The Haunted Wizard

CHAPTER 7

“My lady!” Meg gasped, blanching.

“There are only the two of us here, and I will never say where I learned this news,” Mama assured her. “Do I shock you by the mere thought, or only by the fact that I dare speak of it?”

“Well…” Meg turned away. “How did you know?”

“The tone of his voice, and the look in his wife’s eyes when he spoke to a younger woman.” Mama didn’t mention that the younger woman had been Gaheris’ fiancee. “So he did treat all the serving women as though they were there for his pleasure?”

“Yes, milady, though I will say he did not press us to come to his bed, as his sons did.”

“No doubt because his wife was here,” Mama said. “How did you deal with the princes?”

“We spoke to Sir Martin the seneschal, milady, and he spoke to the king. None knows what passed, but the servants in the hall spoke of hearing the king’s shouting through a three-inch-thick door of oak, and of Sir Martin coming out looking more stern than usual, and the king being in a right royal rage when he sent for his sons. They ceased to press us to their beds after that, though they stole as many kisses and caresses as they could, and poured lascivious remarks into our ears.”

Mama made a mental note to get to know Sir Martin better; apparently, his devotion to chivalry gave him such standing as a knight that even a king dared not seek to punish him. “Even Prince Brion?”

“Oh, he never troubled us, Majesty, though he did cast admiring glances our way.” She blushed. “Perhaps more than admiring, but less than lustful. Then, too, we saw him often in conversation with Sir Martin and Sir Orizhan, quite earnest conversation, about chivalry and the meaning of a knight’s vows.”

“But not a knight’s love for his lady?”

“Not his lady, no,” Meg said slowly. “The talk was of loving from afar, of how a knight must acquit himself when he loves a lady he may not court—even, I think, of when that knight may wear her favor, and when he may not.”

In tournaments, a knight could tie a lady’s scarf about his arm to show she was hoping for him to win, even if they were not in love—but Mama strongly suspected that Brion was in love with his brother’s fiancee, and this overheard remark confirmed that he would not have committed murder to gain her—it would have been unchivalrous.

Mama sighed, looking up at the ceiling with its pattern of stars, suns, and moons. “I cannot understand how a family could stay together when there is so much sniping and snapping at one another.”

“They are royal,” Meg said simply. “They need not stay together.”

“True,” Mama said thoughtfully. “They can live in separate castles.” She smiled at Meg. “And who could blame them?”

“They were quite—” Meg bit her tongue again, reddening.

“Quite unpleasant? Say it, my dear—I have told you I shall not repeat it. Whether it is spoken or not, most of the people in this castle will think it, from the queen to the scullery maid.”

“The scullery maid! She is not even pretty, but still the princes—” Meg cut herself off again.

“If you do not stop biting your tongue,” Mama said, “you will wear a hole in it. So they pursued every woman, whether she had beauty or not?”

“Prince John did,” Meg explained.

“Well, like will to like. No doubt the king blames us all for guarding our virtue, for if Prince Gaheris had found his sport within the castle, he might have felt no need to go out of it.”

“He may feel that,” Meg said grimly, “but it will not be true. Gaheris was the sort to think that every woman is a conquest waiting. He could never be satisfied.”

“Not as long as there was a virtuous woman undespoiled,” Mama agreed.

“I do not think he insisted on virtue,” Meg said, “though virginity might have added spice to his conquests.” She shuddered. “Vile or not, though, his death has made a horrible, ending to this week.”

“Yes, but he and his family saw to it that it would be a horrible week. I will except Prince Brion from that, though, and Lady Rosamund.” She shook her head in pity. “Poor child! I wonder where she was while her fiance was out wenching.”

“Oh, I can tell you that!” Meg said.

That was exactly what Mama had intended. “Really? Where?”

“When the princes went out to roister, she went to her room, pleading a headache.”

“I can understand that.” Mama shuddered at the memory of the dinner. “I hope it passed.”

“She went right to sleep, it seems, for she locked her door, and when her chambermaid came with a draft of wine to help her slumber, Princess Rosamund told her through the door, voice thick with sleep, to go away, she needed no wine.”

“Then she slept, which was well, for she had a very rude awakening.” Mama shook her head. “And we thought it was a blessing when those three princes left the castle in peace for a few hours!”

“Oh, not all the princes, milady.”

“Oh?” Mama looked up. “Brion stayed behind, then?”

“Brion? No, he went carousing with his brother, and Sir Orizhan to ward them, with a troop of guards.” Meg shook her head. “It was Prince John who stayed behind.”

“Prince John?” Mama demanded, suddenly intent. “Are you certain?”

