The Curse of the Giant Hogweed

by Charlotte MacLeod

  Moving with utmost care, Peter lifted the loop away from the boulder. He was untangling Torchyld’s feet when, as he’d anticipated, the king’s great-nephew woke, tried to get up, and was brought low.

  “What hit me?” he roared.

  “You’ve been the intended victim of another assassination plot,” Shandy told him. “Lie still while I get you untangled.”

  “Ungh? What mean ye? What plot, forsooth?”

  Peter explained the simple but potentially lethal mechanism. “As I expect you realize by now,” he finished, “somebody’s extremely anxious to have you dead.”

  “Owain,” said Torchyld promptly. “He craves to wed my Syglinde. Fain be I to tear out his eyeballs and shove them up his—”

  “Owain isn’t here.”

  “He sent somebody.”

  “Who?”

  In fact, Peter Shandy was fairly certain he knew who. That tableau he’d witnessed down by the moat would fit in tidily here. Medrus could have arranged the trap, then gone to convince Lord Ysgard it was a good idea.

  But why? Had Gwrach and Dwydd been cooking up some deal in which Torchyld’s death would have been more than just another free lunch for the sorceress? Mooching around the cave between guide jobs, Medrus must have had plenty of opportunities to poke his glow into Gwrach’s doings. Did he know what the hags were up to, and had he decided to carry the plot through, counting on Dwydd to reward him later, either voluntarily or through a spot of blackmail?

  Peter thought he’d better not mention any of this to Torchyld until he was sure of his facts. There must surely be a great deal of resentment among all the men in Ysgard about their kidnapped women. The Sfynfford men couldn’t have begun the mass abductions until after Torchyld had killed the wyvern, since there would have been little point in carrying off a girl one day only to have her eaten the next.

  Torchyld himself claimed the deed had made him famous. No doubt all that nudging and whispering in the banqueting hall meant Lord Ysgard’s sons and the other men had guessed quickly enough who this enchanted apprentice from the court of King Sfyn really was. Maybe the would-be murderer was just some lovesick swain seeking revenge for the loss of his girl friend.

  In any event, Peter decided, it would be best not to voice any suspicions until he was sure of his ground. Torchyld was an impulsive chap, and Lord Ysgard’s castle was a dismal enough place without bits of Medrus strewn in the corners.

  Right now, Torchyld was irate enough. “How should I know whom Owain sent?” he snarled.

  “Would you recognize one of the servants from your great-uncle’s castle?”

  “Aye, verily.”

  “You haven’t seen any of them around here, have you?”

  “They could be under enchantment.”

  “And I could be your grandmother,” Peter snorted. “Forget about enchantments, can’t you?”

  “Nay. I be under one.”

  “The hell you be.”

  “Ye mean ye hast disenchanted me? O great druid!”

  Shandy all but got his ribs fractured by Torchyld’s embrace.

  “All right,” he wheezed, “you’re disenchanted. Feel any different?”

  “I feel—” Torchyld had to stop and think it over. “Nay, I wot not how I feel.”

  “M’well, that’s normal. You’ll get sorted out sooner or later I expect. How do Owain and Dwydd get along?”

  “Owain getteth along with nobody for long. Nor doth Dwydd, save for her own fell purposes.”

  “And what would those purposes be?”

  “She craveth to rule.”

  “You mean she’s after King Sfyn’s job?”

  “Nay, she would have control over ye king and all his court. And ye birds that fly over ye battlements and ye mice that nibble ye crumbs from ye banqueting table, and e’en ye spiders in ye dungeon. It seemeth me she may have ye spiders under her vile thumb already. There be some woundily mean spiders back at ye castle.”

  “I’m not sure spiders are germane to the issue,” said Peter. “Aside from Dwydd’s lust for power and Owain’s lust for Syglinde, what reason might any member of King Sfyn’s court have for wanting you dead? Have you made enemies?”

  “Who, me? How could I, being so lovable?”

  “But you said the lot of them were ready enough to pin the rap on you for having kidnapped your great-uncle’s griffin. You claimed they’re all jealous because you were the one who killed the wyvern.”

