A Strange and Ancient Name

by Josepha Sherman

  “Of course not. What did happen to your horses?”

  The prince hesitated a moment, feigning discomfort. “We lost them,” he said at last. Which was true enough, in a way.

  “Humph. To bandits, you mean. No shame in that, my lord. Though if I might suggest that two young gentles not travel alone . . . ?”

  “At the time, we saw no peril in it. Foolish, perhaps, but . . .”

  “My lord, can you tell me anything about these bandits?”

  “Only that they were vermin. They gave no sign of being in someone’s employ, if that’s what you’re asking, or of coming from this—this Baron Thibault.” Faerie curiosity aroused, the prince asked, “My lord baron, who is he?”

  The cold eyes glittered. “A treacherous man. A sly, treacherous man who holds the lands on the eastern border of my own only through the mercy of good Duke Alain, our liege lord. Bah! He holds them despite Touranne.”

  That name again. “Ah, Touranne?”

  Baron Gilbert glanced at him in surprise. “Ah, of course,” the man said after a tiny pause. “How could a stranger possibly know?” He hesitated a moment more, as though mentally summarizing a familiar story, then began, “In brief, the old Duke Blaise has been dead these two years and more.” The man paused to piously cross himself, a flicker of surprise in his eyes when Hauberin didn’t follow suit. “Alas, he left no legitimate sons. Only Rogier. His bastard.”

  Hauberin blinked. “I’m sorry. The word escapes me.”

  “Bastard? An . . . ah . . . unnatural child.”

  Feeling hopelessly lost in human illogic, the prince protested, “How can a child be unnatural?”

  “What my lord husband means,” Baroness Matilde murmured tactfully, leaning forward, “is that the son was not born to his wife.”

  Her lord husband did not approve of her interruption. At his stern glare, she shrank back with the smallest of sighs. Hauberin shook his head.

  “I still don’t understand. Wouldn’t this Rogier, being his father’s son, still be the heir?”

  Baron Gilbert looked at him in horror. “No, my lord! A bastard cannot inherit. The old Duke had quite properly designated his young cousin as heir.”

  “Rogier, I take it, disagreed?”

  “Indeed. Matters were settled at Touranne, just outside the city walls, right at the river’s edge. The bastard’s forces were defeated, and Duke Alain was triumphant.”

  Raimond supported Rogier! Hauberin realized suddenly. Of course. That explains why he’s still in disgrace. “What happened to Rogier?”

  “Though his body was never recovered—the river is deep and swift—there’s no doubt he died; I, myself, witnessed him tumbling into the water after he a received a terrible blow to the head.”

  Hauberin was intrigued by this glimpse into human politics. “And Baron Thibault was backing Rogier?”

  He had obviously struck a sore point. “Oh no!” Baron Gilbert said drily. “The turncoat promised himself to both sides, then held back his men from the fighting till he knew for sure which would be the winning side. And didn’t he play the loyal vassal at Duke Alain’s feet!” The baron broke off abruptly. “But that is the past.” His smile was a polite thing. “Young Aimery came to us after his first lord was slain at Touranne, when the lad was yet a page.”

  “So he told me.”

  “Yes. The good squire is easy with his words. My lord, Aimery has told me an intriguing tale.”

  It almost caught Hauberin off-guard. “Has he?”

  “The squire said you are under an oath not to reveal your true rank or native land. Nor, in fact, to reveal anything of yourself save your name and the fact that you are on a quest.” The brown eyes were cool, neither believing nor disbelieving, for all that there was a fierce little flickering of curiosity deep within them. It seemed that, just as Aimery had promised, the baron did enjoy a mystery. “But Aimery has sworn to me you are of high rank, indeed.”

  “Yes.” Hauberin evasively let the one word answer all. “My lord baron, I would truly prefer not to discuss my reasons for being in this land. But those reasons have nothing of dishonor about them, nor of danger to you or your Realm, my word and will upon it.”