“Quite certain, milady.” Meg seemed taken aback by Mama’s sudden intensity. “He was most surely in the castle until he took to his bed—he went nosing about in the kitchens, asking me to his chamber, and when I told him no, he went into the hallway and pressed his demands on poor Alia. She told him nay, too, of course, so he went to his chamber in a sulk. Then Coquille fetched him mulled wine to help him sleep, and did not come out.”

Mama stiffened. “You do not mean he held her prisoner!”

“Oh, nay,” Meg said, with a little laugh. “Coquille is very hard and calculating. She threw herself away long ago, for the man who stole her maidenhead with a promise of marriage then jilted her, and she resolved to have gold from men, for she claimed she could depend on them for nothing else. She fairly boasted to us the next morning that she had sported in bed with Prince John until midnight, and that she took coins from him both before and after.”

The assassin had killed Gaheris about eleven, so John had a very thorough alibi. Mama frowned; she had been expecting him to be patently guilty, and was rather sorry to hear he was not.

“He still might have hired the assassin,” she told Papa when they went walking in the garden after breakfast.

“So might Drustan and Petronille,” Papa reminded her. “I never thought they might have wielded the knife themselves, but it is reassuring to know that they were both with Alisande and ourselves until ten.”

“After that, though? The murder happened only an hour later, after all.”

“I shall check to see if either of them went out.” Papa smiled. “It pays to cultivate the acquaintance of soldiers, particularly those who guard the chambers of royalty.”

The dragon banked low, struck the earth, and ran a short distance as it slowed, folding its wings.

“Thanks, Stegoman!” Matt climbed down. “You may have cleared up another problem for me.”

“Which, if I may ask?” the dragon rumbled.

“Well, I think you could say that if anyone wants to follow our trail, they’ll find it very difficult when we’ve just flown fifty miles.”

Sir Orizhan looked up, one hand steadying himself against the dragon’s side. “Who will follow us?”

“You never can tell,” Matt said. “How was your trip, Sergeant?”

“Better than yesterday’s.” Brock climbed to his feet; he had as much fallen off the dragon’s back as climbed. “I should be quite used to it by tomorrow.”

“Oh, don’t worry—we walk from here on.”

“Walk?” Stegoman fumed. “Wherefore, when you might ride?”

“Well, we’re trying to gather information,” Matt explained, “so we have to try to be inconspicuous. We’ll be across the border and into Bretanglia soon, so we have to go on foot. But thanks for the ride.”

“Can I do no more to aid you?” the dragon protested.

“Well, actually, you can,” Matt said. “Saul sent Narlh to check out conditions in Scotland and to watch for any signs of invasion, but the local dragons probably won’t accept him. Could you go along and see how bad things are there, and back him up if he needs it?”

“The valiant dracogriff? Of course!” Stegoman huffed. “Woe to any drake who seeks to singe him! Nay, I’ll fly north immediately!”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s that crucial,” Matt said quickly. “You could spend one more night with us—you know, have a cow and settle down for some chat.”

“The journey has been long and tiring,” Stegoman agreed. “Very well, I’ll seek a steer and join your company for one more night.”

Matt sighed with relief. If the bauchan did manage to find them, it would probably think twice about causing trouble with Stegoman near.

Unless, of course, it managed to put him to sleep again.

Hastings Castle was small, as royal fortresses went, but the castellan and his family lived in a lodge in the courtyard, leaving twelve rooms for the use of the royal family. The structure was quite well situated to be the first dwelling to welcome its king and queen on their return to Bretanglia.

King Drustan strode into the Great Hall, yanking off his gauntlets, hurling them at a squire, and snarling at everyone about him. “I could have ridden in here with an army, and none to stop me! Castellan, have you no more sentries for the walls? Confound you, steward, send your bottler for wine! You knew I was entering the castle, the goblet should have been ready for my hand! Or are the sentries so lax that you did not know I was coming? Be done with that curtsying, wench, and fetch me bread and meat! Ninny, do you think I care for your homage? Varlet, you barely nodded your head! Do you not bow to your king?”

Queen Petronille was right behind him, snapping, “How long is it since these walls have been scrubbed? Sloven, are those tapestries never beaten? I see rust on the trophies and dust on the royal coat of arms! You there, do you call yourself a gardener? I shall stroll through your handiwork after dinner, and if I see so much as one weed, you’ll spend the rest of your life mucking out stables!”

Up the stairs they went, snapping and snarling at all about them, then into the solar, slamming the door behind them. There, Petronille sank into an hourglass chair, covered her face and loosed a torrent of sobs.

