The Haunted Wizard

CHAPTER 10

Superstitious fear froze King Drustan for several moments. Then he sprang from the bed, shouting angry curses.

The guard hammered at the door, his muffled voice crying, “Majesty! Are you well?”

“Well enough!” Drustan cried, and dove for his clothes. Dressed, he turned to the door, then with a last thought turned to kick Rosamund’s gown under the bed. He turned back to yank the bar off the door. The guards tumbled in, weapons at the ready. “Who dares strike at Your Majesty?”

“A witch!” King Drustan pointed a trembling finger at the log. “Or perhaps that puling Lord Wizard of Merovence!”

The guards turned to stare, then paled with fear of the supernatural, making signs to ward off evil.

“Oh, be done with your womanish fears!” King Drustan snapped in disgust, all the greater because of the reminder of his own brief terror. “Send men out to seek for the princess! Send more to discover who has kidnapped her! Find me a wizard of my own, to discover whose work this is!”

The soldiers bowed and ran from the room, all too glad to get away from the scene of witchcraft. Drustan stood his ground, glaring at the log and fuming. He didn’t really believe that Matthew Mantrell had done this, but he would learn who had, and they would suffer for his embarrassment!

It was another night and another inn—but this time they were in Bretanglia, for during the day, they had crossed the Calver River, the border between Bretanglia and Merovence. Matt was constantly on edge now, and acting all the more casual because of it, very much aware of being an alien in his enemy’s land. At least he was accompanied by a knight who had acquired the accent of Bretanglia’s nobility, when he chose to use it, and a peasant who had been born with the burr of the village folk of the North Country.

The common room was full, peddlers and carters jostling elbows with the local farmers as serving wenches threaded through the maze of tables with handfuls of mugs and laden trays. The companions elbowed their way through to a few seats and wedged their way onto the benches.

“Good e’en to you, travelers!” A jovial carter raised his mug in welcome. “Have you come far?”

“From Bordestang, good fellow,” Sir Orizhan told him.

The man sobered at hearing his accent. “A weary trip, sir.”

“Weary indeed,” Sir Orizhan agreed, “but liable to prove unhealthy, if we had stayed.”

“So!” The carter raised his eyebrows. “The rumors are true, then?”

“Which rumors?” Sergeant Brock asked.

“That Prince Gaheris was murdered in Merovence, and King Drustan may make war upon Queen Alisande in revenge?”

“True enough,” Sergeant Brock said, “though who can tell how a king thinks?”

“But there’s no proof that he has call for revenge,” Matt said. “The killer might not have been a man of Merovence.”

The carter turned to him, frowning. “You’ve an odd way of speaking, friend. Where is your home?”

“I grew up far to the west,” Matt said, “very far.”

A peddler next to the carter leaned in and said, “We have heard it was a Merovencian sorcerer what struck the prince.”

“It might have been a sorcerer,” Matt agreed, “and it might have been a Merovencian—but the truth is that no one saw it happen, or who did it. They only know that a man leaped out the window right afterward, and he was both a sorcerer and a man of Bretanglia.”

“Was he! We’ve not heard of that!” the carter said.

But the peddler frowned. “Where have you heard this, fellow?”

Matt forced himself to ignore the “fellow”; after all, he was disguised as a peasant. “From those who saw it,” which was true enough.

“Did they?” Another peasant leaned in, his hood still up. “How did they know he was a sorcerer?”

“Someone saw him work magic.” Matt didn’t feel obliged to say whom. “As to his being a man of Bretanglia, that was his accent.”

“Phaw!” the third peasant said in disgust. “Any man can fake an accent!”

Matt shrugged. “It’s all just rumor, as our friend the carter said. But what news have you heard? There must be some folk come down from the north with word of the war there.”

“Ah.” The carter glanced to left and to right, checking who was in earshot, then leaned even farther forward and said in a conspiratorial tone, “They say that when the Earl Marshal left Prince Brion alone, on foot and unarmed, one of his troopers turned back and saw a blue knight come riding down upon the prince and slay him.”

Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock sat stiff with shock, but Matt’s mind leaped past the emotion and onto what was, to him, just as important “Prince Brion was slain? And mere was a witness to it?”

