The cottager, a thin, pale man in rough peasant garb, stared at Tymmon and Troff curiously, but asked no questions and raised no outcry. The lead was helping, Tymmon thought, and thanked heaven for letting him think of it. A leashed animal, he told himself, is much more apt to be considered a dog, no matter what its size and appearance.
And it was indeed well that Troff was leashed, for as they made their way through the village, it became obvious that no Bondgard dog had ever borne even a slight resemblance to Troff. There seemed, in fact, to be very few dogs of any kind in the village. Tymmon had expected that Troff’s presence would set off a riot of barking, but as they passed among the cottages only one dog appeared. One small, sharp-ribbed, scruffy animal who could easily have run beneath Troff’s belly without so much as ducking its mangy head. Barking shrilly, he trotted out from behind a cottage, took one look at Troff, and scurried away, yelping in terror.
They met no other dogs, but farther on, as they crossed the churchyard square, some villagers came into view, two women at the well, another sweeping her doorstep, and two old men sitting on the church steps. They all stared at Troff, and the two women quickly moved to the far side of the well. But no one ran or shrieked, and one of the old men called out, “Hiya, boy. What’s that creature you be leading there?” And Tymmon called back quickly and loudly, “A dog, sir. Only a big dog, bred for hunting.”
Unlike the prosperous, thriving villages of Austerneve, this hamlet seemed to be a poor place. A number of cob and wattle cottages spread out in a patternless scatter from an unpaved market square occupied by a well, a muddy pond, and a small stone church with a broken-backed roof. As Char stopped at various dooryards to leave off his charges, Tymmon fell silent, wondering how he could find work or even charity in such a poverty-stricken community. When all the animals except for one cow had been delivered, Char, hurrying now, bade Tymmon good-bye.
“I be going to my uncle’s now,” he said. “ ‘Tis almost sunset. I be beaten if I be late.”
“Wait, friend,” Tymmon pleaded. “Before you go, could you tell me where I might find a place to spend the night? A place where I might be allowed to pay for my bed and a bite to eat by working. I am willing to do anything.”
The boy stared at Tymmon for some time before he said, “Work. You want to work for food? I doan know about that. There be work in Bondgard town, but not much food, I think.”
But Tymmon was too hungry to give up easily. “Your uncle?” he asked. “Would your uncle perhaps need another helper, even if only for a day or two? Could I at least ask him? He could do no more than say no.”
At that Char shook his head doubtfully, but he made no further protest, and Tymmon followed him as he made his way on past the outskirts of the village to a slightly larger cob house that sat in the midst of several sheds and shacks in a cluttered and dirty farmyard. Char disappeared with the cow into one of the sheds, and left alone, Tymmon hesitated, trying to decide whether to approach the house. He was still standing near the cottage when a stoop-shouldered man with a sharp, anger-twisted face appeared in the doorway.
“Char,” the man shouted and then noticing Tymmon, came toward him with long, swift strides. Then, as his gaze fastened on Troff, his pace slowed, and a few yards away he came to a stop.
“Who be you, and what be you doing in my dooryard?” he shouted. Tymmon had hardly begun to explain when he interrupted, bellowing, “Go! Begone with you. We have naught here for beggars and vagrants. Begone. And take that stock-killing beast with you.”
Troff tugged on his leash, growling an angry threat, but when Tymmon pulled him away, he came. But he continued to look back over his shoulder and repeat the warning from time to time.
The sun was almost down when Tymmon and Troff returned to the center of the village. The square was deserted. Except for smoke that rose from a few chimney holes, the whole of Bondgard seemed as cold and lifeless as a deserted city. Perhaps a city of the dead, such as those that often figured in Mistress Mim’s stories. Cities stripped of human life by the terrible sickness called the Black Death, or by the evil breath of dreadful creatures of the night. Lifting the collar of his cloak to cover his mouth and nose, Tymmon hurried across the square.
At the well he stopped long enough to drink briefly and then refill the dipper for Troff. But as the gargoyle drank, lapping up the water in great noisy gulps, Tymmon was suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion and despair. Collapsing with his back against the well curbing, he buried his head in his arms. He was cold and exhausted and so terribly hungry that his stomach throbbed and burned with pain.