“Oh, be still!” Drustan snapped. “If you hadn’t insisted on taking the boys along, this never would have happened!”

“I!” Petronille snapped bolt upright, glaring at him through her tears. “If you hadn’t taken it into your head to go gallivanting off to Merovence, our son would be alive this day!”

“You were quick enough for the jaunt when I mentioned it!”

“Aye, to make sure you would not be trying to bed every wench you found!”

“At least they would not have made my bed a battleground!”

“Better your bed than our children!” Petronille blazed.

“Then why did you shower Brion with praise and John with criticisms? Not to mention poor Gaheris, which you did not, and look what has come of it!”

“Oh, indeed!” Petronille sprang to her feet. “And who was ever telling him that he must be cruel to be a man, and must prove his manhood by bedding every wench he saw?”

“Who told him he must never touch a woman at all?” Drustan returned.

“Save his wife!”

“Ah, but you did not tell him that!”

“You never heard! You were always far too busy planning your next slaughter and your next seduction—if you can so dignify commanding a helpless woman to submit to your embraces!”

“Submit?” Drustan roared. “They were glad enough to come to me, and you were too, till you saw I would not bow and scrape for it!”

“So because I would not shower you with honeyed words every hour of the day, you turned to Rosamund and sought to seduce a child under our protection!”

“There will certainly be no need for seduction now!” Drustan retorted. “Not when she must face the prospect of marrying your lapdog Brion!”

“See to it you dare not dog her lap, sirrah! Any woman would faint with delight at the thought of wedding Brion! It is the prospect of marrying your depraved little John that makes her faint with nausea!”

“A woman wants a man who is his own master, not forever the slave of his mother!”

“His own master, but not hers! Brion is a true knight and troubadour, chivalrous to the last, and will treat her with the respect due the lady she is!”

“Set her on a pedestal and never touch her, you mean! Let her pine and waste away! I’ll save her from such a fate by marrying her to John!”

“To John?” Petronille screeched. “To yourself, you mean, for if she is betrothed to John, she will live with you, and you’ll be quick to take advantage of her!”

“So that’s why you want her for Brion!” Drustan’s eyes glittered with malice. “You wish to keep her by you out of sheer jealousy!”

“Out of duty, you great ninny! My duty to protect the child from such libertines as you! That I shall do in any case—but I wish her for Brion solely because he is now heir, and she was betrothed to the heir of Bretanglia!”

“John, too, is the heir!”

“Aye, after Brion! Will you slay your second son, too, only to steal Rosamund for yourself?”

“I, slay my own son?” Drustan turned purple. “I would never so much as dream of such a thing! How corrupted and base your mind must be, that you think of it!”

“Corrupted by learning what a king may be!”

“Corrupted by years of marriage to a southern prince who taught you all manner of nasty games!”

“Louis? There was nothing he could teach me but the Bible! If he’d known any manner of games, I’d surely never have divorced him for you!”

“But you did, and liked my games well enough,” Drustan said, with a vindictive grin.

“Aye, so long as you played them only with me! But it is a dance for partners, sir, not a crowd of maidens ‘round a maypole, and little Rosamund shall not dance attendance upon you!”

“And how shall you prevent it?” Drustan challenged. “By betrothing her to Brion? Little fool, whether to Brion or John, she will still live in the same castle with me!”

Petronille narrowed her eyes. “Not if I do not.”

“What choice have you?” Drustan countered. “If I say John shall be king, he shall, youngest or not! You may remove yourself from me, but Rosamund shall stay!”

“You would dare!” Petronille hissed.

“Of course I would.” Drustan grinned. “I shall do it now!” He strode to the door, threw it open, and stepped out to the rail that overlooked the Great Hall. “Hearken one and all! Hear the word of your sovereign! Prince John shall succeed me! Prince John is heir apparent! Prince John shall be your new king!”

“Brion shall be king, by right of law!” Petronille shouted. She whirled out of the room to face Drustan, glaring up at him. “Will you or nil you, Brion shall rule! It is his right!”

Doors opened; John and Rosamund stepped out, eyes sleep-blurred, staring in fear. But Brion’s door opened, too, and though his face was flushed with sleep, his eyes were bright and clear, ready for anything that might come, and there was no fear in his face.

“Away!” Somehow, Petronille had found a cloak, and swung it about her shoulders as she pivoted to Brion. “He seeks to disinherit you! You must fight for your right, and the welfare of your people!” She caught Rosamund’s hand and pulled her away toward the stairs.

