The Haunted Wizard

CHAPTER 17

Matt remounted and clambered up on his saddle, just in time to see that one of the soldiers had come to his feet and was strolling toward the convent—but as Matt watched, the man threw off his livery and spun about in a furry fury. With a gibbering cry, he stretched out his arms, forearms whirling in expanding circles as he rushed back at the soldiers.

They didn’t wait for him to arrive—they wailed in terror and ran for their horses. They were just in time, barely managing to throw themselves into the saddles before the beasts reared, pulling up their picket-stakes, and raced away, any way as long as it took them far from the insanely howling monster who rushed at them.

“You don’t have to worry about the soldiers anymore,” Matt informed Mother Diceabo. “They seem to have remembered an urgent appointment somewhere else.”

The abbess frowned. “What could have driven them away?”

“Something that I had better thank.” Matt cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Much appreciate, Buckeye! I couldn’t have done it without you!”

“If you were truly grateful, you would invite me in,” Buckeye called as he strolled back.

Somehow that rang a warning bell in Matt. “I can’t,” he explained. “It’s not my house, and besides—”

“I know, I know—you speak words of gratitude, but do not mean them.” The bauchan sauntered up to the gate—then recoiled, hopping about as though he’d burned his toes. “Avaunt! What sort of town is this in which you’ve taken refuge?”

“A convent,” Matt called, trying to sound as apologetic as possible. “Consecrated ground. Sorry—I tried to warn you.”

“Next time, I’ll believe you.” The bauchan kept hopping. “Oh! Ow! How long mean you to stay?”

“A night, if they’ll have us,” Matt told him. “Not long enough for those soldiers to bring back an army.”

“You need not fear—I’m sure they’ll think ‘twas an evil spirit chased them, and will not be concerned about you if you’re in a house of ill. Oh! Ah! Oh, I shall be revenged when you come out of that place! Owoo! Ooo!” And Buckeye went hopping off into the distance until he hit a dip and the ground seemed to swallow him up.

Matt turned back to see Mother Diceabo eyeing him narrowly—but all she said was, “I would appreciate it if all you men would enter our guest house immediately.” She nodded to Mama. “I shall explain matters to you, milady, and you may discourse with them.”

“Of course,” Mama said, then dismounted and waved her hands at the men. “Away with you, now! Leave civilized people to talk!”

Matt led the way toward the building she indicated, growling, “So men aren’t civilized?”

“Not according to women,” Papa replied. “They have a point, son. Think about the lives most men would lead if they had a clear choice.”

Matt thought about that as they entered the guest house.

Mother Diceabo was right behind them, already talking with Mama. They kept on talking as they sat around a plain plank table on hard wooden benches, though the abbess brought them a pitcher of mild ale and wooden mugs with her own hands.

“So the Prince Gaheris is murdered, and Prince Brion slain in battle,” she said, “while the poor queen is jailed in a silken prison—and the king lies elf-shot, unable to speak to any but Prince John! Can you have any doubt who is behind it all?”

“When you put it that way, it does look pretty bad for him,” Matt admitted. “Trouble is, there’re a lot of other things going on in the kingdom.”

“Indeed?” The abbess fixed him with a penetrating stare. “What sort of things?”

“The barons and their men have lost respect for the clergy,” Mama told her. “The farther north we came, the less the friars could protect their folk from the ravages of their own lords.”

“Say you so?” The abbess’ stare swung to her. “Have they lost all thought of God and goodness?”

“They have,” Matt told her, “because a very powerful sorcerer has cobbled together a parody of the Druid cult and is spreading it throughout the land.”

The abbess’ stare swiveled back to him, appalled. “How can this be?”

“Yes,” Mama said, staring with Papa. “How can it?”

“Because his apprentice synthodruids are leading the people in wild, drunken parties disguised as worship services,” Matt said, avoiding the abbess’ eyes, “with all the, ah, vices that go with drink and wildness.”

“You cannot mean—” The abbess broke off, shaking her head. “Can the land have sunk so low?”

“If it sinks any more, the sea will come rushing in between Bretanglia and Merovence,” Matt said grimly.

“And Prince John is leagued with this self-styled Chief Druid,” Sir Orizhan told her.

