The Haunted Wizard

CHAPTER 12

John went to the side table, his steps unsteady, and poured a goblet of wine with hands that trembled from the release of tension. “The spell worked as you said it would—I understood him, but no one else could. How did you persuade the elves to shoot him?”

“There are some things sorcerers must not confide.” Niobhyte didn’t tell John that the stroke had been as much of a surprise to him as to everyone else. He had been quicker to take advantage of it, though. “Did I not promise you that you would rule within six months of our pact?”

“You did,” John acknowledged. “I had not known it would come at the price of a war, though.”

“The war would have come in any event,” Niobhyte said easily. “Your parents would have made war upon Merovence if not upon one another. As it is, you can blame the elf-shot on the Lord Wizard, and claim he did it to keep Bretanglia from attacking his queen and wife.”

John’s eye gleamed. “Yes, I can see that would serve.” He sat in a chair opposite Niobhyte’s.

“I regret that your road to power came at the cost of the lives of your brothers, and your father’s illness.” Niobhyte’s expression said that he was anything but sorry.

John waved away the half apology. “Believe me, it scarcely tears at my heart. I would have slain my brothers myself, for all Gaheris’ hurts and Brion’s arrogance and condescension. As to my father, he has suffered only a fraction of the hurt due him.” John’s hand tightened on the goblet as he remembered his mother’s furious denunciations of mistress after mistress. They must have been true, for his mother had said it.

“I understand.” Niobhyte nodded. “Always the youngest, always the smallest. It is only your due if, after all, you rise to rule.”

“Yessss.” It was more a hiss than a word as John gazed into his cup.

“You rule already,” Niobhyte reminded him, “in fact if not in word.”

“Yes, I must have the shadow of my father behind me for some few weeks more,” John agreed, “until all the barons have accepted my authority. Of course, I will only deliver those of my father’s commands that serve my own interests, and if I issue a few orders of which Father knows nothing, who will care?”

“Quite true,” Niobhyte agreed. “However, you do indeed need your father for some time yet, if your only power is as his regent.”

“True, very true.” John’s nose wrinkled as though at a foul smell. “Curse Brion for having made his body disappear! If I could prove his death, I could be king in my own right.”

“Believe me, he could not have transported his own corpse away from us,” Niobhyte told him. “I would suspect the Lord Wizard of Merovence of the deed.”

John darted a quick, suspicious look at him. “You blame him for all my troubles, don’t you?”

“And with good reason,” Niobhyte maintained. “His purpose is to keep Bretanglia too weak and too disorganized to attack Merovence. The more confusion he can create, the less the danger to his wife. No, Highness—Majesty that will be—you must wait until you have consolidated your power over the nobles and the Church before your father can pass to his reward. Whether you are crowned or not, they will rebel against you if they can. Even King Drustan has had to put down rebellions from time to time, though the people love him for making the land safe and prosperous.”

“Oh, I shall make it safe and prosperous, too,” John purred, gazing into the fire. “I shall make it safe and prosperous indeed—for myself.”

Two nights later Matt and his companions found an inn as the sun was setting. As they were about to go in, Matt noticed something. He stopped Sir Orizhan with a hand on the shoulder.

“What troubles you?” the knight asked, then followed the direction of Mart’s gaze.

“The bird.” Matt pointed.

Looking, his companions saw a big black avian, like a very oversized crow, sitting on a windowsill and peering into the inn.

“It hopes to beg a crust or two, I doubt not,” Sir Orizhan said.

Sergeant Brock nodded. “It was ever the way of ravens to wait for what was left.”

“If you say so,” Matt said, with misgivings, and started to follow them in, when the bird turned and fixed him with a bright black bead of an eye. A chill passed through Matt; he felt that he had never seen such malice in a bird’s glance, such sheer gloating malevolence and eagerness to pounce.

Then the raven turned its attention back to the interior of the inn, and it was only a large black bird again. Slowly, Matt followed his companions into the inn.

They walked into a blast of noise—conversation, laughter, snatches of song, and the clattering of wooden platters. Serving wenches swiveled through the crowd, trays held high. Glasses lifted in toast.

“Quite a party,” Matt observed. “What do you think they’re celebrating?”

Sir Orizhan shrugged. “Life.”

“Do you think we will be able to stay the night this time?” Sergeant Brock asked.

“We can only hope,” Matt sighed.

“I mean no offense, Lord Wizard,” Sir Orizhan said, “but this bauchan of yours is proving to be a most pernicious nuisance.”

“Not so loud,” Matt hissed. “He might hear, and take it as a compliment.” Then, in a more normal voice, “I’m really sorry about this, guys, but he isn’t my bauchan—not willingly, anyway.”