  “Oh, that. Eftsoons they will repent.”

  “Think so? They weren’t exactly struggling to save your bacon when they saw you thrust forth into the wilderness with no weapon but a harp. They must have known you were no better qualified to be a bard than I am to be a lady in waiting. None of them ran after you with a box lunch or a clean pair of socks, did they? And what about when you went to hunt the wyvern? Couldn’t somebody have lent you a decent sword?”

  “Nobody happed to have one handy,” Torchyld muttered.

  “Couldn’t somebody have gone and got one?”

  “It be against ye rules.”

  “Who makes the rules?”

  “I wot not. Anybody who happeth to think of one, meseems.”

  “Then why couldn’t somebody make a new rule that it was illegal to face a wyvern with a disenchanted sword, or something?”

  “They wist not ye sword was dulled.”

  “I see. How many of your relatives were around at the time?”

  “All of them. They always are. That be why Syglinde and I crave our own castle.”

  “Which you intend to pay for with the wyvern’s hoard, right?”

  “True, O tedious druid.”

  “How much of the hoard do you expect to have left over when the castle’s finished?”

  “Great abundance. Vast be ye hoard.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “My great-uncle had it transported from ye wyvern’s lair to ye castle’s strong room.”

  “How do you know it’s not—er—getting mixed up with the king’s own treasure?”

  “Because Great-uncle Sfyn keepeth his shut up in stout oaken chests. Mine be open to sight on ye floor. There were not enough chests in ye kingdom to hold it,” Torchyld said smugly.

  “Um. Who keeps the key to the strong room?”

  “Great-uncle Sfyn, in sooth.”

  “And what if anything should—er—happen to your great-uncle?”

  “Then Uncle Edmyr would be crowned king and get to keep ye key.”

  “But he can’t get hold of it now?”

  “Nay, none toucheth it save ye king. That be ye rule.”

  “How did you get your treasure into the strong room, then?”

  “Great-uncle Sfyn oped ye door for me. Dwydd had to unspell ye room so I could go in. And Syggie, too. She wanted to share in ye geste. So did mine uncles and cousins and aunts, but I made Dwydd say them nay.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Peter. “Which of your uncles gets along best with Dwydd?”

  “She sucketh up to Uncle Edmyr, he being crown prince, but he liketh her not.”

  “Then you don’t think he’d keep her on as—er—resident hag if he were to become king?”

  “Nay, he would. Ye new king sacketh not an old retainer e’en gin he hateth her guts. It be not ye done thing.”

  “I see. Getting back to your own hoard, who would inherit if anything happened to you?”

  “Syglinde would, gin we Were wed. But we be not. And now—“

  “Stop it,” barked Shandy. “Blubbering won’t help. I told you we were going back. We’ll find her, never fear.”

  “When do we leave?”

  “The sooner the better. Lord Ysgard’s sons can guide us. I only hope your cousin Guinevere and the rest haven’t all gone and got themselves engaged before we arrive.”

  “No fear,” Torchyld assured him. “Aunt Aldora, Aunt Edelgysa, and Aunt Gwynedd have been trying to palm them off on every halfway eligible lord who cometh along, but they haven’t
managed yet.”

  “How do the young ladies themselves feel about matrimony?”

  “They all be so sick of their mothers’ nagging, they be ready to go and get themselves carried off by a swarm of dragons so some luckless gull of a knight will come along and rescue them. Then he would have to wed them.”

  “All of them?”

  “Nay, I meant one dragon and one knight apiece. That be ye done thing.”

  “I see. Then your aunts and your cousins as well would be glad to see Lord Ysgard’s sons.”

  “Aye, verily. Ye young lords be no great catches, but they be none so bad-looking wights, and they comen out of ye right drawer. ‘Tis pity Castle Ysgard be so small, but perchance they can build on a wing or two.”

  “I suspect Lord Ysgard may have something of the sort in mind,” Shandy observed. “I have a hunch he and Medrus are launching a fund-raising drive.”

  “Going back for Gwrach’s hoard,” Torchyld grunted. “Why ye hell not? Lord Ysgard will have need of it gin he ‘ getteth my cousins for daughters-in-law.”