“Is he!” The abbess turned her stare on him. “Did I not say the whole coil was of his making?”

Well, she hadn’t quite come right out and said it. “I think Prince John might be more of a victim,” Matt demurred, “one more person lured in by the lies of the sorcerer, lies that he’s scattering over the land like seeds broadcast.”

“How can he do that?” the abbess demanded.

“Minstrels are abroad, singing a song that impugns the queen’s reputation and claims that Brion was illegitimate,” Mama said.

Matt turned to her, surprised, though he realized he shouldn’t be. He’d heard the song twice himself; surely his parents had, too.

“A vile slander!” the abbess cried. “All know she has been a model of virtue since she married Drustan!”

“Since then, yes,” Papa agreed, “but there seems to be some doubt about her standards before—and therefore after.”

“Aye, to those of foul minds! Why, Brion is the very image of his father, though one much purified! If any should be suspect in parentage, it should be John!”

“Shh! Not so loud!” Matt gave a quick scan of the windows and rafters.

“Aye,” Papa agreed. “The sorcerer has sent ravens abroad as spies, throughout the countryside.”

The abbess’ eyes narrowed. “Carrion eaters were ever birds of ill omen!”

“If they hear anybody talking against John, they bear word to the soldiers somehow,” Matt said, “and the soldiers come to arrest the poor talker.”

Dolan shuddered, drawing the abbess’ eye. “Were you one such?” she asked.

Dolan nodded.

“Poor lad!” she said. “He lamed you for it. What else?”

Dolan opened his mouth and cawed in answer.

The abbess turned away with a shiver. “There is evil in the land indeed!” She turned to Mama and Papa. “But why come you here, to the House of St. Ursula?”

“Good question,” Matt agreed. “I thought you two were staying in Bordestang to defend Alisande and your grandchild.”

“The war in Bretanglia made your wife see that the threat to Merovence was ended, at least for the time being,” Papa said. “We offered to go north to learn more of what passed there.”

Matt sighed. “So much for my plot to keep you home and safe.”

Papa answered with a wolfish grin.

“Why here?” the abbess pressed.

Mama shrugged. “We have gone north by the byways, my lady abbess, to visit the small towns and villages and learn what the people say. When the hunters caught our scent, we fled, and I felt that safety lay in this direction.”

“Our patron saint spoke to your soul,” the abbess told her. “You must be devout, or your spirit would not have hearkened to the warning. What did you do to catch the hunters’ interest?”

Mama and Papa exchanged a blank look. Then Mama told the abbess, “We saved a village lass from soldiers long enough for the friar to come and chase them away. Later, we saved a goldsmith’s last ounces from a greedy baron, and healed the friar who had tried to protect him and was beaten for his pains.”

“Reason enough!” the abbess said, shaken. “How is it this baron dared strike a man of the cloth?”

“He claimed he had become a follower of the druids and their old gods,” Papa said, “and therefore no longer feared the Church.”

“This has become far worse than I thought! How could so much evil have run through the land and I not know of it? We give hospitality to so many travelers!”

“This has happened in only a few weeks’ time,” Mama told her.

“Then it is well planned indeed! Perhaps it is not Prince John’s work after all.” She turned to Matt. “How did you attract the hunters’ notice?”

“Well, I think mostly by saving a priest from a synthodruid,” Matt said, “then busting up the druid’s recruiting ceremony, and protecting him by magic until he could make it back to the church to confess. He’s still there, in sanctuary—I hope.”

The abbess stared at him for a moment. Then she said, “Yes, I mink that might have attracted their attention. What sent you in my direction?”

“The friar I saved from the synthodruid. I asked him how to fight them, and he told me to ask you.”

The abbess stared even wider, then turned away, shaken. “I? What could I know of battle? Prayer I know, and austerity, and the ordering of a convent—but what use is that against a lie so huge that many of the liars themselves do not know it for the falsehood it is?”

Matt bowed his head, clenching his fists, hopes dashed. Sir Orizhan stared at him in dismay.

But Mama had seen this mood before. Her gaze lingered on her son a moment; then she turned back to the abbess and said, “Have you no stories of saints who contended with the original druids?”

