The Curse of the Giant Hogweed

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “Of course he is, damn it,” Peter snapped. “It’s King Sfyn’s strong room that’s been robbed, even if it was your treasure that got stolen.”

  “Right,” said Torchyld, reluctantly loosing his grasp on his bride-to-be. “Cease toying with my fealty, Syggie, lest I clap ye into ye guardhouse.”

  “With all they drunken soldiers?”

  “Sir Torchyld, I command you in the king’s name to stop tickling that young woman,” Peter ordered sharply.

  Enough was enough. He glared at them balefully until at last he managed to get their natural urges under control and start them climbing the turret stairs.

  This was another of those narrow, twisty ones. Drat it, why did Dwydd always have to conduct her perfidious operations from the higher levels? And how did that old hag manage to mount these confounded stairs without fracturing her rheumatics? Flapped up on a broomstick, maybe. It would have to be a short one, there wasn’t much flapping room here. It was a good deal like crawling up a vertical drainpipe. He just hoped she was in. He’d hate to have sprung his achilles tendons in vain.

  Dwydd was at home. Her door was shut, but when they tried pounding on it, they could hear mutterings and scufflings within.

  Syglinde risked Shandy’s renewed displeasure by cowering close to Torchyld. “Be that a basilisk?” she whispered fearfully.

  “It’s just the old woman trying to unhook her corsets,” Shandy replied firmly. This was no time for hysterics, unless he decided to throw a fit himself, which was not outside the bounds of possibility.

  This door was all of wood, he noticed; the first one he’d come to in the castle that wasn’t bound with iron. Even the hinges were of leather. Peter remembered the billet of wood that had been used to fasten the door of Syglinde’s prison when there was a perfectly usable iron bar already available, recalled something he’d run across in a fairy tale at the age of nine, and nodded to himself.

  “Open up in the king’s name,” he yelled.

  After some more yelling and pounding, he got a reply. “Who braveth ye wrath of mine guardian ghouls?”

  “Shove it, Dwydd,” he howled back rudely. “Your guardian ghouls are dead ducks. Open this door or we’ll break it down.”

  Sullenly, the resident hag at last obeyed. “What seek ye with Dwydd?”

  “We seek ye gold and jewels ye stole from my treasure trove,” Torchyld roared.

  That appeared to surprise her. “Nay, I stole naught. Think ye I durst enter ye king’s strong room?”

  “Think ye ye durst lie to me, hag? Confess!”

  “Wait a moment,” said Peter. “I think we can establish the truth on more—er—scientific lines. Here, Dwydd, this is for you.”

  He held out the huge iron key. She shrank away, shrieking.

  “Arrgh! Take it away. Touch me not with that thing, else I die.”

  “M’yes, I thought so.”

  Peter let the key dangle from his hand. “You see, boys and girls, iron in any form is an effective charm against witches. Dwydd might not scruple to rob the king’s strong room if opportunity presented itself, but what in fact she would not dare do is steal the key to unlock the door. She’s more afraid of the key than she is of the king. Right, Dwydd?”

  He raised the heavy iron instrument again. The evil crone scuttled back inside her fantastically cluttered den, picked up a dried bat, and began fanning herself frantically with its wings.

  “I beg ye, sir bard, torture me no longer. I be old and frail and not ye witch I used to be.”

  “Then tell us all you know about the? robbery.”

  “ ’Tis easily told. I know nothing.”

  “Who talked you into kidnapping Lady Syglinde and Ffyffnyr?”

  “ ’Twas mine own idea,” Dwydd answered sulkily.

  “It’s risky business lying to me, old woman. Why did you try to murder Sir Torchyld, first by blunting the edge of his sword before he went to kill the wyvern, and then by forcing him by means of your alleged enchantments and your galloping hogweed to face Gwrach unwarned and unarmed?”

  “Nay, sire, I meant not to kill him, only to prove his mettle. I perceived what valor was in him, and wanted only to bring it out. And what happened? He be now famous throughout ye land, wealthy beyond compare, and about to wed ye most beautiful woman in ye kingdom. And all this he oweth to me. Had I not done as I did, he would still be marching up and down ye battlements cursing our monarch for not letting him marry his mistress or go on a geste to seek his fortune. And what thanks do I get? Threats and revilings. Pah!”