“Aye, but he says the prince claimed the right to know who slew him, and the Blue Knight raised his visor.”

Matt braced himself. “What face did he see?”

“None.” The carter’s voice was hollow with dread. “The helmet was empty. Dark, and empty.”

The other peasants muttered and crossed themselves—but the one with his hood still up howled as though he’d burned his hand and leapt up from the table, stalking away.

The other peasants stared, watching him go. Then one said, “What bit him?”

“Guilty conscience, maybe.” Matt watched, too. “He’s got awfully hairy hands, hasn’t he?”

They all looked and nodded. “Most marvelously hairy,” said the carter. “I know a plowman who is almost as bad.”

Matt made a mental note that the bauchan was allergic to the Sign of the Cross, then realized it would probably do no good if he deliberately used it as a weapon. He sighed and braced himself for more mischief.

Apparently it was going to be delayed, though. A sudden commotion of talk swept through the room. Everyone turned to everyone else, either asking or telling.

The carter leaned over to the next table. “What has happened?”

“A minstrel!” a farmer told him. “He has just said that Princess Rosamund is gone from her moated grange!”

“A minstrel! Will he sing of it?”

“Not until he has finished—there! He has swallowed the last bite of his dinner!”

The minstrel stepped into the clear space near the hearth, lifting his lute. As he tuned it, the bauchan, on his way out the door, stopped and turned back to listen. As the strains of the lute grew louder, the people gradually fell silent, and Buckeye settled down, leaning against the wall.

Matt made another mental note—that the bauchan liked music—for it might come in handy, whether he meant to use it as a charm or not.

The minstrel began to sing.

The minstrel slipped into a slightly higher voice for King Drustan.

The women in the crowd exclaimed in indignation, and the men muttered in agreement—everyone seemed to think that hearing confession under false pretenses was pretty low.

“Now, God forbid, said Earl Marshal,” the minstrel sang in a deeper voice,

A murmur of approval ran through the crowd. The true knight had remained true.

The bauchan looked up and turned his head, frowning at the crowd’s idealism.

The minstrel slipped into Drustan’s voice again.

“Which conveniently explains any lack of evidence,” Matt muttered to Sir Orizhan. The knight looked surprised, then nodded slowly.

The minstrel went on.

“They really like hanging people in your country?” Matt muttered to Sergeant Brock.

“Just a minstrel’s nonsense,” the sergeant said, but he didn’t look all that sure.

” ‘We’re monks of Merovence,’ they said,

Matt frowned. “Why’s that important?”

“Monks say Mass every day,” Sir Orizhan explained, surprised. “They had only arrived that day, and after Mass-times.”

“Oh, of course,” Matt said, abashed. “Silly of me.”

“The first vile sin that e’er I did, To you I shall unfold…’”

Indignant or not, everybody leaned forward, eager for gossip. Some sixth sense made Matt look at Buckeye just in time to see the bauchan’s lips moving as he made an intricate, double-handed gesture toward his mouth, then blow a kiss toward the minstrel. Matt turned back to watch, his stomach roiling.

The minstrel sang on in happy ignorance.

The whole room broke into a furious hubbub, everyone denouncing such a vile accusation—but doubt shadowed many faces. The minstrel himself looked shocked at his own words, but his lips kept moving, as though of their own accord.

Matt glanced at the bauchan and saw him grinning. He didn’t know how this was going to rebound onto himself, but he braced for the worst The minstrel began to sing in the King Drustan voice: “

The crowd went wild, and the minstrel clapped his hand over his mouth, appalled. People were on their feet, shaking their fists at him and shouting angrily—but he was a veteran and realized that he had to get them under control somehow. He kept playing until they had quieted a little, then called out over the noise, “I only sing what I have heard, good folk! But if it offends you…” He stopped playing and started to swing the lute over his shoulder.

Matt had to admire the man for a graceful exit from an explosive situation. It almost worked.

“No, no! Go on!” a dozen people cried at once.

The minstrel hesitated, looking uncertain.

“A penny to sing us the rest!” one man cried, and a copper flew through the air to land near the minstrel’s feet.

“A silver penny!”

“A shilling!”

Coins rained on the singer. Reassured, he took up his lute again, playing while he waited for silence.