“So long as he does not take us for your family, I suppose we will be well enough,” Sir Orizhan said. He surveyed the room and shook his head. “We have come late—there is no table empty.”

“There is one in the back corner.” Sergeant Brock pointed. “There is only the one man at it.”

The one man in question was hunched over, glowering at his tankard and muttering to himself.

“Not the world’s most savory company,” Matt said warily, “but it’s the only table with any room. Brace yourselves for an unpleasant meal.”

“I would say that we should go on to the next village and chance the inn there,” Sir Orizhan said, “save that we have already done so, and the darkness is upon us. It may be that you should stop urging us to just one more village, Lord Wizard.”

It was getting to be a running argument. “But we’re going so slowly as it is,” Matt protested. “We run into so many delays.”

Sir Orizhan sighed. “Then we shall have to suffer the company of a drunkard.”

“Pooh! We’ll only listen for the space it takes him to drink three more stoups of ale,” Sergeant Brock told him. “Then he’ll fall asleep and we’ll be rid of his talk.”

“Oh, really?” Matt regarded the drunk with a jaundiced eye. “How is he going to get three more stoups?”

“Why, you will buy them for him.” Sergeant Brock grinned. “Is it not a small price for peace?”

“I suppose so,” Matt sighed, “and money’s no problem yet. Gentlemen, be seated.”

Sir Orizhan sat with him, but Sergeant Brock stared, offended. He started to speak, but caught himself.

Matt frowned up at him. “What’s the matter? Sit down.”

The offense turned into disbelief. “But I am not a gentleman!”

Matt felt a surge of guilt as he remembered that no one below the rank of squire counted as a gentleman in this medieval world, and gentlemen did not dine with lower classes outside of common rooms. He started to correct the error, but before he could speak, Sir Orizhan beckoned the man close. “You are my squire for the space of this venture. I raise you to it, and shall make it lasting with all due ceremony if we succeed in our venture.”

Conflicting emotions warred in Brock’s face for a moment— disbelief, joy, and apprehension. Matt could understand it— peasants were almost never raised to the gentry, and if they didn’t succeed, this amazing prize might be snatched away from the sergeant. But he must have remembered that if they didn’t succeed, they’d probably be dead, because the joy won the skirmish, and he sat down beside Sir Orizhan, bowing his head. “I thank you, Sir Knight. From the depths of my heart.”

“You honor me as much as I you,” Sir Orizhan said generously.

“Honor!” the drunk across the table snarled. ” ‘S only a ‘scuse for killin’a good onezh!” He lifted his tankard, glare defying them to disagree. “Long live Prince Brion!”

The three companions exchanged glances. Then Matt said, “Long life, and we’ll drink to it as soon as we get mugs.”

A serving wench overheard and swirled by their table. “Would you have ale, sirs?”

“Yes, and meat and bread,” Matt told her. “Dinner, in fact.”

“As soon as I may,” she promised, and whirled away.

“Busy place tonight,” Matt commented.

” ‘S’a minshtrel,” the drunk informed them. “Came in f’r shupper. Landlord fed ‘im while he shent boyzh out t’ tell ev’yone.”

“So the whole village crowded in to be ready to listen by the time the minstrel finishes.” Matt nodded. “Smart businessman.” Then he turned to Sir Orizhan. “Does it seem to you there are an awful lot of minstrels running around these days?”

“Far more than I am accustomed to seeing,” the knight agreed. “One might almost think them to be troubadours, and us to be in the south.”

A man dressed in bright clothes stood up and struck an off-key chord on his lute.

“Or perhaps not,” Sir Orizhan amended.

The minstrel tuned a string, then struck the chord again. It was much better, and he nodded in satisfaction.

“Tell us the news ere you sing, minstrel!” one man called, and a chorus of voices took up the cry. “Aye, the news! First, the news!”

“Well, my songs are news enough in themselves,” the minstrel said, laughing.

“If they have tunes, that is news indeed,” Sir Orizhan muttered.

“Just my luck,” Matt sighed, “traveling with a critic.”

“Still, I’ll tell you the most recent in short sentences,” the minstrel went on. “Which will you have first—the bad, or the good?”

“The bad!” a dozen voices cried with relish.

“The worst of it, then, is that King Drustan has fallen ill.”

A furious babble broke out as people asked each other if it could be true, and assured that it could be, wondered about the benefit-to-damage ratio of the results.

When they had quieted, and begun to realize that the damages might well outweigh the benefits, the innkeeper called out, “Then what is the good news, minstrel?”

“The good,” the minstrel cried with false heartiness, “is that our loyal Prince John has assumed rule as regent! The king has spoken through his son, and appointed him to care for us all!”