“We have,” the abbess said slowly, “but they saw people suffering from the constant wars the druids thought pleased their gods, and showed the folk how their yearning for peace was a yearning for God. Is there such a yearning again?”

“It has begun,” Mama told her, “or we would have had no one to rescue.”

“Indeed.” The abbess gazed at her, musing. “Have you told me all of what you heard on your way north, or was there more?”

Mama frowned, thinking. “The women are afraid for Princess Rosamund, who was imprisoned near the king’s castle at Woodstock but disappeared.”

“Well they might be!”

“They pity the queen, who fought a war with the king for her son Brion’s right to inherit, and has been imprisoned for her pains—”

“Of this I have heard.”

“—and there is a rumor abroad, that Prince Brion is not really dead, but only lying in an enchanted sleep like Arthur’s, in the cathedral at Glastonbury.”

“There is hope in that,” the abbess said quickly, “though I would not spread the word abroad if you cannot prove it true.”

“Then we must go to Glastonbury and look,” Mama said decisively.

“No, not Glastonbury.” Finally the abbess sat with them, hands clasped, looking off into the distance, as though she could see through the walls and all the way to the holy town herself. “That has the ring of peasants trying to keep hope alive, especially since Glastonbury is the only place of holiness great enough to withstand the onslaught of such concerted blasphemy that is also close enough for the poor folk to believe in it.”

“But you don’t think it’s holy enough to hold out?” Matt felt hope returning, if only because the abbess was taking the rumor seriously.

“To hold out against a sorcerer and these sin-tho-druids of yours? Yes, it is that—but no holiness is great enough to withstand a troop of blaspheming knights who lust for greed and power. If they came in force to discover a sleeping prince and slay him for once and for all, no cloisterful of monks and nuns could stop them. No, if the prince’s body has been borne away for protection, it would not be within Bretanglia.”

“Merovence?” Matt stared in disbelief.

“No, nor in any place where knights could ride,” the abbess said impatiently. “Whoever bore his body away would have taken it across the sea…” She turned to Matt suddenly, her gaze focusing. “The Irish Sea! They would have taken him to Erin, to the Isle of Doctors and Saints! There would be holiness enough to ward off any sorcerer, and seawater enough to delay any troop of knights, especially if they feared a wizard’s power to bring a storm to overturn their ships! So even if there were truth in the rumor, neither John nor his sorcerer would concern themselves with it, for a sleeping Brion far from the shores of Bretanglia would be no threat to them—at least until they had consolidated their power.”

“Yes,” Matt said heavily. “First things first. Get the country securely under your thumb, then send an expedition to kill the rightful heir for once and for all. Sure, it makes perfect sense.”

“The notion doesn’t seem to delight you, son,” his father said, frowning.

“It doesn’t, Papa—because if there’s one place where there might be a few genuine druids still holding on, it’s Ireland.”

“In the hills in the interior of the island?” Mama frowned, nodding. “Perhaps so. And you fear they could see this wave of synthodruids as an opportunity to revive their true religion?”

“It does sound like a great opportunity,” Matt said, “and their last. Let the sorcerer take over Bretanglia, then come riding in and steal his conquest away from him—because if the people are worshiping the old gods and following the druids, of course they’ll drop the synthos and turn to the real druids.”

Sergeant Brock stared, amazed.

“The sorcerer would not give up so easily,” Papa objected.

“Perhaps, but the contest would be worth the chance,” the abbess admitted. “Still, that would give them all the more reason to protect Brion in enchanted sleep—so that they could present a true heir to enforce their claim.”

“Brion would not let himself be used so,” Sir Orizhan objected. “He might fight for the True Faith, but not for the power-lust of the old.”

“With a kingdom to gain, and a true version of the old faith to drive out a cynical imitation?” Papa challenged.

“Not even then!”

“It matters not,” the abbess told them. “A rumor of Brion will have as much force to raise resistance as Brion himself. Lord Wizard, you must go to Erin and seek his body. If you find there is no truth in the rumor, we must find some other way to fight these charlatans.”

“And if I find out the prince really is still alive, preserved by magic?”

“Then you must wake him,” the abbess said with iron resolution. She turned to Mama and Papa. “But there is some slight chance that he might be in Glastonbury. You must go there, and make sure of that rumor.”