  “Frankly, that’s one aspect of the situation that hadn’t occurred to me,” Peter replied. “I’m sure it hasn’t occurred to Sir Torchyld either, much less to Lady Syglinde, whom you sought to destroy by shutting her up in that so-called haunted tower. Nor do I believe any of us is ready to buy it now. Shall I repeat my question? Have you been running your own dirty tricks campaign, or has someone else been putting you up to it?”

  Dwydd waved the bat in a wild arabesque, and bared what few teeth she had left. “Ye have mine answer. Take it or leave it. Only begone forthwith, lest I loose a mighty spell to blast ye.”

  “Oh, put down that silly bat and talk sense, woman. You can’t scare me with your spells.”

  “I scared ye with mine hogweed,” Dwydd shouted, hurling the bat at him.

  “Come to think of it, so you did. All right, madam, that was one round to you. I trust you realize you’re not going to win another, and I strongly advise you to reconsider your position. Allow me to return your bat.”

  Chapter 17

  THE ALL-WOODEN DOOR SLAMMED shut. Peter turned to his companions.

  “Come on, you two. No sense wasting any more time here. She’s not going to talk.”

  “Ye could have tortured her with ye key,” Torchyld protested.

  “No, I couldn’t. It’s contrary to protocol.”

  Shandy’s personal protocol, anyway. He still felt queasy every time he happened to think of Gwrach.

  “Mayhap she was able to cast a spell on ye treasure room door so that it opened without ye key,” Syglinde suggested as they started back down the tower stairs.

  “It’s a thought,” Shandy replied courteously. “And you say King Sfyn has never lent anybody the key before?”

  “Why should he?” said Torchyld. “There be nothing inside that belongeth to any save only him and me. He begrudgeth me not, sin he knoweth full well I have e’en greater store of wealth than he. When Syggie and I move out, I shall leave some for him, for it be not meet that his liege be richer than he. This he knoweth though we have ne’er spoke of it, I not being one to vaunt my munificence and he not the sort to go around with his hand held out like some people I could mention.”

  “Very commendable,” said Peter. “So to the best of your knowledge, you and he are the only ones who’ve had legitimate access to the strong room since you brought home the wyvern’s hoard.”

  “Aye.”

  “When King Sfyn opened the door that other time, did it squeak?”

  “Aye, it squeaked.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “In sooth, it did. A strong room door be supposed to squeak. That squeak be a vital link in ye castle’s security. Gin any try to enter without Great-uncle Sfyn’s leave, ye squeaking would be heard in ye sentry room above, and ye guard alerted. Then would ye miscreant be apprehended as soon as he set foot on ye step, and hurled back into ye dungeon, there to await ye king’s displeasure. ’Tis a simple but foolproof system.”

  “Provided the door squeaked,” Peter reminded him. “Didn’t you notice when we opened it a little while ago that the door didn’t make any sound at all?”

  “Nay, I was noticing ye gleam of ye torchlight on Syglinde’s hair, and thinking how much richer be that gold than all ye wyvern’s hoard.”

  “And I was noticing ye little golden hairs on my Torchy’s brawny arm, and ye strength of his hand as he tried to get ye key into ye lock wrong side up, and wondering if
—I will not tell ye what I was wondering,” Syglinde finished with a shy and secret smile.

  “Well, if you care to return to the strong room, you’ll find the lock and the hinges have all been lathered with eel fat to stop the squeaks. I presume that must have been done sometime during your absence these past few days.”

  “Aye, and that was when my gold and jewels were stolen. And ye hawk bell that was supposed to throw ye guilt on me gin it were discovered, I ween.”

  “I ween you’ve hit the nail on the head,” Peter agreed. “Well, I don’t suppose this is the optimum time to extract any information from your relatives, with a wedding and a funeral running neck-and-neck, but I might as well get on back to the great hall and see what I can scare up.”

  “And we must in sooth go back to ye strong room and choose wedding presents for Immie and Gwennie and ye others. And e’en for their lovesick swains.” Syglinde couldn’t stay serious for long, not with her own wedding on the docket, too. “And ye, Torchy darling, must choose one for me.

  “Be not ye hand of an honest knight gift enough for ye, greedy wench?”

