They came flocking. ‘Tales from Merovence?“ one shopper asked. ”That’s neither far nor fabled, but I have the newest stories and tales.“ Matt was sure they’d be very new-in this universe, anyway. ”No songs?“ one teenager asked, disappointed. Matt grinned. ”I shall play the tunes and chant the words-but believe me, you do not wish to hear me sing.“
‘True, true,“ Pascal murmured. Matt flashed him a mock glare. ”You don’t have to agree with me, you know.“
The crowd laughed, and Matt began to realize that Pascal could be a very good straight man. In fact, the two of them could really clean up at every wayside fair between here and- He wrenched his thought back to the present with a major effort. He was supposed to be a spy, not a real minstrel! The ham in him was carrying him away, like Peer Gynt with the Green-Clad One. “A tale of the far north!” he cried. “A story of the wanderer Peer Gynt, and his fall from virtue! Who would hear it?”
The crowd clamored agreement, and some of them waved pennies. Pascal, quicker on the uptake than Matt would have thought, tossed his hat down at Matt’s feet and pitched in a penny of his own. It was like seeding the clouds, and produced a positive hail- storm of coppers. “I am persuaded.” Matt bowed with a flourish. He began to play “Morning Mood” from Grieg’s Peer Gynt Suite, and intoned, “Peer Gynt was a lad of Norway, where the Vikings came from…”
“The sea robbers?” a boy cried eagerly. This far south, the Vikings were only storybook villains. Matt wondered how the story would go over even farther south-say, near Sicily. Had the Normans conquered the island in this world, too? “He was of their blood, but was himself only a poor farm boy whose father had died when he was young. His mother had reared him as well as she might, but he was always willful, and somewhat wild. He liked to ramble the mountainside with a sling and stones, claiming he was hunting, but really daydreaming.”
The boy’s eyes shone, and Matt realized the kid was hearing about a kindred spirit. Well, for him it would be a cautionary tale. ‘One day, when Peer Gynt was out hunting, he heard a wild pig’s squeal-and looking up, he saw a woman. But what a woman! Her form was everything a man could dream of, and her gossamer green gown clung to her in such a way as to show every curve!“
The women muttered, not liking the sound of this-was the minstrel going to say they should show themselves off? That was exploitation for those who did have figures worth looking at, but outright humiliation for those who did not! And the boy in front was beginning to look disappointed. Well, no matter, Matt decided-he would catch them all again when they got to the Hall of the Mountain King. He caught them sooner than that. “From the neck down she was the most lovely of women-but from the neck up, she was a sow! Aye, bristles, snout, pointed ears and all, the woman had a pig’s head!”
He went on, telling them of the Green-Clad One’s seductive invitation, of their ride on the back of a boar to the Hall of the Mountain King with its elves and monsters, of their attempt to hold Peer there, and of his escape. When he finished, the audience let out a collective sigh. “What then?” the boy cried, his eyes huge. “Oh, that is a tale for another time,” Matt said carelessly.
The audience complained, disappointed-but one man called out, “Have you news of Merovence?”
“News for news,” Matt answered. ‘Tell me what moves in Latruria, and I’ll tell you what transpires in Merovence! How fares your king?“
“Boncorro is well, praise Hea-” The man caught himself and glanced around, desperate to be sure no royal spy had heard him. “-praise him! Rumor has it that he sent his men to chastise a knight who still demands that his serfs give him three parts in four of their crop!”
“He has hanged a squire for raping a peasant’s daughter!” a young woman said, eyes alight with triumph. “He has wounded our business,” one man complained, “by cutting the taxes on brandy and wool and brocades that come from Merovence and Allustria, aye, even those that come through the country of the Switzers!”
Matt frowned. “How does that hurt your business?”
“Why, I now must charge less for the goods I bring in!” the man said indignantly, and the audience laughed. Matt finally got the joke-the man was a smuggler, and the legitimate merchants could now undersell him. “News for news!” the first man cried again. “How fares your queen?”