Sir Orizhan stood up, tightening his sword belt. “Then let us go quickly, before the hunters return.”

“Who shall protect the convent, then?” Mama objected.

“By your leave, my lady, if we are gone, I do not think the hunters’ hounds will lead them here.”

“Then it isn’t going to be safe for you!” Matt objected.

“Do not fear, my son.” Mama smiled at him with a look that bordered on the bloodthirsty. “Now that we know the nature of our enemies, I mink your father’s magic and my own knack of binding enemies’ spells against them will serve to send them packing.”

“If you say so,” Matt said with trepidation. Then he turned to the abbess. “I could at least ask my companions to stay, in case you need to fight off the hunters.”

Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock glared at him.

“Men, and men of war, in a convent for more than one night?” the abbess protested. “Surely not!”

Matt turned to Dolan with an idea dawning. “Then let me leave you one poor beggar. I think he might be more of a help than you think.”

Dolan stared up at him in bewilderment.

“A beggar will be no threat to my daughters,” the abbess said slowly. “Surely we shall care for him until the land is peaceful enough for him to go his way in safety, Lord Wizard—but I cannot see what use he may be against men of war.”

“Oh, he has a hidden strength,” Matt assured her, “relatively speaking.”

The road led away from the convent, across the plain to a forest, where the road forked. Parents and son exchanged quick embraces at the crossroads. Mama held him at arm’s length, frowning. “You know I am not happy about letting you sally off without the two of us to strengthen you.”

“Don’t worry, Ma,” Matt said, “I won’t wreck the car.”

She stared at him a moment, then smiled and gave him a mock slap. “Saucy boy! All right, I am silly to worry about a grown man who has survived so many battles. But see you do not let them wreck you!” Then she stretched up to give him another peck on the cheek, and turned her horse away.

Papa lingered to clasp him on the shoulder, looking directly into his eyes. “Adios—go with God, my son.”

“I always try,” Matt assured him. “May God be with you, too, Papa.”

He set off walking beside Sir Orizhan’s horse, but glanced back a few feet farther on, of course, and saw them looking, too. Both waved; then a turn of each path cut them off from sight.

Matt stopped, and Sir Orizhan reined in—they had insisted Mama and Papa take two of the horses, and that Sir Orizhan ride the third. Sergeant Brock stopped, too.

“I was wondering whether or not you were going to tell them,” said Sir Orizhan.

“No need for them to know what might upset them,” Matt assured him, then raised his voice. “Okay, Buckeye! You can come out now!”

The bauchan stepped forth from the roadside trees, grinning. “So, wizard! It seems you have a true family after all!”

“So I do,” Matt admitted, “but you’re only supposed to haunt my descendants, aren’t you?”

The bauchan lost his smile in consternation. “I have never known a family where I began by haunting the son,” he admitted.

“It’s no time for innovation, with the country so stirred up,” Matt advised, “and my adopted son is back at that convent. By the way, should I scold you or thank you?”

“Why, either one,” said the bauchan, “or both, as it pleases you.”

“Shouting might do me more good,” Matt told him, “and I ought to scold anyone who helped those hunters stay on my trail—but I have to thank someone who scared them away for me. Why’d you do it, anyway?”

The bauchan grinned. “It was great run.”

“Wonderful,” Matt muttered. “I’m fighting for my life and trying to save the kingdom, and he thinks it’s fun to bushwhack me.”

“Ah, but also to save you!” The bauchan held up a forefinger.

“I’m beginning to understand why your last family died of nervous prostration,” Matt grumbled. “Well, I guess it’s ‘thank you’ this time.”

“This time,” the bauchan agreed.

Matt thought of threatening, then thought better. Instead he frowned. “Why didn’t you pull out all the stops on your magic when I sicced those bedbugs on you the first time?”

“They were mere fly-bites,” the bauchan said with a deprecating gesture, “no real threat.”

Matt wondered if he were better off being a pussycat “Well, we’re off to Ireland. Guess you’ll have to leave my son Dolan back there.”

The bauchan’s face was a study in consternation. “You’re flitting?”

“I’m not a butterfly,” Matt said, “but if that’s what you call leaving a place, then yes, we’re flitting. But we’ve been flitting the whole time you’ve known us.”