“What will we do?” he whispered. “What will we do?” He could feel Troff beside him, nosing and snuffling at his arms, but he kept his head down until he suddenly became aware of a new sound. “Hrrumphh,” it went, as if someone was preparing his throat for speech. Then the sound repeated itself, Troff growled softly, and Tymmon quickly raised his head.
A few feet away a man was standing. An old man, and as Tymmon stared at him he saw that it was the old villager who had called to him from the church steps. Seen now at closer range it seemed he was very old indeed, his face deeply lined and his back bent and narrow. He stood leaning slightly forward, his gnarled and twisted hands resting on the top of a crooked walking stick.
“Boy,” the man said, “what seek you here in Bondgard?”
Tymmon sniffled, caught his breath, and answered, “Work, sir. I seek work that I might feed myself and my dog. We are very hungry.”
“You got no home to go to, boy?”
Tymmon began to tell the story of Hylas, son of the huntsman of Nordencor, but he had not gotten far when his voice failed him and he could only shake his head and say, “No, sir. I no longer have a home to go to.”
The old man shook his head and, leaning heavily on his crooked staff, said, “There be many like you in these hard times. Bondgard be not a good place for the likes of you, boy. Nowadays the people here be too hungry theyselves to feel pain that others be starving. They be good people, mind you, but now they be too hungry to be kind. And even they that might feed a homeless child would not likely choose a boy like you. A lad who speaks with the accent of castle folk and owns a great, fine beast like yours, there. Bondgard dogs were scrawny creatures even in the good times, and now even most of them be long gone. Most of the Bondgard dogs be gone to the stewpot a long time since.”
“Eaten,” Tymmon said in horror. “The people of Bondgard ate their dogs?”
“The Bondgard folks eat whatever be left to them when all else be taken.”
“Oh,” Tymmon said, thinking that he now understood. “The brigands. Bondgard has been raided by the brigand companies?”
The old man shrugged and then shook his head. “No, not the brigand companies. Oh, they sneak a few goats or a cow now and then. But it be the lord of our castle and his knights who take our chickens and pigs and the grain from our harvests.”
Tymmon stared at the old man. “The knights from your own castle. But knights are pledged to protect all who are weak and harmless, particularly those who live and work on their own lands.”
“Oh, yes, they protect us, I suppose, from the lords and knights from other fiefdoms. And now and then they go into the forests a-chasing the brigands. But every year they raise up the taxes we be paying them for their protection, and then they come back again with more taxes to feed their guests for some great ceremony. Such like as the knighting of their sons, or the weddings of their daughters. I hear they be grand and glorious, the ceremonies of our noble lord, with folk from other castles coming from miles and miles around. But they be a great burden to us here in Bondgard.”
The old man sighed deeply and then fell silent, and Tymmon was silent, too, thinking that the old man’s story was much like the one Komus told about the noble knights who went forth to slay the dragon. And thinking, too, that there was no hope for him and for Troff in such a poor and starving village. At last he picked up his pack and turned to bid the old m
an good-bye.
“I thank you, sir, for your timely warning. I can see that it is useless for me to remain here.”
“And which way will you be a-going?” the man asked.
“South. I will go to the south.”
The old man nodded thoughtfully before he spoke. “Yes, it be well for you to go southward. There be the city called Montreff a few days’ journey to the south. Montreff be a great walled city where there be merchants and craftsmen who might need a willing worker.”
So Tymmon thanked the old man for his advice and was turning away when a thin old hand reached out to stop him.
“Wait, boy,” the old man said, and digging into a leather pouch that hung at his belt, he pulled out a small loaf of bread and thrust it into Tymmon’s hands. “Take it,” he said, and when Tymmon tried to protest, he went on. “No, no. It be much too hard and stale for my weak old teeth. Take it and away with you.”
