by B. J. Beach
Corlin grinned as he massaged his ankle and eased his boot back on. As he fastened the straps something occurred to him. “I don’t suppose you know who sent me that note?”
Jouan looked straight at him. “Well, as you haven’t told me what was in it, I couldn’t say.”
Corlin returned the look. “It was one word, a name, which I won’t say.”
The trooper blinked. “Oh!” He said nothing more. A couple of minutes later he nudged Corlin’s arm. C’mon, let’s get some supper from the kitchen, and then I’ll find you a bed.”
Reluctant to leave the uniquely warm and peaceful atmosphere of the stable, Corlin nevertheless pushed himself to his feet. He pointed at the gimalin leaning against the end of the straw-bale. “I think I’ll leave that here. Pity I left its case behind.”
Jouan nodded. “It’ll be safe enough. I reckon it’s cursed now anyway.”
The minstrel was feeling too tired to care, and followed Jouan across the keep to the kitchens, to find what they could for supper.
The troops’ quarters were chilly, basic, and the beds little more than a thin horsehair mattress on a board, but despite the lack of comforts, Corlin slept well. It was almost daylight when he woke, and there was no sign of any of the soldiers. He had saddled Megan and was leading her out into the keep before he realised he had left the old gimalin. He went back and gave the stables a thorough search, but could find no trace of it. Deciding it was probably for the best, although he felt some regret at losing such a rare and beautiful instrument, he rode out of the castle gates and without looking back headed for the city of Tregwald. On the other side of the city lay the infamous Whispering Forest, but that was at least two days’ ride away, and he’d worry about that when he got there.
11 - An Alarum and an Alibi
The road to the city of Tregwald wound through an abandoned hamlet, a couple of small woods and a tidy little village where some public-spirited inhabitant sent a large mastiff to ensure that Corlin didn’t inadvertently stray from the road or have a sudden desire to go sight-seeing. The minstrel hoped the citizens of Tregwald would be a bit more neighbourly. With the city within shouting distance he was forced to urge Megan into a gallop, eliciting a loud but genial cussing from the watchman who was just closing the city gates as Corlin thundered through. The heavy gates boomed shut behind him and he eased Megan to a walk, wondering whether it might be his good fortune to one day arrive somewhere before nightfall. There were plenty of people about and he leaned down from the saddle to ask a cloaked figure wearing a feather-trimmed hat where he might find an inn for the night.
The figure stopped, turned to look up at him and cheekily tipped the brim of his hat. Corlin nearly fell off Megan’s broad back into the street as Otty grinned up at him.
“Well met master Bentfoot. I trust you had a good journey.”
Corlin returned the grin and scrambled out of the saddle. “Well met yourself! You’re the last person I expected to see. What brings you here?”
The stocky man gestured up ahead. “Let’s get you and your mare settled in somewhere, and I’ll tell you the story, such as it is...er...that’s if you’re not just passing through.”
The minstrel looked about him as they ambled along the narrow cobbled street. “Nowhere too expensive. I haven’t got much left in the way of coin.”
Otty glanced back at Megan’s saddle. “Is that a gimalin I can see bundled up on there?”
Corlin nodded. “It is, and I’ve got a story to tell you about that too.” He missed a step as his companion suddenly turned off down a side street. He led Megan round the turn, taking a few fast hobbling steps to catch up. “Are we going far, because if we are I’m getting back in the saddle.”
Otty grinned and pointed across and further down the street where light spilled out of a wide window and an open door, turning the damp cobbles to pewter. “That’s our lodging for the night. It’s not much different to ‘The Red Dog’, just a bit bigger.”
With Megan comfortably stabled next to a good-looking chestnut cob, and two of his precious pennies in the ostler’s fist, Corlin unstrapped his gimalin, slung it across his back and followed Otty into the inn. The innkeeper, a broad-shouldered mountain of a man with hands like hams, watched the pair as they eased past the half-dozen customers and up to the bar.
He nodded to Otty and looked Corlin up and down. “Good evening sir. What’ll be your pleasure?”
Corlin returned the greeting and looked along the bar. “A tankard of ale and a bed for the night if you would, landlord.”