The announcement was greeted with stunned silence. The minstrel tried to grin around at them all, but his smile faltered. Then the murmuring began, dark, ugly, and apprehensive.

“I’ve heard of it,” a tinker told his neighbor, much too loudly. No doubt he’d been disgruntled at having to give up the attention of the crowd as news bearer.

“What have you heard?” a woman at another table asked.

“Why,” the tinker said in a voice to fill the room, “that there is more to His Majesty’s ‘illness’ than meets the eye.”

“How do you mean?” The minstrel’s tone was threatening; he didn’t like having his thunder stolen, either.

The tinker’s tone sank to a dramatic whisper—one that carried to most of the room. “There’s some as say the queen poisoned him.”

“Ridiculoush!” the drunk exploded. “Queen couldn’t’ve! She been in prizhon!”

Matt started to edge farther away from the man. So did Sergeant Brock; they converged on Sir Orizhan, who sat across from the drunk.

“Worsht of ‘em all, that Zhon!” the drunk grumbled. He glared into his ale, but his voice grew louder and louder. “That Gaherish, he wazh a mean ‘un, but wazhn’t a puling little coward, at leasht! An’ who wazh that blue knight that did in Prinsh Brion, eh? Just a shuit of armor with nothin’ in-shide? That’sh bad magic, I tell yuh, bad! Sumthin’ really bad, when only the sniveling slug of a grubby little coward’zh left t’ruleush!”

Out of the corner of his eye Matt caught movement. He turned just in time to see the raven fly away from the windowsill. Somehow, it gave him a very bad feeling. He stood up, tugging at Sir Orizhan’s shoulder. “Come on. I don’t think I want to stay and hear this.”

“Give up housen again?” Brock protested.

Sir Orizhan started to object, too, until he saw the look on Mart’s face. Then he nodded and stood up. “Yes, of course. There is bound to be another inn down the road.”

“Oh, I’m not good enough fer yuh, hey?” the drunk called after them. “Jus’ cauzhe ol’ Dolan’zh tellin’a truth, nobody wantsh ‘im aroun’.”

“Might have more to do with how much ale you’ve drunk,” Matt told him as he hurried his friends toward the door.

The innkeeper rushed to intercept them. “No, goodmen, by your leave! Stay! I’ll toss out that fool Dolan! I should have done it long ago!”

But Dolan had no doubt been paying for his drinks. Still, three dinners would bring the innkeeper more than a dozen stoups of ale.

Sergeant Brock sighed. “I would dearly love to stay in an inn for the night,” he said.

“All right, we’ll stay.” But Matt felt a twinge of sympathy. “You don’t have to kick him out, mine host. Just tuck him into the inglenook, okay?”

“And keep feeding him ale,” Sergeant Brock added. “My… employer will pay for it.” He nodded at Matt.

“Well, if it’s the price of a good night’s sleep, okay,” Matt said, and they went back to the table. The landlord preceded them and hustled Dolan off to the inglenook, protesting every inch of the way. As they sat down, Matt wondered if maybe he really would have been doing the man more of a favor to let the landlord kick him out.

He thought so even more after dinner, when the soldiers burst in.

They came following a hound that looked to be more wolf than dog, its cry more a howl than a bark. It padded straight toward the inglenook. The patrons exclaimed in horror and fright and leaped out of its way, overturning chairs and tables in their haste.

Dolan looked up and saw the hound coming. “Nooooo!” he wailed, hands up to shield him. “Save me, goodfolk!”

But the dog stopped inches from him, growling a threat. Dolan climbed up on his stool and pressed himself back into the inglenook, still wailing his denial and staring at the beast in terror.

“Down with you, then!” A soldier struck his knees with a spear shaft, and the poor man fell with a scream.

The soldier yanked him upright, and Dolan yammered, “But I’ve done nothing!”

“You’ve spoken against the prince!” The sergeant’s voice rang through the great common room. “Don’t try to deny it! We know!”

“Sit down, my masters,” Sergeant Brock muttered, yanking at Mart’s sleeve.

Matt looked down in surprise; he hadn’t even realized he’d stood up. Sir Orizhan stared, too, looking down at himself.

“We can’t let them haul him away just for being drunk,” Matt muttered, but it was halfhearted.

“You can’t throw away a kingdom for a single drunken fool!” Brock hissed. “Sit down, my masters, for if you fight the king’s men-at-arms, everyone will know you for what you are!”

It was a point well taken—they couldn’t compromise the whole mission, and risk the war they might prevent, to save one single man. Matt forced himself to sit, and Sir Orizhan, equally reluctantly, sat, too, and watched the soldiers drag Dolan out, wailing and weeping.

“Be calm, Sir Knights,” Brock muttered. “We do not know what punishment they will give him, after all.”