“Well, aye, but not across water—and saltwater at that!”

Hope sprang in Matt’s breast. “Don’t be glum, chum— we’ve got a good fifty miles to the seashore.”

“I should storm and rant and rave at you with every step!”

“Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.” Matt was getting giddy with the thought of being rid of the bauchan.

Buckeye narrowed his eyes to glints. “Nay, neither a rant nor a rave—I’ll find a way to plague your every step!”

But he didn’t. Late that night, toward the end of his watch, Matt heard a distant sound that he first thought was thunder, then realized was the shouting of men and screaming of horses. He found that very interesting, especially since it was coming from the direction of the convent. He decided it was none of his business, waited with interest until it had died away, then woke Sergeant Brock for his watch and went to sleep. His last vagrant thought was a hope that Dolan would have sense enough to stay inside the convent’s walls.

Two uneventful days later, as they were pitching camp for the night in a small clearing, screaming broke out in the woods nearby, mixed with gloating laughter.

“He’s back!” Matt leaped to his feet, feeling his heart sink. “I thought we were rid of that bauchan!”

Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock rose, too, to face the noise—and a young girl burst from the trees, running in terror. Her gown was ripped and tattered, her face turned back toward whatever was chasing her. She turned to look forward just in time to slam into Sir Orizhan’s chest. His arms closed about her automatically, and she looked up, mouth opening for a scream that never came as she stared unbelieving at his face.

“My princess!” Sir Orizhan cried.

Then the hunters broke from the brush.

Sir Orizhan stepped past the young woman, drawing his sword. Brock and Matt stepped up beside him, weapons out. The damsel shrank back behind them, eyes wide, hand to her lips.

The hunters halted in consternation. They were half a dozen soldiers with a hound, but they hadn’t been expecting resistance with swords. They stared at the three companions.

“Too much risk now, boys,” Matt pointed out. “Better retreat while you can.”

“We are six to your one, and have horses besides,” the leader snarled. “Sic him, Belle!”

The name was hugely inappropriate—the hound had to be one of the ugliest Matt had ever seen. But it sprang at his throat, snarling, and what choice did Matt have but to slash with his sword as he swung aside?

The six riders fell on knight and sergeant, who pivoted back-to-back and thrust upward at unarmored anatomy. Two soldiers screamed and fell off their horses.

The young woman darted forward, snatched a sword from one writhing soldier, and sprang back, sword raised to guard.

The hound fell, writhing and dying, even as the hunters shouted with anger and charged. But a luminous orange form rose from the dead body and threw itself at Matt again, snarling. He fell back, startled, but by force of habit the spell came to his lips even as he chopped at the spirit with his sword.

The spirit howled in agony, and a jolt like an electric shock numbed Mart’s whole arm, but he managed to hold onto the sword anyway.

The spirit faded, transfixed on Mart’s sword, and its howling faded to silence. One of the soldiers saw, stared, and cried, “He has slain the demon-spawn!”

The other soldiers turned just in time to see the hound-body fade away, too—and Brock and Orizhan hit them from the side, swords probing under the edges of breastplates. Two soldiers howled in pain of their own, and the Princess Rosamund darted forward to stab at a third. He shouted in pain and swung at her, but she danced back out of reach of his blade, and he turned his horse to chase after his companion, who was already riding for the tall timber. The two wounded soldiers yanked on reins and sped after their mates, hands pressed to flesh, leaving a trail of drops of blood.

“We’ll have to find another campsite,” Matt panted. “All they’ll have to do to come back will be to follow the drops.”

“Sir Orizhan!” the young woman cried, and threw herself into his arms, sobbing.

“There, now, my princess, you are safe,” Sir Orizhan crooned as though she were still the child she had been when he had brought her to Bretanglia. He stroked her head, murmuring soothing words.

Sergeant Brock stared as though he couldn’t believe it. “But she disappeared!”

“Sure, but nobody said she died,” Matt pointed out. He examined his sword, but it seemed sound enough, if you ignored the bluing over the lower half, as though it had been held for half a minute in a very hot flame.

“Surely she must have been stolen away!”

“Apparently she stole away all by herself.” Matt sheathed the sword.