  Laughing and teasing, the pair of them ran off. Peter, after a few wrong turns, found his way back to the great hall.

  There, all was bustle and merriment, with Aunt Edelgysa bossing the job and everybody scurrying around getting in everybody else’s way. The young ladies and their attendant lords had gone out into the fields around the castle and picked armloads of wildflowers. Now they were strewing some of these among clean rushes on the floor, or hanging great bunches of them from hooks on the wall. Their arrangements mightn’t have passed muster with Grace Porble, head horticultural honcho of the Balaclava Junction Garden Club, but the effect was not without charm.

  King Sfyn was up on the throne enjoying a nap in the midst of the hubbub. Dan Stott wasn’t around. Somebody said he’d gone out to the pigpens with Prince Edbert, who took a keen personal interest in the royal livestock. The archdruid was down in the kitchens supervising the manufacture of a kettleful of soap. “We be all going to get baths for wedding presents,” Hayward told Peter excitedly.

  Shandy said that was nice, and went over to Prince Edwy, who wasn’t doing anything but staring into space over the top of a flagon.

  “Hail, prince,” he said

  “Hail, bard,” Edwy answered listlessly. “Have a drink.”

  “Not just now, thanks, I expect we’ll all be toasting the happy couples in a while.”

  “Huh. Gin they but wotted what I wot.” Prince Edwy swirled the ale around in his flagon, and scowled at the tiny whirlpool he’d created.

  “What wot you, if I’ve phrased the question correctly?”

  “Art not a married man thyself, bard?”

  “Yes, I am. Quite happily married, in fact.”

  “And why happily? Because ye be here and she be elsewhere. Full many a flagon have I quaffed to some absent lord whilst I be enjoying his lady in his own castle. Belike some roving lord be quaffing now to ye, bard.”

  “I hardly think it likely.”

  Prince Edwy only smiled a wry smile, and emptied his flagon. Shandy shifted the tack slightly.”

  “You enjoy the roving life, I gather?”

  “ ’Tis the only life for a man, bard. Look at me, still in my prime, burning to go out and slay me another dragon—”

  “And rescue another princess?”

  “Gadzooks, have I not rescued one princess too many already? In course, were I to rescue a married princess with an absent lord—aye me, for ye open road and a mettlesome steed beneath me!”

  “But you’re second in line to the throne now, Prince Edwy. If anything should happen to Prince Dagobert—”

  “Say not so, bard. E’en think it not. ’Tis a nightmare that haunteth me like a headless ghoul, that I might one day have to sit on ye throne and nevermore be free to rove. Not that I be free now. Alack and welladay. Where ye hell be all ye minions?”

  Edwy was speaking the truth, Shandy decided. “Then you must be particularly concerned with keeping your father alive as long as possible,” he observed.

  “Aye, verily, that be I.”

  “Then perhaps you can tell me something I’ve been wondering about. Who stood guard over the king those nights the griffin wasn’t available? Sir Torchyld tells me Ffyffnyr’s the official royal watchdog.”

  Prince Edwy snorted. “Aye, I can tell ye. Edelgysa made me do it. Not that I minded, ye ken. Fond of ye old man and all that. It be just that acting as substitute for a griffin don’t seem quite ye thing for a prince of ye blood. Nor care I much for sleeping in drafty doorways.”

  “Were you able to sleep all right? No—er—alarums and excursions?”

  “Nay, ’twas peaceful enow. Old Dwydd mixed up some kind of muck that would enable me to sleep soundly, yet awaken instantly at ye merest sniff of danger. Seemed to work. At least nobody got assassinated or anything.”

  “That would appear to be conclusive proof, certainly. Let’s see, you’d have been on guard duty for the past three nights.”

  Prince Edwy stared at Peter owlishly, did some complicated mental arithmetic, then nodded. “Aye. Last night, ye night before, and ye night before that.”

  “And you drank this potion each of the three nights, right? Who gave it to you? Dwydd herself?”

  “Nay, Edelgysa brought it. I told her she might send it by Lady Megan to save herself ye labor, but she heeded me not.”

  “Her wifely devotion knows no bounds, eh?”

  “Would that it did,” said Edwy bitterly. “She e’en stood watching whilst I drank.”

  “Why, didn’t you want to?”