“True,” Matt said stiffly. Since Dolan was just a drunken loudmouth, presumably the punishment wouldn’t be terribly severe.

“It is not as though he were really talking treason, after all,” Sir Orizhan muttered, but he didn’t look convinced.

The door closed behind them all, dog, soldiers, and victim, and the patrons turned back to talking to one another, trying to strike up conversations again—but their efforts were subdued and listless. Finally the innkeeper called, “Your songs, minstrel! Are you not one who has the gift of raising folks’ spirits?”

“I shall try, mine host,” the minstrel answered, and struck some chords from his lute, then began to sing “Queen Petronille’s Confession.”

“Amazing how that song is getting around,” Matt said in an undertone.

“Yes, but it is even more amazing how carefully that minstrel sings it,” Sir Orizhan answered, “as though he were afraid each and every word might bring that hound of menace back again.”

It was true, and Matt saw that the minstrel, along with everyone else who had witnessed the scene, had realized its meaning—that there was to be no freedom of speech of any kind, not even the slightest hint, in Regent John’s England.

Just across the border in Merovence, Mama and Papa were hearing the same song in a very similar inn that same night.

Papa frowned as he listened, and considered how to talk to Mama in public without worrying about eavesdroppers. He couldn’t speak the English of his own world!—being his native tongue and the first words that answered the impulse of speech, it emerged here as the language of Merovence. Then he realized that French wasn’t a native language to either of them, and should emerge here as words no one else understood. “Ma cherie, comprends-tu cette langue?” My dear, do you understand this language?

Mama looked up in surprise, then realized what he was doing and smiled with delight. She answered in the same language, “Yes, I understand. So we can speak French here, though we cannot speak English? How clever of you to think of it!”

“Thank you, my dear. What do you think of this song we have just heard?”

“That it is slander,” Mama said instantly, “and the proof of that is that it makes John out to be the legitimate heir, even if Brion had still been alive.”

“I knew it was slander, but I didn’t think of the purpose,” Papa told her. “Do you think there can be any truth to it at all?”

“That Drustan might have disguised himself to learn Petronille’s secrets, I might believe,” Mama told him, “but Earl Marshal is far too chivalrous to stoop to such a deed, even if his sovereign commanded him to do so.”

“He is indeed,” Papa agreed, “and too chivalrous to commit adultery, even if he had been in love with Petronille—the kind of love the troubadours praised was love from afar.”

“Well, sometimes not,” Mama demurred, “but when it was anything else, it involved years of courtship. No, I think we can safely rule out Brion’s being anyone’s son but Drustan’s— especially since John needs to sway the people to his side, and it would be amazingly convenient for him if Brion, the people’s darling, turned out to be a bastard, dead or not.”

Papa nodded. “A propaganda piece, then. And to think our politicians think they invented mudslinging!”

Mama stood up, blazing with indignation. “We must tell everyone the truth!”

“No, wait.” Papa forestalled her with a hand on her arm, and jerked his head toward the rafters. Looking up, Mama saw two ravens squatting on the beams, glowering down at the people.

“Hugi and Munin?” she guessed.

“Like them, at least. They may not be spying for Odin, but I feel sure they are someone’s eyes and ears. We know there is a sorcerer involved in this affair somewhere, my dear.”

“Yes, we must assume the worst.” Mama sat down and looked out over the room with a stern gaze. “And we dare not put those birds to sleep, or we will reveal that there are master wizards here.”

“I had not thought of that, but you are certainly right,” Papa said, frowning. “No, my dear, for the time being, I’m afraid we must watch and learn, and wait for the time to use our knowledge.”

“And hope those ravens do not speak French,” Mama replied.

The road opened out into a huddle of huts before the companions, and Brock reminded Matt, “You said we should stop at the next inn.”

“Yes, but there’s a good two hours of daylight left!” Matt protested.

“Who says that they will be good?” Sir Orizhan asked airily. “Besides, we might not find another village with an inn before midnight.”

Well, Matt doubted that—the villages tended to be about two hours apart, even by the back roads they were traveling— but he gave in with a sigh. “Okay. If there’s an inn here, we’ll stay the night.”

They sauntered down the single dusty street, with wary eyes watching them from every window and women’s cries warbling from every door. Children heard and scurried for cover behind their mothers.

Sergeant Brock grinned. “Cautious, but not frightened. The war has spared this place.”

The cottages opened out into the village green, with a two-story thatched inn at one side and the church at another. In the center of the green a man in white robes and sandals stood atop a small knoll, his head wreathed in mistletoe. He held high a staff carved into a snake as he cried, “Come at sundown, come! When your day’s work is done! Come to the gods of your ancestors! Take up again the Old Worship! Come with Banalix the Druid, to honor Toutatis!”