  Did that sound convincing enough? Or should he try to back up his words a touch? The simple persuasion-spell had worked well enough so far (save, of course, on Raimond . . .). It was difficult for Hauberin to focus his will with all the countless janglings of human auras crowding in about him, so he tried nothing more than the gentlest enhancement of his words: nothing of dishonor, nor of danger . . . And, to his relief, there was no resistance; the baron smiled his formal little smile and relaxed in his canopied chair.

  But . . . why had the baroness tensed suddenly? For an instant, Hauberin could almost have sworn she’d sensed—ridiculous. If ever he had met a human with no feel for magic, it was she.

  Nerves, the prince decided.

  Now that the third and final course of marzipan and fruit had been served, it was time for an entertainer. Hauberin, who had been expecting the conjurer, watched a minstrel step forward instead, carrying a stringed instrument (after a moment, Hauberin put a name to it: a lute). The prince smiled, putting thoughts of magic from his mind for the moment, and leaned forward slightly in anticipation.

  His pleasure faded after the first note. For one thing, the clamor from the people at the lower tables continued undiminished. For another, the minstrel’s voice was . . . adequate. Worst of all, his lute was ever so slightly mistuned. Maybe these humans couldn’t notice it, but the slight wrongness was exquisitely painful to Faerie ears.

  “Doesn’t he hear?” came Alliar’s plaintive cry. “Doesn’t he realize?”

  Hauberin grit his teeth, waiting. “He’s only human. He has to finish eventually.”

  Wonderful. The man was finally coming to the end of that seemingly interminable ballad. He . . . wasn’t going to sing again, was he?

  No. Powers be praised, he was being dutifully rewarded by the emotionless baron, and returning to a place at the lower tables. Hauberin overheard Baron Gilbert mutter to his wife, “That was your idea, my dear,” and turned sharply to his host, determined to wipe out the insult to the name of music.

  “My lord, my lady, now I will sing for you.”

  It sounded, he thought wryly, more like a royal command than a courtesy. Aware of the humans staring, the prince shouldered his harp and strode boldly forward to the chair a serving man hastily brought, for him. With a quick, sharp glance at the offending minstrel, Hauberin tuned his harp with care, running his hands experimentally over the strings, picking out a few random chords, aware of the clamor slowly dying about him. While noble musicians, he knew, weren’t unknown, these castle folk plainly weren’t used to having someone of rank perform. Particularly someone with such an aura of mystery surrounding him.

  So now, he told them silently, if you stir so much as a finger till I’m done, then I’ve been in this Realm too long.

  He sang the tale of Thiuran and Elenfal, which his mother had translated into the human tongue one Faerie winter long past. And from the plaintive opening chords marking the first meeting of the tragic lovers, there was heavy silence within the Hall. Hauberin smiled faintly, glancing slyly at his audience, seeing noble and common alike held like so many wide-eyed children by the keen, alien, magical beauty of his song. Only the Baroness Matilde showed more than passive wonder. Her young face was so filled with joy and a desperate, aching hunger that it was nearly painful to watch.

  The tale sang its way to the inevitable tragic end, to Elenfal’s bittersweet farewell to life and her collapse at the side of the treacherously magic-slain Thiuran. Hauberin looked up from the harp to silence and not a few tears from his audience. Ha, even surly Sir Raimond was suspiciously red of face! Wryly amused, the prince returned to his place, Alliar’s congratulations warm in his mind.

  “Was that a tale from your native land, my lord?”

  “Yes, my lord baron.” Hauberin saw the baron
ess lean forward ever so slightly at that, studying him with so wondering an eye that he almost raised a hand to be sure his hair still covered the telltale ears.

  “Beautifully sung,” the baron said shortly. “Beautifully sung.”

  That was high praise from that unemotional man. Hauberin laughed lightly, bowing from the waist. “Thank you, my lord. And since my song has pleased you, I shall ask for my reward. Oh no, my lord, he added hastily, seeing the baron’s eyebrows shoot up in astonishment, “I didn’t mean in coin! You see,” the prince continued, picking his words with care, “I know little of the tales of this land. Since I’ve given you one from mine, I think a fitting exchange would be a tale from yours.”

  That actually struck a small spark of humor in those sober eyes. “To select only one . . .”