“Nice technique,” Matt said slowly. “I can see minstrels are going to be singing this version of the song all over the country, if it brings them that kind of cash.”

“There are a few towns loyal to the queen,” Sir Orizhan said noncommittally.

“So they won’t perform there. I wonder how this song would have sounded if the minstrel could have sung it the way he intended.”

Sergeant Brock stared at him. “What makes you think he does not?”

Matt jerked his head toward the bauchan. Sergeant Brock looked, saw, and went stiff.

The minstrel, not one to let a good thing go, lifted his lute again and took up the song.

The crowd took it in stride, exclaiming in tones of delighted horror but staying in their seats. The minstrel managed to look nonchalant, as though those were the words he had planned to sing. When they quieted, he went on.

The crowd erupted into exclamations of excited condemnation.

“That conveniently explains why Earl Marshal let Prince Brion live,” Matt said, thin-lipped. “Very neat.”

“Who could have invented such calumnies?” Sir Orizhan protested.

“The bauchan.” Sergeant Brock nodded toward Buckeye.

Sir Orizhan stared at the spirit, then whipped his gaze back to the minstrel. “You mean the creature makes the words come out of the minstrel’s mouth?”

“No, he can’t do that.” Matt frowned, suddenly alert. “I thought he was just putting the thoughts into the minstrel’s head, but… Watch the singer’s lips, closely!”

His companions stared at him as though he were mad, then shrugged and turned to watch the minstrel again. The man sang,

“By my troth, it’s true!” Sir Orizhan exclaimed. “His lips form sounds we’re not hearing!”

Matt nodded. “Buckeye is blocking the words the minstrel’s really saying.”

“So the bauchan is making up the words we do hear?” Sergeant Brock guessed.

“Maybe.” But Matt wasn’t so sure. He was a good American boy who had grown up on commercials and politicians’ promises, and he was very much aware how well the song fitted King Drustan’s purposes. He wondered if it was really the bauchan who was making up those words, after all, though he didn’t doubt it was Buckeye’s mischief that opened a channel for whoever really was broadcasting them. He had a sudden vivid image of the minstrel as a radio, picking up signals from someplace farther north.

The minstrel sang on:

Who really was transmitting? King Drustan was suddenly no longer the obvious source—that last verse favored Prince John too much, as the legitimate heir. Somehow, though, Matt just couldn’t believe such an obvious loser could have the intelligence to compose a ballad like that, let alone think of broadcasting it magically to any minstrels with nothing on their minds—or coming out of their mouths, as the case might be. Also, John was a prince, not a sorcerer.

The minstrel was still singing. Matt concentrated on his words, hoping for a clue.

He struck a final chord, and it echoed in a room suddenly silent, as everyone stared, appalled, at the thought of one of the most chivalrous knights in the land suddenly transformed into a treacherous villain.

It numbed Matt, too. Somebody was trying to destroy the credibility of one of the pillars of goodness and principle in Bretanglia. He suspected sorcery in a big way—but who was a big enough sorcerer?

The Man Who Went Out the Window.

Suddenly, he was back at the top of Matt’s suspect list. Matt began to see that, no matter who lost, the sorcerer won.

Then the crowd rose in one roaring monstrous wave, rolling toward the minstrel.

The man blanched and shrank into the nearest corner.

The reaction took Matt by surprise. He sat frozen for a second, appalled at the transformation from shouting to charging.

Then the shock wore off, and he leaped out of his seat, running to put himself between the minstrel and the crowd, then spinning to face the customers, drawing his sword. A second later Sergeant Brock was at his left with his quarterstaff up to guard, and Sir Orizhan was at his right with his sword out and ready.

The sight of naked steel gave the crowd pause, even a second of silence. Matt took his opportunity. “Freedom of speech!”

A roomful of blank looks answered him—the phrase was nonsense to medieval peasants.

“Let him sing what he pleases,” Matt explained, “and anyone who can argue the queen’s side, go ahead and argue! The rest of you use your common sense and decide who’s right!”

“We know who’s wrong!” A man leaped into the front rank, a man with his hood up and a very hairy forefinger pointing past Matt at the minstrel. “Stop him! He’s going out the window!”