A score of villagers surrounded the man already, and housewives were drifting closer. The men coming in from the fields looked up with interest.

“What have we here?” Sir Orizhan looked up, on his guard.

“Someone trying to bring back that Good Old-Time Religion,” Matt said slowly. “Talk about a revival meeting!”

“He is a druid,” Brock said with certainty.

Something in the tone of his voice made Matt turn to study him. He was somber, but not angry or contemptuous—and Matt realized he had expected the sergeant to be so. Why? He looked at the so-called druid again, and caught the flash of something bright at his belt…

A gilded sickle.

Suddenly Matt remembered the sickle in Sergeant Brock’s pack. If the soldier really had fought these latter-day druids, he should be angry at the mere sight of Banalix, the more so because the man was standing boldly forth in broad daylight and openly calling people to his religion in defiance of the Church.

“The Old Gods knew the ways of war!” Banalix orated. “They shall protect you from the bloodthirsty hordes of Merovence!”

Sir Orizhan stiffened. Matt took umbrage himself.

“The Old Gods shall lend skill to your hands and show you once again the use of weapons, not merely the handles of a plow! Come to the Old Gods! Grow strong again!”

“You lie, rogue!” thundered a voice from the church, and the village priest came striding forth, his face red with anger. “There is great strength in the Christian God, but His strength is tempered with mercy!”

“Strength?” Banalix turned to meet the attack with a relish that spoke of success; he had meant to provoke this cry of defense. “When did the Christ ever wield a sword?”

“He stood barehanded against blades, for He told us that any who live by the sword must die by the sword! Yet He had the courage to stand unarmed before soldiers!”

“Surrendered himself meekly, you mean!” Banalix sneered. “When did He ever fight?”

“When He threw the moneychangers out of the Temple! To cleanse the House of God! For a good and godly reason, Christ fought, as must we all!” He turned to the crowd, raising his arms. “Fight against the seduction of this man’s lies! Fight in your hearts for the salvation of your souls!”

“Fight?” Banalix jibed. “What weapon did your Christ ever use? Only a whip of knotted cords!”

“That, and the force of His anger, against which no man can stand!” the priest declared. “Beware, impostor, for that anger shall be directed against you!”

“I am not an impostor!” Banalix cried, reddening. “I am a true druid!”

“There are no true druids anymore,” the priest shot back. “They all died, because they had no worshipers to wait upon them and feed them!”

“As your worshipers wait upon and feed you!” Banalix returned.

“I feed my flock, not they me!”

” ‘Tis true!” an old woman cried from the back of the crowd. “Friar Gode sees that none of the poor starve!”

“Say that your neighbors and the viscount feed you, for it is they who give me food to bring you.” But the friar flashed the old woman a smile of gratitude. Then he turned back to Banalix. “This is the strength of the Christ—that people care for one another, help one another in their hour of need!”

“Care for one another? Aye, and slaughter one another in battles!”

The friar smiled. “I thought you said that Christians did not know how to fight!”

The so-called druid scowled. “How many of your sheep could fight off a wolf?”

“All the men practice at the archery butts every Sunday, as you know!” Friar Gode turned to the crowd again, his arms upraised. “You have heard it! He will say any lie he finds to blind you, then counter it with another lie to confuse you! This is no priest of an ancient religion, but a rogue who seeks to enslave you by using only those parts of the heathen faith that entice you!”

“So you admit the Old Gods are enticing!” Banalix snapped, eyes glittering.

“Say rather that it is you who make the Old Gods seem enticing—all your doing, for the heathen gods never existed as anything more than stories to warn children!”

The people moved back a little, muttering fearfully at such a denial.

“But your enticement lasts only until you have them enslaved!” Gode turned to the crowd. “Then he will tell you that his gods demand blood! You have all heard the news, even if it is only whispered, never said openly—how his kind kidnap virgins to slay on their bloodstained altars!”

“They are hard gods, but they bring power and prosperity!” the “druid” thundered.

“They bring death and destruction to those who worship them,” Friar Gode countered, “or their false priests do!”

“Beware,” Banalix cried, “for my sickle is not false, but sharp and hard!”

“Whoever heard of gold that was hard, or could hold an edge?” the friar returned. “It may be gilded, but it is not gold—false, like its owner!”

Matt glanced at Sergeant Brock. The man’s face was impassive, hard as rock.

“False? You dare call me false, when you worship a man whose disciples stole his body and claimed it had come back to life?” Banalix was getting carried away now. “Disciples who made up stories about his walking on water and feeding thousands with seven loaves and two fishes? Aye, you must know falsehoods well!”

The people murmured and backed away farther, fear sharpening.