  “Nay, ’twas vile stuff. I protested that an old campaigner needeth no potion to sleep and wake as need ariseth, but she heeded me not. She avowed I would but fall into a drunken stupor and snore like a pig whilst enemies carried my father ye king off bodily.”

  “I see. She wanted to make sure you’d wake up. So what happened after you drank the potion?”

  “I went to sleep.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until I woke. Marry, bard, ye ask ridiculous questions.”

  “I meant, at what time did you wake? Was it before cockcrow?”

  “Nay, ye sun was already climbing ye heavens and my father was bellowing for his morning ale. ’Twas his hullabaloo that roused me.”

  “Do tell. And this happened each time your wife gave you the potion?”

  “Aye, that it did.”

  “Was this consistent with your usual pattern? That is, do you normally sleep as late as your father?”

  “Nay, I be up with ye birds, doing mine exercises on ye bath mat. A prince must keep fit, gin he belike find ye chance to some day go another geste. Ho, carle, ye alepot!”

  “At least I expect you’ll get to lead the hawking expeditions from now on,” Peter observed.

  “Hawking, forsooth, I be but ye hunted rabbit, and yonder screameth ye great gyrfalcon.”

  Prince Edwy scowled over at Princess Edelgysa, who was berating her prospective son-in-law for not hanging a bouquet to suit her. “Mine only hope be that Prince Dagobert findeth himself a wife who be a bigger shrew than mine. Gin she be outyelled, perchance Edelgysa will go home to her mother and I be forced by family duties to remain in Sfynfford.”

  “Speaking of wives,” said Peter, “I understand your son Owain had—er—hopes of Lady Syglinde.”

  “Aye, belike, but his mother desireth a princess for him. Ye richest princess in all ye land. Nothing be too good for her son.”

  “Owain’s your son, too, isn’t he?”

  “I doubt not. Edelgysa be a virtuous woman, gin it come to that. Ye wilst not catch her shoving her husband off on ye gesting trail so she can entertain visiting lords.” He took another gloomy pull at his flagon. “Too much virtue be a tiresome thing, bard.”

  “I suppose it could be, under certain circumstances,” Shandy was forced to agree. “Er—let’s get back to hawking. I’m still confuse
d about what happened yesterday. As I understand it, Prince Edmyr was riding out in front. All by himself, was he? How close were you to him?”

  ‘Two horse-lengths, thereabout.”

  “And Princess Edelgysa was beside you?”

  “She was. Her palfrey kept snapping at my foot,”

  “Then in fact she was not precisely beside, but a little behind. Could you see her, or would you have had to turn your head?”

  “Nay, I turned not my head. I see enow of Edelgysa without trying.”

  “You were looking straight ahead, were you? At Prince Edmyr?”

  “Nay, I was half asleep, gin ye crave ye truth. I knew my steed would follow ye leader. He be a trusty friend who hath carried me safe o’er many a mile whilst I drowsed in ye saddle, dreaming of ye glad old days when he and I roved wild and free.”

  “Noble of him. Do you recall who else was close to you?”

  “That I can, bard. Nobody. See ye, none list to ride anear Edelgysa. She layeth too free about her with her whip.”

  “You mean she beats her horse?”

  “She beats whate’er cometh in her way. She liketh fine to whip ye heads of flowers as she rideth, or to flick ye flies off ye horses. She can kill a fly with one flick at full gallop without touching ye hide of ye horse.”

  “You don’t say. That’s quite a skill. She uses a long whip, I suppose.”

  “Nay, ’tis but a dainty thing, fit for a woman’s hand. ’Twas her skill at flicking flies that made me think I loved her. Ah, woe to ye fool who fell for a fleetly flailing fly-flicker.”

  Edwy burst into tears and laid his head on the banqueting table. Seconds later, he was out like a light. So much for that interview.

  Shandy wished he could corner Princess Edelgysa and ask a few pointed questions about that potion she’d been dosing her husband with, but there’d be no chance of getting her attention now. She was buzzing around like a wroth hornet, although her mood appeared to be relatively amiable at the moment. Her daughter, Princess Aloisa, was showing off one of the garments from her trousseau.

  “See how fine and lustrous ye thread,” she was boasting. “ ’Tis of my mother’s spinning. None other can spin so well as Princess Edelgysa. Be that not so, Mother?”