The man reached for a clean tankard and began to fill it. “It’s Willem, sir, Willem Trewidden. The ale I have sir, but I’m afraid there’s no rooms left.” He placed the full tankard on the bar-top, then looked over Corlin’s shoulder at Otty. “Are you together sir?”
Corlin’s brow furrowed. “Well, yes. Why?”
The barman gave a satisfied smile. “Problem solved then. Your friend has two cots in his room. If you don’t mind sharing, it’ll only cost you a halfpenny.”
Otty shrugged as Corlin turned and raised a questioning eyebrow. “I don’t mind, if you don’t.”
With the matter settled and his dues paid, Corlin made his way to a bench at the far side of the room and was just slipping the gimalin off his back as Otty sat beside him, a tankard of ale in his hand. “Are you going to play?”
The minstrel nodded. “I will directly, but first I want to tell you what’s been happening, and how I got this gimalin.”
Apart from making the odd comment, Otty listened quietly, supping his ale as Corlin told him how he came to be the proud possessor of the beautiful instrument and of everything that had happened since he left Redmire. By the time he had finished, their tankards were empty and the bar was full. His expression thoughtful, Otty pushed his way through to the bar for more ale, while Corlin un-wrapped the gimalin, settled it against his body and fingered a few notes to check the tuning. The loud voices and hearty laughter faded to a subdued hum of murmured conversation as expectant faces turned toward him. The minstrel played. He began with a traditional tune just to get the gimalin in full voice. When the polite applause had died down he struck up a popular and rather bawdy ballad. By the time he had reached the second verse most of the inn’s customers had joined in and the bar was alive with music and laughter. The innkeeper smiled in anticipation of a lively and profitable night.
While Corlin was taking a short break he noticed that Otty wasn’t nearly as drunk as he knew he could be. He peered into Otty’s tankard. It was still half full and the ale looked decidedly flat. The man still hadn’t got round to telling Corlin why he was in Tregwald, and the minstrel’s curiosity was really beginning to burn. Although he’d only known him for a few days, Corlin already thought of Otty as a friend. Now, he wasn’t drinking, hardly talking and Corlin was worried.
He had played no more than the opening bars of another ballad when his worries about Otty were pushed aside by worries of a far different and more immediate kind. The loud and urgent clangour of several bells carried in from outside, laying a jarring disharmony over the music of the gimalin.
Someone cried out “That’s the alarum!”
Drink and music were instantly forgotten as customers rushed for the door and surged out into the street. The innkeeper, his face set in a disapproving scowl, leaned heavily on the bar, his gaze fixed on the view through the open door. Eyes wide, Corlin and Otty looked at each other and stayed put. Shouts, exclamations and the clatter of clogs and boots running in the packed-stone street provided a fractured accompaniment to the uncoordinated voices of the bells, whose message had changed from alarum to a chorus of single tolling notes from at least half a dozen bell-towers. Sensing that this was the wrong time for music, Corlin wrapped the gimalin in its blue cloth and put it aside. He looked up to see Otty with his mouth open and staring at the doorway. Corlin followed his gaze.
Standing with arms outstretched, one hand on each doorpost and effectively blo
cking the doorway, a heavily built man wearing a pitted and scorched leather apron, glared down the room at Corlin. “Will you try and run, minstrel?” He gestured towards Corlin’s twisted left foot. “I don’t think you’d get very far.”
Otty made to stand up but Corlin put a firm hand on his shoulder, keeping him in his seat. The minstrel’s rich voice carried out into the street to the mob gathered pushing, muttering and threatening behind the man in the doorway. “What reason would I have to run, master black-smith?”
The man held his position in the open doorway. His mocking laugh rang round the room. “You deny it was you, minstrel?”
Corlin felt he knew what was coming. “Are you accusing me of something?”
The smith scowled as the mob howled behind him. “Strange that you should turn up here barely a day after Duke Ergwyn’s gimalin was played. Who else could it have been but you? You have the talent, you played it, and now the duke is dead.” He turned and roared at the swelling crowd out in the street. “Keep quiet and stay back. Let’s hear what this minstrel has to say for himself.”