Drustan roared and came after her, but brought himself up short to avoid the point of Brion’s sword. “Well, now we know with what mistress you sleep!”

“As always, my father, you are correct,” Brion said. “Not right, but accurate.”

“So you would stab your own father, would you?”

“Never,” Brion assured him, “but if he chose to throw himself upon my sword, how could I interfere with his will?”

“Then obey my will indeed, and put up your sword! It is your sovereign who commands!”

“Your sovereign seeks to break the law of the land by displacing the legitimate heir!” Petronille cried from the stairwell. “In Bretanglia, no king is above the law! He has defied it, he is rightful king no longer! Hail Brion, true King of Bretanglia!”

There was a startling lack of response from the crowd of servants and soldiers.

“Stop them!” Drustan shouted at the guards.

Two dozen men moved forward on the instant.

“To me, men of mine!” Petronille cried. “Protect me, all men of Pykta! Guard your princess, all men of Toulenge!”

Thirty men leaped to surround the two women.

“Beware, woman!” Drustan bellowed. “Walk out down that stair and across that drawbridge, and this means war!”

“Then let it be war!” Petronille cried. “Let it be war for virtue and right, and the true king come to replace the false! Down with the disgraced king! Let the right prevail!”

“And you?” Drustan fixed his middle son with a vengeful glare. “Do you cleave to your true king, or to this rebel woman?”

“I am a knight,” Brion said simply. “I must defend women in distress.”

“A pox upon your chivalry!” Drustan roared. “I knew I should never have let your mother fill your head with that troubadour nonsense!”

“It is no nonsense, but the only possible salvation of the world.” Brion backed away, down the stairs, sword still level. “It allies the might of the knight with the mercy of Christ, alloying the strength of arms with Christian charity.”

“Yet the dauntless knight dares not turn his back on his unarmed father,” Drustan sneered.

“I would never turn my back upon my sovereign,” Brion rejoined.

“Guard him!” Petronille commanded, and half a dozen men broke away to meet Brion at the foot of the stairs. Armed and wary, they retreated to join her men at the door.

“Take one more step at your peril!” Drustan warned them all. “Leave this hall, and you are traitors one and all, rebels to king and country, who deserve only the noose or the headsman’s block!”

“So speaks the man who seeks to break the common law and custom of Bretanglia!” Petronille cried. The words sounded strange in the accent of Merovence. “So speaks the traitor to his land, the tyrant who breaks his covenant with his people and his God! We shall remember your words, O Traitor, when you kneel before us on the day of your defeat and our triumph.”

“I shall never kneel to you!” Drustan roared.

“You did once,” Petronille reminded him, then stepped backward out of the Great Hall, pulling Rosamund with her. Her son and her men followed.

Out they went into the courtyard, where horses waited for them all, held by a score of Pyktish soldiers, the rest of Queen Petronille’s private guard, save for the few who had already secured the gatehouse. They rode through it, under the portcullis and out across the drawbridge, the rearguard leaving the barbican and riding flat out to join them.

Inside, Drustan roared, and all his knights and men ran to saddle their horses, mount, and ride out into the night to catch the queen and her party.

They rode and searched till dawn, but the queen and her entourage had disappeared. Superstitious rumors began in the army and ran through the country in a week—that the queen had spoken truly, that Drustan had indeed violated the old law of Bretanglia, the bond between people and soil, and that the land itself had hidden the rightful king and his mother from the false king.

By that time a dozen discontented barons had rallied to Petronille’s banner and Brion’s command, while Drustan had called down his nobles all, and the armies had begun to march.

It wasn’t a hard rain, only a gentle drizzle, but it was constant, and the boots and cloaks of the companions were almost soaked through, so they threw back their hoods with a sigh of relief as they stepped into the wayside inn.

“This will be far more agreeable than sleeping in an open field,” Sir Orizhan observed, “or even that ruined cottage where we slept last week.”

“It sure will.” But Matt couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder. He wasn’t at all sure that Buckeye was going to stay gone. The “adoption” had sounded like pretty strong magic, after all, especially since he had been so careless as to give the creature a nickname. True, he hadn’t seen the bauchan in days, but constantly had the feeling they were being watched. Also, he kept finding things—the stack of wood that appeared while they were setting up camp, the dazed rabbits that hopped into the campsite fairly asking to become dinner, the fourth shadow that joined theirs under the morning sun though there was no one to cast it. All in all, Matt was glad to have a lot of people around.

The big common room was noisy enough. Maybe it was the rain that made business so good, but Matt hoped it was the ale. The only seats he and his companions could find were at a round table where four peasants were already eating. They ordered a pitcher and the special of the day, which was what most of the people were eating, not having money enough for chops. The special turned out to be hash. Matt hoped for the best and started eating.