  “No doubt. How did you know that’s what they’ve been cooking up?”

  “Forsooth, be I a cabbage-head? Somebody might as well. We need it not. Ye sons should go instead of their father, but I be not ye one to tell them so. What if Gwrach hath a sister? There be but one suitor apiece for my cousins so it behooveth me not to let one get slain. Gin I show up a bridegroom short, all hell will be to pay. With a full company, I may have time to get my armor on before they notice I ha’ not also brought Ffyff. Ah, what a relief to be disenchanted!”

  “Why?” Peter asked him. “In what way are you different now from what you were a little while ago?”

  “Dumb question, ecod! I be me again, Torchyld ye Valiant, betrothed of Syglinde ye Beautiful.”

  “You don’t look any different. Cleaner, I’ll grant you, but that’s on account of the archdruid’s soap.” Torchyld, ever alert for new deeds of derring-do, had insistedon being first to try the squashy result of Tim’s experiment.

  “The point I’m trying to make, Torchyld, is that you allowed yourself to believe you’d been enchanted just because Dwydd handed you a harp and made you change your clothes. You’re now under the delusion I’ve disenchanted you just because I’ve made some remark to that effect; but the fact is, you’ve never been anybody but Torchyld the Valiant all along. Dwydd may have a knack for growing hogweed, but in my considered opinion, her so-called enchantments are nothing but stage magic.”

  “But my sword?”

  “When you get back to your great-uncle’s castle, take a good look around. I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts you’ll find a rock somewhere handy that’s got some fresh scars on it from having been bashed repeatedly with a sharp metal object.”

  “What? Why, that old—“

  “Precisely. As to Lady Syglinde and the griffin, I further suspect Dwydd worked their disappearance by throwing something on the fire that temporarily blinded everybody else in the banqueting hall so that she, and possibly some co-conspirator, could hustle them out of sight.”

  “She hath not disembodied them, as Gwrach did Medrus?”

  “M’well, it’s a possibility, I suppose, but I’m skeptical. Have you ever known her to disembody anyone before?”

  “Nay,” Torchyld admitted.

  “We have a saying in my country that goes, I’ll believe it when I see it. My own father used to add, you’d better make sure you know what you’re seeing before you start believing. You see, Torchyld, people like to believe in magic. The idea that it’s some human or quasi-human person who’s making strange things happen is less awesome than the real miracles, such as ourselves and the world around us, that we can’t explain at all. This makes it easier for me Dwydds and Gwraches to get away wim tricks that support me notion they have powers they may not in fact possess. The more we believe in their powers, me less apt we are to notice we’re being fooled. Once we realize it is in fact all foolishness and learn to laugh at it, meir so-called enchantments blow up in meir faces.”

  “Gwrach blew up in ours.”

  “My point exactly. She couldn’t endure being laughed at. Those who set themselves up as being greater than me rest of us never can. Remember that.”

  “But what if they really be greater than ye rest?”

  “Then mey’d be laughing, too. That’s how you tell.”

  “Great be my wisdom, druid. Or bard, or whatever ye be.”

  “I think I’d like to go on being a bard for a while. You haven’t heard me recite ‘Casey at the Bat’ yet.”

  “Verily, ye be unlike any bard lever ran across.”

  “No doubt,” said Peter rather complacently. “Come on, then, let’s go nuzzle up to me trough. I’d suggest, however, that you lay off the boiled eels tonight.”

  “But why, forsooth? I like boiled eels. And boiled eels like me.”

  “These particular eels may not. Remember what I was just telling you about magic tricks? I have a hunch Medrus and Lord Ysgard may be trying a few, with the object of keeping you from ever getting back to Sfynfford.”

  “For what reason, prithee?”

  “Because Dwydd wants you dead and Medras may know why. Don’t you see it yet? That business of ruining your sword before you faced the wyvern, and then sending the hogweed to chase you into Gwrach’s clutches were just fancied-up attempts to murder you.”

  “Then why did she not just kill me back at ye castle?”