“How?” the sergeant bleated.

“It would seem your young mistress knows some magic,” Matt told him. “How else would that particular kind of hound have picked up her trace?”

Brock stared at the princess as though he were seeing her for the first time.

She caught her breath and choked down her sobs, staring at the bright red line across Sir Orizhan’s bicep. “Sir Knight, you are wounded!”

“A scratch only,” Sir Orizhan protested. His mouth tightened in chagrin. “A foeman drove my own blade back against me.”

The princess ripped a strip from her already ragged robe and turned to Matt. “Have you no spirits about you?”

“Far more than I like to think about,” he returned, “and I think I just dispatched one—but not the kind you mean.” He went to his pack and drew out a small flask. “The kind for drinking, you mean?”

“Aye! Give me!” She held out a hand.

“My lady, surely you recognize this lord,” Sir Orizhan said gravely, “Matthew Mantrell, Lord Wizard of Merovence. Lord Wizard, you know the Princess Rosamund.”

“Of course,” Matt said, “though I hadn’t quite expected to meet her here.”

Rosamund stared. “The Lord Wizard? But of course! I should have known you!” She blushed, holding out the improvised bandage. “How silly of me, to seek to heal when you are by!”

“You were doing just fine,” Matt assured her, and held out a roll of lint he’d taken out with the bottle. “You might like a real bandage, though. Go ahead, go ahead!”

Rosamund took the roll and the flask hesitantly, then began to clean Sir Orizhan’s wound. He gazed down at her with a doting smile, the very picture of an affectionate uncle.

“I would appreciate having my guess confirmed or denied, my lady,” Matt said. “Did you disappear by your own magic, then?”

“I did, my lord.” She looked up at him, eyes wide in the firelight. “I knew a few spells a wise woman taught me when I was about to leave my home. I crafted a stock in my own image, used it to deceive the guards, and fled into the night. I have fled ever since, in the evening and the false dawn, ever in twilight.”

“Not the safest time of day, considering the habits of the fairy folk,” Matt said, frowning, “but not the most dangerous, either, especially if you have soldiers combing the realm for you. What did you do, sleep by day and keep watch by night?”

“How did you know?” Then Rosamund caught herself. “But of course—you are a wizard. Yes, I hid by day for fear of the soldiers, and by night for fear of the spirits, but when I could travel, I did, always toward the east, where the sea lay and I might somehow find a ship to bear me away from this benighted land.”

“Since we’re heading for the seacoast, too, we bumped into one another.” Matt suspected there was more to it than that, but he wasn’t privy to the plans of the patron saints of Merovence and Bretanglia. “What made you decide to escape? Hearing of Brion’s death?”

“Aye, the poor dear fool.” Tears gathered in Rosamunds eyes, and nearly in Sir Orizhan’s, too, for he seemed to feel as she felt.

But Sergeant Brock stared, scandalized “Fool? Prince Brion was nearly perfect in strategy and tactics!”

“But not in the things that matter most to a woman,” Matt pointed out, “not that he could be, while she was betrothed to his brother.”

Rosamund stared at him in amazement.

“I’m in love, too,” Matt told her. “Have been for years.”

“I am not in love with Brion!” Rosamund flared, then calmed instantly to musing. “But he was the only one of that family whom I could trust not to seek to use me in some way.” Tears formed in her eyes again.

“And with him dead, you knew life would become unbearable?” Matt pressed.

“I knew the king’s plans for me, my lord.” Rosamund tossed her head. “I could not endure them. I would rather risk death at the hands of his hunters, or of bandits.”

“Which you did,” Matt agreed. “Risk death, I mean. Well, I’m glad they didn’t find you until you found us.” He rolled up his blankets. “Come on, folks. Leave the dead and take the horses. We don’t want to be here when their comrades get back.”

Sergeant Brock led them through the darkened woods, Sir Orizhan and Rosamund walking side by side, talking in low tones, updating each other on what had been happening. Matt, though, walked backward, sweeping away their tracks and reciting,

He thought they must have gone a thousand feet when he looked up and saw, by patches of moonlight sifted through leaves, a tall and long-limbed shape a hundred feet away, backing toward him and gesturing with its loosely jointed arms.