“That doesn’t make him guilty!” Matt shouted, but his voice was lost in the roar as the crowd charged. Cudgels appeared, striking at the knights’ swords, then snapping back as Matt and Sir Orizhan slashed. Sergeant Brock was beating a mad tattoo on three other staves and taking a few knocks himself. Matt stepped in front of him and snapped, “Out the window!”

Sergeant Brock was too experienced a soldier to argue with an officer under battle conditions. He went. Matt cut off a couple of cudgels, then snapped at Sir Orizhan, “Out!”

“I shall not leave you— Ouch!” The knight took a blow on his left shoulder.

“That could have been your right! Get OUT!” Matt stormed, and as the knight faded behind him, he whirled his sword in a figure-eight. The commoners pulled back at his sudden ferocity, pulled back but waited—wisely, too, because Matt couldn’t have kept it up for long. On the other hand, he didn’t need to.

“Away, away! For I will fly to thee, Not through the window where you’ve clambered hard, But on the viewless wings of poesy, To land beside Sir Or’zhan in the yard!”

He fell a foot and a half as the candlelight disappeared, but he was ready for it and only stumbled. He looked up, saw Sergeant Brock and Sir Orizhan staring at him, and beyond them, the minstrel. “Don’t just stand there,” Matt told them. “Run!”

“What from?” Sir Orizhan demanded.

“From the mob!” Matt cried, exasperated. “Who do you think I’m running from—Keats?

They ran.

They had a good enough head start so that they were already lost in the shadows of the village huts before the vanguard of the crowd came charging out of the tavern, howling for blood. They ran about thirty feet, then slowed, stopped, and milled about, baffled and enraged. The wind blew Matt and his companions shreds of conversation.

“Where did they go?”

“Through the huts toward the south road, most likely!”

“Road? That was a sorcerer’s spell!”

“Aye! How else could they all disappear like that?”

“What sorcerer ever had need of a road?”

“Disappear?” Sir Orizhan stared back at the mob.

“We climbed out the window!” the minstrel protested.

“They saw me disappear, and found an empty corner,” Matt explained. “They jumped to conclusions—no surprise, since that’s what they’ve been doing all evening. Let’s make tracks while we can, gentlemen. It’s going to be another cold night.”

An hour later Matt halted and pronounced them far enough away to be able to risk camping. He and his companions set about their usual tasks without even discussing them. He was surprised and pleased to see the minstrel pitch in and help— gathering wood, clearing a fire ring and rolling stones for it, and cutting boughs for sleeping. The wood he chose was very dry, so their minimal campfire gave off very little smoke. The minstrel pulled out a small kettle and went to fill it with water from a nearby stream. By the time he came back, Sergeant Brock had rigged a greenstick pothook to hang the kettle over the fire.

“I think we could all use a warm draft.” Matt took out some dried herbs and crumbled them in. His companions shied a little, so he told them, “Don’t worry, it’s just chamomile. Congratulations on your performance, minstrel.”

“I’ve seldom sung with so great an effect,” the singer said with a wry smile. “I hope I can remember the words.”

“You made them up on the spur of the moment, then?” Sergeant Brock hunched forward, intent on the answer.

“Made them up? I didn’t even sing them!” the minstrel shuddered. “The words I did sing were only the tale of the queen’s regrets for her son’s death and her ward’s kidnapping.”

“Kidnapping?” Sir Orizhan pressed close.

The minstrel looked at his face and shrugged uneasily. “How else explain her disappearance from a moated grange?”

“Escape.” Sir Orizhan leaned back. “My lady is far more resourceful than most would think, to look upon her—so pale of complexion and hair, and so quiet in her manner.”

The minstrel looked keenly at him. “Your lady?”

“He’s from southern Merovence—the princess’ home district, in fact,” Matt said quickly. “But about your song, minstrel—could vow hear the words you were singing?”

“Not those I sang myself, no. I knew what words I meant, knew which sounds my mouth shaped—but I, too, heard only this treacherous slander of the queen’s confessing an adultery she never committed.” The minstrel shuddered again. “I cannot wonder that my listeners should be so angered!”

Sir Orizhan frowned. “Why should they suddenly attack, though? These same people had already listened to the earl being blamed for deflowering the queen, though all know King Drustan was her second husband and wedded to her before she ever met Earl Marshal. Worse, they had heard him named as Prince Brion’s real father, both with nothing more than shouts of outrage. Why should they turn violent so suddenly?”