  “Probably because King Sfyn might have taken umbrage in a rather large way if she did. How do you get along with your great-uncle, by and large?”

  “He thinketh I be ye wyvern’s whiskers. Or did, until Dwydd cooked up yon lie about me poofing old Ffyff.”

  “There you are. You see, she’s undermining your position at court so that if she succeeds in getting you killed, she won’t get the punishment she deserves. Except of course that we’re not going to let her succeed, and we’re going to let King Sfyn know what she’s been up to.”

  “He will believe you not.”

  “He’ll believe me, never you fear. But anyway, that’s why it’s important for you to get not only the bridegrooms but also yourself back there safe and sound. So lay off the boiled eels. Also the drinking horn.”

  “Then what be I to eat?”

  “Only what I myself give you.”

  “And why should I trust you?”

  “Good question. You’re already profiting by my little speech, I see. Very well, then, if you’re nervous about relying on me, maybe you’d rather go out and hunt yourself a rabbit or something. Either that or go hungry. That wouldn’t kill you for one meal, surely.”

  “It would do me no good,” Torchyld snarled, “gin we be heading for home betimes. A soldier needeth something to march on besides his feet.”

  “Then use your head. Don’t take anything that would be easy to put poison into. That’s why I told you to leave the drinking horn alone. The person next to you could slip in a pinch of something deadly, knowing you pride yourself on draining the horn to the tip, so he wouldn’t be likely to kill anybody else. It would also be easy to poison one eel in the trencher—the biggest I’d say, because that’s the one you always grab unless somebody else beats you to it. But it would be hard to poison venison because the minions always bring on a whole haunch and the poisoner would have no way of knowing where you’d take a cut from. Do you see what I’m driving at?”

  “I do. Well spoken, bard. Let us forthwith to ye banqueting hall. We must also guard lest ye archdruid or ye assistant archdruid eat poison meant for me. Or ye six young lords. Let my cousins poison them once they be wed, gin they wist. Right now, I need them alive.”

  Chapter 11

  NO, SHANDY THOUGHT A little while later, you couldn’t call young Torchyld slow on the uptake. He’d already upset a trencherful of boiled eels all over Degwel’s paunch. Now he was pressing Lord Ysgard to take the first quaff from the newly filled drinking horn that had just been passed t
o him. Lord Ysgard was refusing.

  “Not at ye moment, thank you. I have matters of grave import to discuss with my sons. Drink up, assistant bard of noble birth.”

  He turned to his offspring. “Sons, I’m afraid ye must postpone your visit to King Sfyn. I need ye here to guard the castle. I have to tootle off on a secret mission.”

  “What secret mission?” demanded his son Yfor.

  “If I went around telling everybody, it wouldn’t be much of a secret, would it?”

  “Blah,” said Yfor. “I be not going to sit around here cooling my heels, forsooth, for any secret mission. Ye but wist to hightail it over to King Sfyn’s castle before us and select ye fairest and fattest virgin for thyself, ye unpaternal old goat. Ye can stay here and guard thine own castle. I be not having you spoil my chances with Princess Imogene. Or was it Princess Gwendolyn?”

  “I want Gwendolyn,” yelled Yorich.

  “How do ye know?” said Torchyld. “Ye ha’ not seen her yet.”

  “I like ye name. Gwendolyn,” Yorich murmured dreamily, wiping venison grease off his chin with the back of his hand. “It soundeth like ye slow dripping of roasting eel fat into ye coals on a blustery winter night when ye hounds lie content around ye fire and a man dreameth of sharing his sheepskins with a fair and willing damsel. Be she lovely beyond compare, assistant bard?”

  “She be willing,” Torchyld answered cautiously, “and she hath abundance of prime quality sheepskins. Ye could be comfortable with Gwendolyn, Yorich.”

  “Not more comfortable than I with Princess Imogene,” cried Yfor.

  “Nay, not more,” Torchyld assured him. “Imogene be fatter.”

  “And she hath also good store of sheepskins?”

  “In sooth. They all do. And fine gowns and rich embroideries and gewgaws and folderols. And they can dance right featly and make possets and sweetmeats and—“