“Those were no lies, but true miracles!” Friar Gode returned. “True miracles, such as His saints work even today by His power! Now you are not only a liar, but a blasphemer as well!” He folded his hands and looked up to Heaven, silent for a moment as he calmed his soul and focused his thoughts on prayer. All the villagers were mute with apprehension, for in this universe, a friar’s prayers were powerful indeed.

Brock leaned close to Matthew and muttered, “We must stop this!”

“We can’t let them know who we really are!” Matt muttered back.

“O God!” Friar Gode cried. “O Great and Powerful Father of All! O Jesus, Who art both Man and God!”

Banalix began to swing his hand in a circle, muttering.

Matt stiffened, and began gathering verses to chant.

“Suffer not untruth to prosper, I pray thee!” the friar cried. “Expose all lies, strike down all enemies of Right!”

If Matt hadn’t been watching closely, he wouldn’t have seen Banalix’s left hand open the small ceramic box at his belt, wouldn’t have seen the right hand dip in, then circle twice more before he hurled a fireball at Friar Gode.

The ball struck, and flame exploded over the friar’s robe. He screamed, running, batting at the flames—and, of course, making them worse.

“Behold the power of Belenos!” Banalix cried in triumph, but the crowd only pressed away from the burning friar, moaning.

“Help me!” the friar howled, running toward his parishioners. The flames roared higher, and the villagers flinched even farther away, moaning.

But Matt was running, too, shouting, “Fall down, friar!” and whipping off his cloak.

The monk didn’t hear him over his own screaming, only went on running from one villager to another. Matt knocked him to the ground and dropped his cloak over the man, rolling him in it and rolling again and again until all the flames were out.

“See how Belenos triumphs over the Christ!” Banalix cried.

“With the help of a little naphtha.” Matt wrinkled his nose at the smell coming from the poor burned friar.

“Do you question whose magic is more powerful?” the false druid demanded of the crowd.

His answer was a low moan.

“Come to the worship of Toutatis and Belenos!” Banalix urged. “Return to the gods who are strongest!”

Most of the people started toward him, then glanced at their neighbors and hesitated. Everyone hesitated, in fact. Then the whole crowd pulled back, shame-faced and sullen.

“How fearful you are!” the druid said scornfully. “But I warn you, Belenos’ wrath is more to be feared than the disapproval of your neighbors or the scoldings of your priest!”

Even burned and in pain, Friar Gode managed to turn his moans into a cry. “Already he begins his threats!”

The villagers glanced at him, startled, then frowned at Banalix, unsure.

The false druid at least knew he’d pushed it as far as he could. “I shall go now, but Belenos shall stay with you! Toutatis shall watch you! You shall never be free of your ancestors’ gods—but then, you never have been!”

One boy stepped closer to Banalix, greatly daring, no doubt urged on by his friends—and as the false druid turned away, his hand flashed out and caught the boy by the arm. The child yelped with fear and tried to pull away, but Banalix pressed something into his palm. The boy froze, staring at the first gold coin he had ever seen—tiny, but really gold. Banalix drew him close and said something softly to him, then turned him around and sped him on his way with a pat. Then Banalix strode off toward the woodlot beyond the village, head high, moving swiftly, certainly appearing to be a druid. The villagers gave way, pulling back to leave a channel down which Banalix went, between the huts and into the woods. The people stared after him, silent a moment, then began to drift away to their huts, talking in low tones. One or two glanced guiltily at the friar but saw he was in someone’s care, even if that someone was a stranger, and took the excuse to hurry away to their homes.

Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock, though, came closer, their faces grave. They winced at the friar’s groans and wrinkled their noses at the stench of the naphtha.

“A bucket of water, please, Sergeant,” Matt said, then turned back to stripping the remains of his cloak off the friar. “Lend a hand, Sir Orizhan.”

The knight stepped closer, face a mask against the sight of the burns, and helped Matt strip charred scraps of the friar’s own robe from his body.

“Not my loins!” the friar cried. “Sweet modesty!” But he stirred too much as he said it, and cried out with pain.

“By your leave, friar, we have to heal the burns wherever we find them,” Matt told him.

Brock came up with the bucket.

“Pour it everywhere you see a burn,” Matt told him, “but gently, mind you.”

Brock poured, and Matt sprinkled a powdered herb on the wet flesh, muttering,

He kept muttering and sprinkling as the friar’s groans slackened, until every burn had grown new skin and the friar sat up, looking at his arms and chest, amazed.

Sir Orizhan’s lips shaped a soundless whistle, and Sergeant Brock stepped back, the whites showing all around his eyes.

The friar stared up at Matt. “What manner of man are you?”

“A healer, among other things.” Matt figured the obvious couldn’t hurt. “You were lucky we got to you quickly—though the burns were only superficial, or I might not have been able to mend them so fast.”