“She is well, she is wed!” Matt cried. “That is old news,” a woman scoffed. “Has she birthed a babe yet?”
“No, sad to say,” Matt said, with genuine regret, “though we keep hoping.”
“More than a year wed, and still no sign of a child?” the woman said indignantly. “What ails her husband?”
Matt stared, caught speechless. “He cannot be much of a man,” another woman opined, “if he cannot get her with child.”
“Scarcely a man at all!” the first woman sniffed. “He is a wizard-not even a sorcerer!”
“A wizard, but not a miracle worker!” Matt protested. “Husbands are only the delivery boys-babies come from Heaven!”
The whole crowd fell silent, aghast. “Do not say that word!” a granny cried. “Are you a fool?”
“No, I’m from Merovence.”
They stared at him in shock for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Very good, very good!” a portly man chuckled, wiping his eyes. “But what of the crops? We have heard rumors of drought!”
“All false, thank-” Matt caught himself in time, deciding not 10 offend their sensibilities. “-praises be. The rain falls like a blessing, and the sun beams down.”
The crowd began to mutter again, apprehensive, glancing over their shoulders. Matt wondered if, seven years ago, mention of “Heaven” or “blessing” really had been enough to bring a vengeful sorcerer. If not, King Maledicto had brainwashed them into dreading even the words of goodness. Matt grasped for a change of topic. “The queen has made a treaty with the Free Folk, with the dragons! They shall no longer steal sheep and cattle, and the queen shall arrest the hatchling hunters who seek to steal dragons’ blood to sell to sorcerers!” Stegoman had pushed for that one. Again the crowd muttered, but wide-eyed this time-amazed that Matt could speak against sorcerers and not get burned up about it. Still, they edged away from him. “News for news!” But Matt was beginning to wonder if there were a single topic that wouldn’t edge into a taboo area, such as sorcery or Heaven. Maybe not, in this world. “But first, let me tell you of Peer Gynt and Solveg!”
The crowd murmured appreciation and came crowding back in, eager for more stories of licentious women. Well, they were in for a disappointment this time. “Solveg was a church-bred woman, a Lass who carried a prayer book about her wherever she went.”
The crowd edged away again, murmuring with apprehension. “But she was beautiful!” Matt cried. “Demure, sweet, modest-and beautiful!”
“Not with a figure like that of the Green-Clad one?” asked a teenaged boy, disappointed. “Who could know? Her clothing was so loose that none could see! But it was beautifully embroidered, and her skirts swung with the lilt of a May tune as she walked. The aroma of roses seemed to follow her, and so did Peer Gynt’s heart.”
The boys began to look bored, but the women pressed close, held by the promise of a good love story. Matt told them of Peer Gynt’s boastful courtship and of Solveg’s interest, though she saw through him in an instant Still, she found something to love in him anyway-but Peer went off in a huff, offended by her truthfulness. Then he encountered the darkness cast by the Great Boyg, becoming trapped and unable to fight his way free, as the monster called up harpies to feed on him-but Solveg came, singing hymns, and banished them all by her simple goodness. The men and boys were riveted by the tale, and the women sighed with happiness-then instantly looked apprehensive again. Apparently this was something really new for them-a story in which virtue triumphed, and they rather liked the novelty. They just weren’t sure it was safe, that was all. Matt and Pascal camped by the roadside that night, Pascal counting the day’s take by the light of the fire. “A silver penny!”
he cried, holding up the trophy. “They must truly have liked your tale of Peer Gynt, my friend.”
“And want to give me good reason to come back and tell them Act Two,” Matt agreed. Pascal looked up, frowning. “ ‘Act Two’?”
“The second half of the story,” Matt said quickly. “If it is half so amusing as the first, you will make your fortune with it! We have a month’s living in this hat!”