Later that night, just as twilight faded into, darkness, Tymmon and Troff came across a deserted farmyard where the remains of a tiny cottage sagged earthward under a broken roof. Finding a fairly dry spot in a corner, Tymmon opened his pack, spread his blanket, and then carefully cut the loaf of bread into two pieces. Troff’s portion was gone in a moment, but Tymmon ate his very slowly. It was, as the kind old man had said, stale and hard, but it had been a long time since anything had tasted so rare and wonderful.
TEN
IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON WHEN Tymmon and Troff came out of a narrow valley into a broad plain and saw before them the walled city of Montreff. Dark against a bold blue sky, it sat like a crooked crown on top of a sprawling range of hills, its steep stone walls soaring up to end in an elaborate trimming of battlements, turrets, and towers. A winding road, starting on the valley floor, led upward, twisting and turning like a great snake.
Tymmon, who had never seen such a large city, stopped and stared, gasping in amazement. “Look, Troff, look there, ahead of us. The city of Montreff.”
Troff glanced briefly with little show of interest, and flopped down in the dust at the side of the road. Looking up at Tymmon accusingly from the tops of his eyes, he sighed deeply. He was tired, he said, and hungry, and they had walked much too far.
Tymmon regarded him pityingly. The gargoyle’s feet and legs were caked with dirt, and his ribs stood out sharply beneath his gray-brown hide. “I know,” Tymmon told him, “but we are almost there now. Come on. Just a little farther.” He tugged gently on the lead, Troff struggled to his feet, and they plodded slowly on along the dusty road.
It had been several days—Tymmon had lost track of exactly how many—since they left the village of Bondgard. And in that time they had walked endlessly and eaten but little. Only an occasional scrap—a bit of wormy meat thrown out by a fellow traveler, some bread donated by a kindly village woman, and the one good meal which Tymmon had been able to earn by helping to build a farmer’s stone fence. Not to mention, and it would be best not to mention to anyone, a fine fat chicken that Troff had somehow managed to acquire in the midst of a dark night when they were camped not far from a small village.
Tymmon had, of course, scolded him soundly and had at once broken camp and moved on. But he had taken the chicken with him, and some hours later, in the midst of a small woods, he and Troff had shared a delicious chicken dinner.
But on this last day they had eaten almost nothing, and for some hours Tymmon had been barely able to force himself to move one foot ahead of the other, and now it seemed to be hope alone that was giving him the strength to keep moving. Hope that the city on the hill would somehow provide him and Troff with food and rest and shelter.
On the last leg of the journey, up the steep winding road to the great gate, their pace slowed even more. Other travelers, hurrying to reach the gate, began to stream past them. Now and then someone, a priest riding a donkey, two gypsy children running behind their family’s cart, a well-dressed gentleman on a fine strong mule, glanced curiously in their direction. But for the most part they were ignored, except at one point when a passing group of peasant women noticed Troff—and reacted only by pointing and giggling. Tymmon found himself glaring after them and saying under his breath, “Silly women. Too ignorant to recognize an enchanted creature when one appears before your very noses.” A few minutes later, however, when he and Troff arrived at the great gate with its flanking guard towers, he was glad enough that they were able to pass by unrecognized and unnoticed.
Inside the high walls the city of Montreff, like a gigantic beehive, swarmed with close-packed activity. Narrow curving streets crossed and recrossed, winding between tall stone buildings in a crowded and confusing maze. Small shops of every description spilled their goods out through doors and windows, almost into the right of way. And watchful shopkeepers kept an eye out for thieves while they hawked their wares to the passing crowd.
And people were everywhere. Every kind of human being bumped elbows with every other—troops of running and shouting children, finely dressed members of the nobility in litters or on horseback, rugged peasants in homespun smocks and gaiters, some leading trains of heavily laden mules or donkeys, sober well-clad merchants and their proudly plump wives. And here and there a whining beggar, pale-faced, thin, and ragged.
