.

  Unaware of his approach, Noelle sang on. I couldn't guess his intentions, but he seemed anguished and angry. Brushing past me, the old man seized Noelle's arm, startling her to silence.

  "My dear, this is not fitting. You sing as beautifully as ever, but it's not proper for my lady wife to—"

  "Let go of me!" Noelle shouted, pulling away. "Tallifer!"

  "Come back to the table, milady, we'll—"

  "Milord Alisdair!" Lady DuBoyne's voice snapped like a whip, cutting off her husband's ramblings. He stared up at her, shocked, then turned back to Noelle, eyeing her in wonder.

  "I… but you're not my lady," he said slowly. "I thought… Your voice sounds much like hers did. Long ago. I'm sorry. I've ruined your song…"

  And then Black Logan was at his father's side. Firmly disengaging his hand from Noelle's arm, he led Laird DuBoyne from the room. But at the door, the old man stopped, turning back to stare at Noelle in confusion.

  "Who are you?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Who are you?"

  With surprising gentleness, Logan ushered him out, leaving us in stunned silence.

  "What was all that?" Lord Ramsay said, rising. "Is our host going mad, then?"

  "He had a bit too much wine, that's all," Lady DuBoyne said coldly. "It's a celebration, Ramsay, and you're falling behind. Continue the music, minstrel. Play on!"

  And I did. Striking up a merry Scottish reel on my lute, I played as though the strings were on fire. To no avail. The spell of Noelle's song was shattered, and the guests were only interested in discussing their host's behavior with one another.

  Owyn led Noelle quietly out of the hall, then after letting me twist in the wind alone for a time, he called the rest of the company back for a final song and bow before we all beat a hasty retreat to a smattering of applause.

  Noelle was waiting for us in the outer hall. "Tallifer, what happened? Who was that man?"

  "Our host, my lark," Owyn said. "The man who is supposed to pay me tomorrow. Assuming he doesn't mistake me for a tree and have me cut down."

  "Is that what happened?" I asked. "He mistook her for someone else?"

  "For his lady, I believe. There's a vague resemblance, and a man addled by age could mistake them. Still, if DuBoyne's neighbors came to take his measure, they just saw the ghost of a man who's still alive, but only barely. I don't like the feel of this a damned bit. We're breaking camp at first light, I—"

  "Good sirs, hold a moment, please." It was the pudgy priest, red-faced and puffing as he hurried after us. "I'm Father Fennan, Mr. Phyffe, chaplain to the DuBoyne family. Milady DuBoyne would like a word. And with these other two as well, the blind girl and her father."

  "It's late," I said. "Noelle should—"

  "It's not that late and I want to be ten miles south of here tomorrow," Owyn interrupted. "Lead on, Father."

  "You must be a busy man," Noelle said, as we followed the friar. "From what I hear of Black Logan, he badly needs a priest. Or is it already too late for him?"

  "It's never too late for salvation, miss," Father Fennan said, eyeing her curiously. "You sang in French very well. Where did you learn?"

  "I know only the one song. I grew up in the convent at Lachlan Cul and must have heard it there."

  "I see," Fennan said curtly. Too curtly, I thought. Either the song or the mention of the convent seemed to trouble him. I knew the feeli
ng. Everything about this place was worrying me.

  We followed the priest down a shadowed corridor lit by guttering sconces, arriving at a windowless room at the west corner of the fortress. Vellum scrolls and ledgers filled pigeonhole racks against the walls.

  "A library?" Noelle asked. "Linseed and charcoal. I love the ink scent. It smells like knowledge."

  "Nay, it's a counting room," I whispered. Though such a place was normally a steward's lair, Lady DuBoyne was seated alone at his desk with a ledger open before her.

  "According to Kenedi's accounts, this was the sum agreed on," she said brusquely, pushing a purse of coins toward Owyn. "Count it if you like."