“Latruria is having a boom,” Matt said. “They have become prosperous, if that is what you mean-but we knew that in Merovence. I fear that you have not learned much new here, Sir Matthew.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Matt gazed at the pot that was stewing vegetables and beef jerky. “We’ve found out that King Boncorro really is trying to make life better for the common folk, but apparently isn’t doing it because he wants to do good.”
Pascal frowned. “Who told you that?”
“All of them-from their fright, every time I mentioned Heaven or a blessing, or Solveg’s church, prayer book, and hymns. They’re still scared of evil sorcerers punishing people for even talking about Goodness-which means King Boncorro certainly hasn’t taken a stand against the forces of Evil, and may not even have a quarrel with them.”
“Why, then, would he be doing what is good for the commoners?” Pascal asked, suddenly intent-after all, these were his kind of people. “Pure selfishness-or, if not pure, then at least basic.” Matt reached out to stir the stew. “He has some personal motive, some hope of gain. It might even be that he’s enlightened enough to realize that if the people prosper, the king gets richer.”
“Why, what an odd notion!”
“It is, around here,” Matt agreed, “so I don’t really expect that’s King Boncorro’s reason. I wonder what is, though.”
“Perhaps you shall find out at the next village.”
“Maybe,” Matt agreed. “One way or another, at least we should make another haul of coppers. Stew smells about ready, Pascal. Did you say you had a bowl in your pack?”
“The aroma is tempting,” a deeper voice answered, “but I prefer my food raw. In fact, I prefer it moving.”
“I already paid the farmer a quarter mile back.” Matt didn’t even look up. “Go have a cow, Manny.”
Chapter 8
It was nice to know how it felt to be a star. Everywhere Matt went, everyplace he stopped long enough for Pascal to toss down his hat, people came running to jostle each other as they tried to get closer, to see and hear the minstrel. Somehow, it never occurred to Pascal that they might be attracting more attention than he wanted-but it occurred to Matt, sure enough. For himself, Matt didn’t mind-he was the bait in his own trap, so to speak. But for Pascal, it was another matter. “I am likely to draw some unpleasant attention from an evil sorcerer or two,” he reminded Pascal as the young man poured him another stoup of ale from the inn’s pitcher. “I’d really rather you not get thrown into prison for my sake.”
Pascal shrugged. “It is worth the risk. Your glory reflects on me, and any ounce of fame is more likely to sway the fair Panegyra to my suit.”
Matt just hoped that suit wasn’t spades. That first village turned out to be typical; Matt had learned a lot there, but he didn’t find out too much more about conditions in Latruria, no matter how many towns and roadside inns heard his “songs.” The people were well fed and well cared for. The country looked very prosperous, and though the serfs and yeomen were deferential when a lord passed by, they didn’t cringe, nor did the lords treat them cruelly. The girls in the villages didn’t have to turn their faces to the wall as the gentlemen passed by. People gathered around, winced at any mention of Heaven or blessing, but looked similarly nervous at mention of the Devil. If ever there was a country that believed in the golden mean, this was it. They had been punished too often for having spoken of holy matters, and punished too often by those who were dedicated to Evil. Matt began to realize all over again that witches and sorcerers who had sold their souls to the Devil had done it in more ways than one. They were now completely devoted to evil and wickedness, to selfishness, hatred, and doing harm to others wherever they could. The only difference between the mighty sorcerers and the low seemed to be their capacity for hatred, and the magnitude of their sins-as Kipling said of the little devils, “They weep that they’d been too small to sin to the height of their desire.” The sorcerers devoted themselves to their work of misery-making with the single-mindedness of the fanatic, whether it was out of despair, a wish for revenge on their fellow humans, or the feeling that once having turned away from Heaven, they were doomed irrevocably. If “sold my soul to rock ‘n’ roll” meant that the person in question was so totally dedicated to his favorite form of music that there was little room for anything else in his life, so selling one’s soul to the Devil implied that the seller was totally dedicated to evil and the harming of his fellow beings. Small wonder that the mere mention of them still made the Latrurians start looking over their shoulders-or that, six years after King Boncorro’s coronation, there was still a feeling of jubilance, of release, like that of children let out to play on the first day of spring. But when grown-ups are turned loose to play, they do it with a bit more dedication than children, and some of their games are not nice at all-especially when they have been raised with no mention of morality. Matt leaned across the table in the common room of the inn and murmured, “Every girl I’ve seen seems to make flirting a major hobby.”