The shouting and pushing eased a little and the smith turned his attention once more to Corlin. “Before the reeve gets here to drag you off to the magistrate, tell us how you did it.”
The memory of his treatment at the hands of the footpads was still clear in his mind, and Corlin had no wish to repeat the experience. Signalling to Otty to stay put, he stood up, limped slowly across the room and rested his backside against a heavy wooden table near the door. The black-smith watched his every move.
Corlin beckoned. “Let as many in as is safe, and I’ll tell you how it happened.”
The smith scowled again, studied Corlin’s calm, open face for a moment, then nodded. Lowering his arms he stood aside as the mob, suspicious of this unusual turn of events, pushed into the room. A few meaningful clouts from the smith’s meaty fist kept the more unruly ones in grumbling, shuffling order.
The smith growled “We’re waiting.”
Corlin was as good a narrator as he was a minstrel, and he soon had the mob settled and hanging on his words. He left nothing out, telling them everything up to the moment Grumas had removed them from the castle. “The trooper Jouan said that the duke would more than likely go mad, if he wasn’t already. As to how he died, it certainly wasn’t at my hand. I can only think the madness consumed him.”
He rested his hands on his thighs and waited for the murmurs of conjecture and spontaneous arguments to die down. A gruff voice rumbled from somewhere at the back of the room. “So where’s this trooper that you reckon was there?”
Another voice, strong and firm came from just outside the door. “Right here. The minstrel is telling the truth. I was with him.”
Corlin turned away to hide a smile and a sigh of relief as the crowd shuffled grudgingly aside to let Jouan take a step forward. His insignia embroidered cloak, dark grey uniform trousers and black boots spattered with mud, the trooper took two long strides into the room.
With bodies pressing in on all sides, he jerked his head in Corlin’s general direction. “When master Bentfoot played the duke’s gimalin, a curse was woken...I’m sure you’ve all heard the stories...which caused Ergwyn to utter an evil name. The uttering of that name condemned our beloved duke to death.”
As the import of Jouan’s words hit home, Corlin suddenly felt very sick. Until now it had never occurred to him that the pursuit of his quest had ultimately brought about the death of the ageing duke. Then he thought of his brother Clies in slavery to Lord Treevers, and for one callous moment, decided it was worth the price if it led to success. He looked up and mouthed “Thank you” as he saw Jouan gazing steadily at him across someone’s shoulder. The trooper gave a brief nod, but his expression told Corlin nothing.
The shoving and shouting had died down, and to Corlin’s relief the majority seemed to have given him and Jouan the benefit of the doubt.
Seizing the opportunity, Willem Trewidden stepped round from behind the bar. “Good night gentlemen. Time to go. I’m closing the bar.” He turned on a couple of grumblers. “Well, what did you expect me to do? Have a night of revelry and merrymaking? Get on with you; show some respect!”
As Willem began to push the door closed, muffling the sonorous note of one remaining tolling bell, Corlin looked across to Otty. “Where did Jouan go?” It was the innkeeper who answered as he slid bolts home. “The trooper? He left just after I started to clear the bar.”
Otty shrugged, shook his head and stood up. “Corlin, I’m going to bed. It’s the second room on the left.” He sounded tired and dispirited, dragging his feet as he headed for the door to the stairs. The minstrel could feel his own mind going numb, despite everything that seemed to be tearing around inside it. He decided that bed was a very good idea. Not giving a thought to any supper, he wished the innkeeper good night, gathered up his gimalin and limped tiredly up the stairs. Otty was pretending to be asleep on the cot furthest from the window. Making no special effort to be quiet, Corlin sat on the edge of the empty cot, eased off his boots and massaged his ankle and foot for a few moments. After relieving himself in the chamber-pot, he flopped down on the cot’s generously filled feather mattress and pulled the coarse brown blanket round him. Lying back and gazing at the patch of dimly moonlit sky visible through the tiny window, he let his mind wander. A single bell continued to toll.
12 - A Menace on the Moors
The patch of sky had turned pale grey and raindrops splattered the window. Corlin blinked and pushed himself onto his elbows, surprised but thankful that he’d been able to sleep. He looked across at the other cot. Otty was lying on his back, mouth open, snoring in a low register. Corlin dressed and pulled on his boots. After one more glance at Otty, glad they had met up again if only briefly, he slipped out of the room and picked his way one step at a time down the dark stairs.