  “I’ve heard an intriguing hint of one.” Hauberin’s casual tone sounded incredibly forced to him. “I would like to learn the whole of it, if possible. It concerns a witch woman. A noble woman.”

  The baron tensed, almost imperceptibly. “Her name?”

  “Melusine.”

  Oh, he wasn’t at all prepared for the reaction: the wave of shock, almost terror, from the baroness, the swirling of hatred and disgust from the baron, the sudden rigid wall of denial. As Hauberin stared, feeling Alliar’s mind touch his in bewilderment, Baron Gilbert said, “I fear I must disappoint you.”

  “I—I don’t understand. Have I somehow offended—”

  “No, no, nothing like that.” The man smiled faintly, but his eyes were chill. “It’s only that—we know of no such tale. I’m sorry, my lord, we know of no such woman.”

  XI

  REVELATIONS

  Baron Gilbert, as was his wont, had retired early, soon after sunset and an evening prayer, and now slept soundly in the baronial featherbed. Beside him, forgotten, lay his young wife, wide awake and painfully alone.

  After a fruitless time of trying to compose her mind to sleep, Matilde glanced at her husband. He was sleeping on his back, face perfectly composed even in slumber, arms perfectly straight at his sides. And for a moment she battled a wicked urge to slap him, scream at him, do anything that would break that cool perfection. God help her, the man didn’t even snore!

  Matilde sighed silently and turned away. What right had she to complain? Secure in her husband’s castle, she never lacked for food or drink or any of the comforts of life. And what if that husband was nearly twice her age? Everyone knew a girl must be wed to an older man to steady her.

  Steady me. As though I was nothing more than a mare, or maybe a hawk being broken to slavery—

  No. That wasn’t fair. Baron Gilbert might not be the hero from a minstrel’s romance, but he had always been kind to her in his own remote way. He had never once beat her, never even raised a hand to her, never condemned her openly for having failed after these four years of marriage to give him an heir. (Was that it all her fault, though? Most men the baron’s age had sired a bastard or two, yet he had more. Surely a son could only be made from passion, not some impassive sense of duty.) But then, he had Raimond for an heir.

  Poor, spoiled, frustrated Raimond. Raimond who, Matilde didn’t doubt, must thoroughly hate his precise, unforgiving brother by now.

  It was difficult living up to perfection.

  Matilde stirred restlessly. Dear God, what was wrong with her tonight? Why couldn’t she be content? Why must she feel this secret aching for . . . Ah, she didn’t even know what she wanted.

  Freedom?

  Nonsense. She was a woman of nearly three-and-twenty, not some callow little girl; as her husband was always lecturing her, life couldn’t be all song and light and laughter. Besides, what was freedom to a noblewoman? If she ran away to live her own life, she would end up dying of starvation, exposure, or worse. Matilde was only too aware her training was limited to what a woman of her rank might need to oversee a castle’s affairs: she couldn’t do anything truly practical in the outside world, not cook, nor clean, nor (God help her) play the strumpet. And for all her husband’s riches she had no wealth of her own; the king and his court, so far away in Paris, had ruled that a noblewoman legally owned nothing, not even the clothes she wore.

  Enough of this, Matilde scolded herself. The good lord knew many a poor woman would envy her position. This ridiculous discontent she felt could only have been roused by their so-exotic guest, with his hint of mystery, his foreign face and ways, his music—

  His music. Remembering, Matilde frantically stifled an unexpected sob. Oh, dear God! The achingly pure beauty of that music had cut like a sword, joy so sharp it was very close to pain. She had almost called out to him to stop. And yet every note had fallen like rain on a parched plain, feeding a deep inner hunger she’d never known was there. Listening, she could have wept, knowing that soon the music would be gone, but the desert remain.

  Matilde shivered suddenly, and pulled the bedclothes more closely about herself. Who was he, this . . . Hauberin? There was an air of wildness to him, of careless, perilous power, enticing and terrifying, almost reminding her of—

  No! Wide-eyed, heart pounding, Matilde struggled with the forbidden, terrible memories that all at once were fighting to surface. She would not remember! She must not!