“Not luck, but Providence!” The friar started to stand up, then remembered his nudity and sank back with a cry of distress.

“Yes, there’s still some pain,” Matt said grimly. “Sir Orizhan, could the good friar borrow your cloak for a little while? I seem to have lost mine.”

“It shall be replaced!” the friar assured him.

“Call it a donation,” Matt told him.

Sir Orizhan held up his cloak, and Matt helped the friar rise into its folds. He cried out as it touched his shoulders, then clamped his mouth shut.

“I know, it still hurts,” Matt commiserated. “Be careful, friar—that’s new skin, and it will be very sensitive for a while.”

“I shall be most careful indeed! Bless you, stranger, for a good Samaritan!”

“I have a stake in your cause,” Matt told him.

“My cause!” The friar buried his face in his hands, moaning. “I have failed my Lord! Both my Lord and my flock!”

“You haven’t failed yet,” Matt said grimly. “This was a battle, friar, not a war. No, not even a battle—just a skirmish.”

Sergeant Brock looked up in surprise. Sir Orizhan looked up, too, but only smiled and nodded slightly.

The friar stared at Matt, and hope began to rise in his eyes again. Matt turned him away gently and began to walk him toward the church. “Lucky your feet weren’t burned.”

“This is not the end of the matter, then?” the friar asked. “Have you any real knowledge of that?”

“Sure,” Matt said. “You pushed that Banalix to his limit, friar. All he could find for an argument were cliches that were worn thin by the time the gospels were written. He had to resort to trickery to shut you up.”

“Trickery?” The friar halted, staring up at him. “Not true magic?”

Sergeant Brock stared, too.

“Not a bit,” Matt assured them. “I saw him pull that ball of wax out of his sleeve while he was making those sham magical passes. I saw him light it in the coal-box at his belt, too, and I know what he mixed with the wax to make it burn that way—I recognized the smell on your charred robe. Believe me, there was no way you could have won that encounter—that would have taken a real wizard.”

Both his companions looked up, startled. Matt gave them a wink and a slight shake of the head.

Friar Gode turned away and started walking again, head bowed in thought. “But why wasn’t prayer enough?” he asked, bewildered.

“You should know the answer to that one better than I, friar.” Matt smiled. “It’s because we have free will—so God and the saints leave us to fight our own battles, and won’t interfere directly, though they’ll give us all the help they can. The Devil doesn’t feel any such scruples, though. The only thing that stops Hell’s minions from coming out in the open is that if they do, the saints feel fully justified in stepping in themselves. So the Devil keeps his imps hidden, and the saints watch ready to pounce, and that leaves it up to us to fight the battle. But the Devil gives his agents all the ammunition they need—in this case, a recipe the Greeks knew but most people today have forgotten.”

“Save my people from this druid!”

“I’ll do what I can. Shouldn’t be too hard; Hell wouldn’t be helping a real druid.”

Friar Gode’s face lit with relief and joy. “You, too, think the man to be an impostor, then?”

“I’m sure of it. The druids were very religious people in their own way, and the Devil’s trying to destroy religions, not help them.”

Friar Gode froze, staring at him in shock.

Matt kept on walking, though slowly. “I’ll bet Banalix doesn’t even speak Gaelic, and that sickle was only gold plate over very real steel. Besides, real druids didn’t use fake fireballs.”

The friar hurried to catch up with him, then looked up at the church. “We are come to the House of God. Will you take supper with me? It is all the thanks I can show.”

The thought of food suddenly sounded very good. “Why, yes, thank you. Sir Orizhan, Sergeant Brock?”

The sergeant looked wary, but the knight said easily, “I shall accept your hospitality with thanks. If we are to have another night in a cold field, hot food would be a blessing.”

“In a field?” The friar looked up, startled, then glanced at the inn. “Of course—you cannot be sure of your welcome at the hostel now, can you? Well, I have only the one hard bed, but if you wish to spread your blankets on my floor, I would be honored.”

Inspiration struck. “Thanks very much, but, uh … would it be too much to ask if I could sleep in the church?”

“In the church? But the floor is stone, as is all the building!” The friar gave Matt a searching glance. “Of course, if you wish it. The House of God is open to all, at all hours.”

It made a nice contrast to late-twentieth-century America. “Thanks. I think I’ll sleep much better there.”

“I’d liefer have a wooden floor, if you will allow it,” Sir Orizhan said.

“I, too.” Sergeant Brock seemed relieved.

“Then let us dine. My housekeeper should have the evening meal ready.” The friar’s lips quirked in a sardonic smile. “If she still cooks for me, that is.”