Within Matt’s head, Memory recited, Peace. The charm’s wound up. Aloud, he said, “I think it was another effect of the spell.”

“Spell?” The minstrel stared, eyes almost bulging. “What foul magic was this?”

“Well,” Matt said, feeling sheepish, “I’m afraid part of it came from a spirit who has picked me out as the target for his mischief.”

“Spirit?” The minstrel began to inch away from him.

“A bauchan,” Matt explained. “I picked him up by accident when we camped in a deserted cottage. Now he won’t leave us alone.”

“Aye. Such is the way of bauchans.” The minstrel kept inching.

“He could have created the illusion of different words coming out of your mouth,” Matt said, “but I don’t think he could have made up those verses.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed an indignant voice behind him. “Do you think I’m lacking in cleverness, then?”

The minstrel froze, staring, as Buckeye stepped out of the shadows to hunker down by the fire, dressed only in his own hair, which admittedly was total cover. He fixed Matt with a malevolent glare. “You should know by now there’s no end to my deviousness.”

“Being devious doesn’t mean you can craft verses.” Matt thought of Auden and wondered about that. He glanced at the minstrel. The man had stopped trying to get away and was following the conversation with fascination. Matt could almost hear him thinking, What a great song this will make! He tried to ignore unwanted publicity and went on. “But clever or not, be honest for once. Did you make up those words, or did you just say the first thing that came into your mind?”

Buckeye glared at him, but admitted, “The latter. I thought the verses quite inspired, myself.”

“Quite,” Matt said dryly. “The question is, who inspired them in you?”

“Why, myself!”

“Was it?” Matt challenged. “Or did somebody put them in your head for their own purposes?”

The bauchan reared back, affronted. “Who could invade my mind so?”

“Well, for the first part of the song,” Matt said, “I thought it was some sorcerer who was working for King Drustan, since the words made Queen Petronille look so bad—but by the end, the lyrics added up to making John look like the only legitimate heir. Maybe he has a sorcerer who worked on you.” Even as he said it, he felt a thrill of discovery—John having a pet sorcerer would explain an awful lot.

“No sorcerer or wizard could scramble my thoughts so!” the bauchan spluttered. “I am a creature of the land! Bretanglia itself protects me!”

Inspiration struck Matt again. “Unless the sorcerer was himself a creature of the land.”

The bauchan glared at Matt.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Matt pressed. “If the sorcerer was using magic that had grown up in Bretanglia, or if he was the descendant of generations of Bretanglian village magicians, he might be able to meddle with Bretanglian spirits, mightn’t he?”

Buckeye glared at him silently, but the minstrel found his voice. “Aye. He could.”

“If I did not craft the verses myself!” Buckeye snapped. “Credit me with some intelligence, wizard!”

“Wizard?” The minstrel glanced at Matt, wide-eyed, then at Sir Orizhan, who gave a one-inch nod. The minstrel’s gaze snapped back to the bauchan.

“If you think you’re such a great poet,” Matt told him, “prove it.”

“I will!” the bauchan cried, and began to recite, “Whan that Aprille, with her flowers soote—”

“Foul!” Matt cried. “How do I know you’re not reciting that from memory?” In fact, he suspected the bauchan was doing just that—or Chaucer had a lot of explaining to do.

Buckeye shut up and glowered at him. “How would you have me prove my cleverness, then?”

“I’ll give you a list of words,” Matt suggested. “You have to make a verse that uses them.”

“What words did you have in mind?” the bauchan asked warily.

“Oh… let’s say…” Matt thought fast.” ‘Self, pelf, send, bend, spice, sand, ice, and land.’ “

“Ha! Nothing easier!” the bauchan crowed. “You’ve made them rhyme yourself! Let me think… I have it! I’ll craft the stave!

“There!” Buckeye slapped his knee, staring at Matt in triumph. “I can craft a verse as well as—YAWK!”

He disappeared so quickly that air whooshed in to fill the space his body had occupied. Somehow the companions were left with the fading impression of eyes wide and appalled in a rubbery face.

Sergeant Brock stared. “What happened to him?”