  Why did you come here? Matilde cried out to the stranger in silent despair. Curse you, oh curse you, why have you upset my life?

  ###

  “But I don’t need a body-servant!” Hauberin was in no mood for diplomacy. “I don’t want a body-servant!”

  “Of course, m’lord.” The human was neither young nor old, short nor tall, ugly nor—Ach, Hugh was a perfect cipher of a man, and quite unflappable. “Here we are, m’lord.”

  The room was small and chill, and Hauberin thought it would definitely have benefited from a fireplace. But it looked comfortable enough in all else, even if the one window was—as usual—nothing more than an arrow-slit. The newly white-washed walls were prettily painted with flowers and leaves, and the large canopied bed was rich with furs and heavily embroidered curtains. There wasn’t space for much else: a three-legged chair, a clothes chest of heavy wood, a little table in one corner with a small painting upon it (some manner of shrine?) and an unlit candle before the painting . . .

  “So!” Hauberin snapped. “And just where were you proposing to sleep?”

  The servant looked at him in surprise, flinching a little from those angry, alien eyes. “Why, right here, m’lord. On this pallet right at the foot of the bed. So as if you need anything in the night, you can wake me.”

  “There’s no stopping you, is there?”

  “M’lord?” Hugh paused. “Is it me you don’t want? Would you prefer some other servant?”

  “What? Oh, no, no. Look you, it’s nothing personal, but—you’re here on the baron’s orders, aren’t you?”

  “Why, yes, m’lord. Of course. Said it wasn’t proper, a gentle like you being without a man-servant.”

  All this was being said while the human was neatly and efficiently unpacking the contents of Hauberin’s pack. The prince sighed in surrender. Whether Baron Gilbert really was only being polite, or whether—more likely—he wanted someone to keep a watchful eye on this stranger with the awkward questions, there was no way to be rid of Hugh. Short of magic.

  Hauberin told himself he should feel flattered; he could be sleeping on a pallet down in the Great Hall like almost everybody else, obnoxious thought! Fortunate that the baron wanted to show off to his visitors, offering Hauberin and Alliar each one of these precious new guest chambers.

  “Alliar?”

  “Ach, my prince, I can’t stay here!” The panic trembling in the thought was all unchecked by the intervening walls. “This—this is like the prison cell, the sorcerer’s cellar, the—”

  “Softly,” Hauberin soothed. “You need endure it for only a little, little while, only till the night-blind humans sleep. Then you may wander as you will.”

  There was a pause. Then: “Ah. Of course.” Relief
mingled with embarrassment. “I should have realized—Thank you.”

  “Ah . . . m’lord?”

  Hauberin started. “What is it, Hugh?”

  “Will you be wanting anything else, m’lord?”

  “No. Yes. Just tie those bed-curtains back all the way.”

  “But—m’lord, it isn’t safe! Night air is dangerous!”

  “Oh, come now. You’re planning to sleep without being encased.”

  “But I’m—I mean, you’re—”

  “Enough!” Hauberin’s frustrated anger flared up anew. “No, I do not need help in undressing. Yes, you’ve put everything away. Now, good night!”

  He lay in darkness for a while, trying to forget the nagging intrusion of the human presence, trying to plot his next course of action for all that he was truly weary now. And despite the fact that some thoughtful servant—Hugh?—had warmed the bed in advance with a hot brick wrapped in cloth, he was shivering with an inner chill.

  Although Hauberin had never encountered deliberate falsehood before, there wasn’t the slightest doubt that the baron had been lying.

  But why? What harm could Mother possibly have done to make him deny her very existence?

  What if it hadn’t been her fault? What if the memory of who and what her father had been was so very terrible—

  No! This was as bad as his old childhood fears—and just about as useless.

  Hauberin sighed. As soon as the castle was safely asleep, the prince would pay Baron Gilbert a visit. And no matter how difficult it might be to work true magic in this Realm, he would find a way to persuade the man’s sleeping mind to tell him the truth.

  But he couldn’t do anything till Hugh slept. And, judging from the tension radiating from the man, that wasn’t going to be for some time. Hauberin sighed again.