Pascal looked up at him in surprise. “Do not all girls?” So it had spread to Pascal’s home in southern Merovence, too. Matt wondered what had happened to the demure young miss who sat modestly by and waited for the boys to come to her. Gone and scarcely remembered, apparently-along with the mammoth and the saber-tooth. Didn’t any of them have enough confidence in their own beauty and attractiveness to be sure they were male bait? Not in this inn, at least. He looked around him, figuring percentages. The common room was long and wide, but low-ceilinged, filled with trestle tables, benches, and smoke rejected by a chimney that was almost drawing properly-not enough to make anybody choke or wheeze, but enough to drift up along the ceiling beams, where a century or so of such vapors had turned the wood black. Laughter and chatter filled the air, along with the clink of mug against pitcher and the sound of pouring. The air was pungent with the aroma of ale and roasting pork. The serving maids giggled at the pinches they drew, or turned on their tormentors with mock severity-or, if the men were handsome enough or looked prosperous enough, batted their eyelashes and exchanged a few double entendres before they hurried away about their errands. “Your fingers are too hard, sir! Belike from wielding the hoe!”
“Nay, lass, ‘tis from counting coins all the day.”
“Coins, is it? Your master’s they must be-for I see naught but coppers before you!”
“Oh, but there is more in my purse.” The man patted his pouch with a grin. “There now, weigh it and see for yourself!”
The girl leaned over to cup her hand under the merchant’s purse and judge its weight. “A man of substance, are you?”
The merchant shrugged. “Discover for yourself, if you wish-when you are done with your day’s chores.”
“And if I find none more appealing than yourself,” the girl retorted, “which should not be hard.”
“Should it not?” The man grinned. “When should I come to ask again?”
“When the moon is high, if you are not! Enjoy the savories while you may!” She went off with a swirl of her skirts, and the man turned with a grin to the pastries she had left. “Harmless enough,” Pascal judged. “Why do you frown so?”
“Mostly because the man was wearing a wedding ring. Doesn’t he even think about his wife?”
“Why?” Pascal shrugged. “He is far from home, and she is not likely to learn of what he does. Besides, do you think she will be any more chaste than he, while he is away on his travels?”
“Well, uh…” Matt turned back, feeling very naive. “I kinda had some notion like that, yeah.�
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Pascal stared. “Is this the fashion in the queen’s capital?”
“It will be if she has anything to say about it,” Matt said grimly. “She also might start enforcing some of the rules of chivalry.” He nodded toward another amorous tableau. “They could use it.”
Here, it was no serving maid, but a lady in her traveling clothes who was sipping her wine and laughing at the remarks a knight was making as he stood beside her, leaning over to look down at her face and her décolletage. Another knight leaned close behind her, looking down over her shoulder, and murmured something in her ear that made her face redden. Then she blushed again at something the first knight said and lowered her eyes, but made no move to cover her décolletage-nor to edge away when the knight in front stepped so close that his thigh pressed against her, leaning close to murmur something, or when the knight behind sat down and slid up tight against her side, leaning around in front to add a comment of his own. She looked up sharply, a glint in her eye, then turned to the first knight and nodded as if accepting a challenge. She rose to take his hand and turn away toward the stairs. “‘Tis only sport.” Pascal frowned. “Why are you so pale?”
“Because those two going up the stairs are both wearing wedding rings-and I have the sneaking suspicion that whoever they’re married to, it’s not each other.” Matt turned back to the younger man. “Where I come from, that’s counted a deed unworthy of a knight-and as to it being only sport, I have a notion that it’s going to become a very strenuous sport indeed.”
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