Willem Trewidden was on his knees, riddling the ash out of the fireplace. He stood up as Corlin came in. “Morning, master Corlin. Away early is it?”
The minstrel put his gimalin on the bench. “Yes. I’ve a long way to go today. If you could pack me some provisions I’d be obliged.”
The innkeeper rubbed at his stubbled chin as he stepped closer to Corlin. “Pardon me for asking, but where exactly are you heading for? There’s nothing much between here and Vellethen except the city of Tallard and...well...somewhere it’d be best not to go, if you get my meaning.”
Corlin gave the man a sideways glance. “If you mean the ‘Whispering Forest’ master Trewidden, then I have no choice. Unfortunately, to have any hope of success, my quest will take me to its very heart.”
The innkeeper said nothing more, simply shook his head and headed for the kitchen. Half an hour later, Corlin was in the stable, saddling Megan. The innkeeper had filled a small cotton bag with bread, cheese, spiced sausage and an apple or two. As Corlin swung himself into the saddle, Willem appeared at the stable door.
He held out a hand. “You might have need of this, where you’re going.”
Corlin reached down, and a broad-bladed ash-wood-handled knife in a leather scabbard was laid across his palm.
Appreciative of the thought behind such a gift, but uncertain what else to say, the minstrel smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Willem. Let’s hope I don’t need to use it in conflict.” The two men shook hands, and Corlin turned Megan’s head towards the street.
After taking a couple of wrong turns he saw the city’s East Gate ahead of him. A half-penny changed hands and the night watchman opened the gate for him. Urging Megan into a trot he left Tregwald behind, and with the rising sun in his face turned onto the long and much-travelled road which led towards the Whispering Forest. At mid-day he stopped at the top of a rise, tethered Megan where she could graze, and settled himself against the broad trunk of a tree to eat some bread and cheese. From where he sat he could see the road, a brown winding ribbon curving past stone-walled fields where sheep grazed and a few early lambs skipped and pranced.
In the far distance he could see rooftops and smoking chimneys of a little village. The sight of a ploughman working a pair of heavy horses in a field to his left assured him there would be at least a water-trough. He finished his meagre lunch, gave Megan one of the two apples, and set off for the village.
At the village trough, he was watching to make sure Megan didn’t guzzle too much water, when a gruff voice made him look down beside him. “You come far?”
Before replying Corlin looked around but could see no-one else about. “Three days or so the other side of Redmire.”
The owner of the voice scratched at his straggly beard. “You’re a FarWest man then?”
Corlin shook his head. “Not quite that far down.”
The beard was scratched again. “Going far?”
The minstrel tried not to smile. “As far as I have to.”
His questioner squinted up at him. “Will that be far enough? Reckon you oughta go a bit further.”
Corlin took a breath to ask the rustic what he meant, but the man’s thickset bowed legs had already carried him yards away and round the end of a high stone wall. Seconds later Corlin rode Megan round the same wall. There was no sign of the man. Neither was there any sign of an inn or tavern that Corlin could see, just a couple of rows of neat cottages and a few villagers who watched him with suspicious eyes as he passed by. With nothing here to delay him, he steered Megan back to the road and headed for the open countryside beyond the village.
The evening sun was painting his back with a promise of warmth, but he knew that in another hour he would be riding in darkness unless he could find somewhere sheltered to spend the night. The village was too far behind him now, so turning back was not an option. As far as his eyes could see, in every direction was nothing but fields, rocks, a few wind-stunted trees and open moorland. The road took the long way round everything, frequently turning back on itself for a few yards or seeming to go off in the wrong direction. Every now and then, a straight bit allowed him to take a good look round. He wasn’t hopeful. There was no evidence of habitation and the only living things he could see were a few rabbits and a small herd of shaggy moorland ponies way off in the distance. Knowing that Megan could find her own sure-footed way in the dark, Corlin resigned himself to a night-time trek and the possibility of dozing in the saddle.