As Tymmon made his way through the crowds he kept tight hold on the rope collar around Troff’s neck, and tried to keep between him and the nearest passersby. But if he had feared what a gargoyle’s reaction would be to such a pressing horde of humans, his worries appeared to be unfounded. Troff still plodded silently beside him, with low-hung head and drooping tail. Now and then his eyes lit up eagerly, once when a farmer’s cart passed with a load of squawking chickens, and again at the sight of a pack of hounds led by a huntsman. But for the most part he seemed to take little interest in the hubbub around him.
From time to time Tymmon spoke to him, saying, “It’s all right, Troff. They mean no harm.” Or “I know, old friend. Too many people. But you are behaving very well.” At other times, when someone pressed near looking at the gargoyle with curiosity or concern, he would pat Troff’s head and say loudly, “Good dog, Troff. Stout fellow,” as he had often heard the Austerneve kennel master speak to one of King Austern’s hounds.
Sometimes when Tymmon spoke to him, Troff would roll his great sad eyes, but he said nothing, maintaining a doglike silence just as Tymmon had told him that he must.
As they wandered through the crowded streets, Tymmon kept his eyes open for an establishment that might have use of a willing worker. He stopped first at a butcher’s, where the owner took one look at Troff and screamed at them to remove themselves immediately from his premises. He tried next at an inn, where the manager, a large man with a huge head covered by a bush of curly red hair, listened to him kindly enough and then said that his own five sons were more than enough to do all the work that needed to be done, and eat up all the profits as well, without taking on two more mouths to feed, “And one of them of truly prodigious size,” he added, looking at Troff.
A silversmith came next, and then, in rapid succession, a baker (at whose shop the smell of fresh-baked bread so flooded Tymmon’s mouth that he could scarcely speak), a shoemaker, a weaver, and a maker of pots and pans. Some sent them away loudly and angrily and some were kinder, but they were all firmly certain that a dirty, ragged, and hungry-eyed boy and an enormous dog could be of no use to them.
The sky was reddening at sunset when Tymmon and Troff came into the large open square in front of the cathedral. At the top of a wide flight of stairs the huge bronze doors stood open. A trickle of people were making their way up and down the stairs, penitents heading for or coming from the confessionals, or supplicants on their way to pray before the shrines of their favorite saints. At the edge of the wide entryway a group of beggars crouched; a filthy old man with a twisted leg, several ragged children, and two gypsy women with babies in their arms. Tymmon shrugged out of his pack, sat down on the bottom step, and pulled Troff down beside him. For a time h
e only watched. Watched the passing crowd, and most of all the beggars, wondering if he was close enough to starvation to stifle his pride and reach out as they were doing, begging in a high-pitched voice for alms for the poor.
As he watched, a bitter and painful smile twisted his lips and he leaned forward, burying his face in his arms. To be a beggar. He, the son of a wellborn man. Of a man who, in truth, had chosen to live as a lowly court jester, but who had been born into a noble family. And now he, who had scorned his father for choosing the life of clown and minstrel, was to be forced to sink to the most degrading station of all—that of a common beggar.
A raw and burning tightness gripped his throat and his eyes were beginning to flood when he became aware that Troff was on his feet and moving about. Tightening his hold on the lead, he raised his head to see that Troff was pawing at the pack that lay at their feet.
“What are you doing?” Tymmon’s voice was angry. The anger was mostly at himself for his childish and useless tears, but Troff lowered his head and rolled his eyes guiltily. “There is no food in the pack,” Tymmon went on in a gentler tone. “There is nothing there that is of any use... He paused suddenly. After a moment’s thought he himself turned to the pack and began to untie its bindings.
“Troff,” he said eagerly, “you are right. Perhaps there is something here that might be of use—if we could sell it. Something that we could sell for enough to buy at least a bit of bread.”
There was, of course, the Spanish dagger. That would bring by far the most, but it also might bring suspicion and even worse. What if the buyer accused Tymmon of stealing—as well he might, since a dirty, ragged boy could not have come by such an expensive object legally. No. It would have to be something else.
Not the dagger. And no, not the cap. He could not sell Komus’s cap. And besides, who would want to buy such a thing? That left the tinderbox, the knife, the ax and—the flute. The flute. Of all his meager possessions the flute was perhaps the least necessary.
Song of the Gargoyle Page 9