She still did, and though the meal was Spartan, it was hot and very good—only bread, fish, and ale, with cheese and apples after. When they were done, Matt took the friar aside and said, “If you don’t mind, mine host, I know a few simple spells which might be of use to you in the future.”

“Spells?” The friar stared. “Are you a wizard, then?”

“Every traveler should know enough to repel bandits and guard against night-walkers,” Matt told him. “Now, here’s a defense against fireballs, since we’ve seen you may need it…”

Friar Gode proved to be a better student than Matt was a teacher, and within the space of an hour could repeat the verses and gestures of four spells perfectly. He could quench fireballs, ward off malice and spite, protect himself against weapons of any kind, and, most importantly of all, cancel the effects of spells cast to harm him.

“I’ll feel a little better about you living on your own now,” Matt told him.

“You are not a guest, but a blessing!” the friar declared. “You must have my bed—I shall sleep on the floor!”

Matt smiled. “Well, thank you, friar—but I’d still rather sleep in the church. It’s dark now, though, so it must be your bedtime. If you don’t mind, I’ll take a little walk before I sleep.”

“Anything that pleases you!” Friar Gode turned to Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock. “Please, my friends, do not delay on my account! Spread out your blankets and rest!”

“I thank you.” But Sir Orizhan’s gaze rested on Matt. “Perhaps you should not walk alone, my l—good sir.”

“Oh, I think I’ll be fine. You two lie down and sleep while you can. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be safe as houses.”

“Houses of God, at least.” Sir Orizhan smiled faintly, but his eyes were still worried.

Matt went out and began his stroll, listening to the night sounds for the hoot of an owl. When he heard it, he took a packet of powder from his belt and sprinkled a sparse, almost invisible stream beside him, chanting,

He walked around the church and the hut of a rectory attached to it, sifting powder and chanting rhymes. He had almost finished the circle when a voice beside him said, “That won’t do much good, you know.”

Inside his skin, Matt jumped a mile. Fortunately, the outside of his skin stayed right where it was and kept on chanting and moving its feet as he sprinkled powder.

“That charm, I mean,” Buckeye said. “There is no spell you can lay that can keep me from you, no warding circle I cannot cross, for you have bound me to you by the naming of magic.”

Matt closed the circle and wrapped up the packet of powder, tucking it back inside his pouch.

“You cannot keep me out.” The bauchan sounded miffed by Matt’s silence. “Not even ignoring me can fend me off, the more so as I know you hear.”

Finally Matt turned to him, grinning. “Who said I was laying the warding circle against you?”

“What… ?” Buckeye stared, taken aback. “But—But— what else has beset you?” Then anger gathered. “Does someone else wreak mischief upon you? Nay, tell me the name of that foul sprite!”

“Not on me,” Matt corrected. “I do occasionally take the side of someone else who’s being bullied, you know.”

“Someone else?” Buckeye stared. “When you yourself are not hurt in any way?” The concept was clearly foreign to him.

“Even when it doesn’t affect me at all.” Matt frowned, thinking that over. “No, that’s not true—I have the naive notion that anything that affects anybody else has some effect on me, too, no matter how small.”

“Outrageous!” Buckeye struggled with the concept, and lost. “What a positively outlandish notion!”

“Well, at least you realize it’s positive.” Matt pointed to the rectory. “There’s a good man inside there, a friar, and a fake druid has just popped up to plague him. He threw a fireball at Friar Gode this afternoon, and I’d like to make sure this Banalix can’t hurt him again in any way.”

“Banalix!” The bauchan’s face wrinkled in disgust. “A false druid indeed!”

“Oh?” Matt looked up with interest. “How do you know?”

“Och, I remember the true druids, mortal! Five hundred years ago and more, and they were the salt of the earth, the sap and the fruit and the branch of the forest, and the forest of them! They treated me with the reverence that was my due, as they treated all the spirits! But they are gone, alas, except for the few left in that isle off the western shore—gone, and only you milk-blooded folk in their place, who idolize the plow and try to deny the forest!”

“Well, fanning does provide more food, and thereby keeps more of us alive.” Matt spoke bravely, but he shivered inside at the thought of talking to a creature who was five hundred years old. He clung to the one fact that offered some promise. “You’ve heard of Banalix, then?”

“Of course! Would I let something so obscene as a false druid slip by me? He is bound for the oldest oak in the center of the woods this minute, for he has spread word through the village that all the folk who wish to bring the Old Faith to life again may meet him there!”

Matt just stared at him for a minute—two minutes, four.

Buckeye actually grew nervous. “Wizard? Have I hit upon words that can turn you to stone?”

“No, I’m attuned to a completely different kind of rock,” Matt told him. “You know, I was just going out for an evening stroll before bedtime anyway. Which way did you say this old oak was?”