“Sad news from Bretanglia,” one carter was telling another across the table.

Matt didn’t bother pricking up his ears—Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock were tense as pointers in pheasant season.

“Aye, Ian,” the other carter agreed. “War is always bad for business. I’ll have trouble enough finding the merchant who ordered my cargo, let alone another load to carry home.”

“If the soldiers let you into Bretanglia at all,” Ian said darkly, “and you’re lucky enough not to run into an army.”

“The war has started,” Sir Orizhan whispered.

“Not too much worry of that,” the second carter said. “The news is all from the midlands now. The queen’s army took the high ground at Lochlar and fought a pitched battle against the king’s forces under Duke Golarrig. The duke retired in defeat, and the queen invested the town. She has her another stronghold now, and thousands of men to press into her army.”

“War, yes.” Sir Orizhan stared in shock. “But not between Bretanglia and Merovence!”

Matt stared, too. “Civil war?”

Sergeant Brock managed to keep the groan so quiet that only his companions heard it. “Alas, my poor country! For how long now shall Pyktans spill Anglian blood again?”

Mart’s mind took refuge in the thought that he had guessed correctly about the origin of the country’s name. Apparently the invading Angles hadn’t won anywhere near the clear-cut victory in this universe that they had in his. They’d been forced to make friends with the country’s current inhabitants.

“And what of Princess Rosamund, Much? What of the cause of this war?”

“There are some as say she’s not the cause at all,” Much said darkly. “Some say the cause is Prince Gaheris himself.”

“But he is dead,” Ian protested.

“Aye, but Rumor says he did not die quite as the proclamations say.”

Ian shrugged. “There’s no surprise in that. All knew of the prince’s roistering. Not a man in all of Bretanglia believes he died defending a maiden’s honor.”

“The queen did, says Rumor, and fights because the king insists on the truth—that a pimp stabbed him in the back while he was beating one of the man’s whores.”

Matt was amazed that the rumor was even that accurate.

“If that were said of Prince Brion, the queen might fight to defend his good name,” said Ian, “but Gaheris? He was never her favorite.”

“Aye.” Much grinned. “I think you had the right of it at first. With Gaheris dead, they fell to fighting over Princess Rosamund—whether she would marry Brion, and live with the queen, or wed John, and live with the king.”

“He would wish that, surely,” Ian agreed. “But where is she hidden, while they fight?”

“Rumor has it that the queen sent her to Castle Eastwind with a hundred men for guard, but while they were on the way, Earl Marshal attacked and stole the princess away for the king.”

Prurient interest gleamed in Ian’s eye. He hunched closer. “And what has the king done with her?”

“Nothing yet,” Much answered. “He was already in the field, so the marshal took her to a moated grange at Woodstock, and set a strong guard around her—for her safety, says Rumor. Then he rode away to raise the west country.”

“Woodstock?” Ian frowned. “There’s a royal castle there.”

“There is, and the moated grange is hard by its walls.”

“How convenient for the king,” Ian said with sarcasm.

“Aye, if he comes back to it alive.”

“Surely the queen cannot win! The king must have five times the men and horses that she can call up!”

“You never know, in war,” Much said philosophically. “At least their marching to and fro should keep them far from the borders.”

“The news is old,” Ian cautioned. “The fighting may have moved southward. Surely the queen must capture Dunlimon if she has any hope of winning.”

“Small enough hope, I would say,” the second carter replied, “though Queen Petronille is not the kind to ever consider defeat. Aye, she must capture Dunlimon—or the king.”

Ian shook his head sadly. “She cannot do either, unless all the folk of Dunlimon are secretly for her, not with the king’s armies so outnumbering hers.”

“She can make a lot of Bretanglians suffer, though.” His friend rose from the table, taking his mug. “I hear a minstrel tuning his lute. Let’s approach and listen—I could do with a song.”

“I, too.” Ian rose and went with him.

“So my queen shall drive half the midlands before her against the king’s men,” Sergeant Brock moaned, “and the land shall drink their blood!”

“Maybe the king’s a better general than you think,” Matt consoled. “Maybe he’ll knock her out in one quick battle.”

Sir Orizhan smiled mirthlessly. “Or perhaps she will find a wizard who can capture the king without a battle. Come, my friend, let us talk in realities.”

“Actually, your idea isn’t all that far-fetched.” Matt’s eyes lost focus as he considered how to craft a spell that would transport King Drustan to him.

Another peasant sat down where Ian had been, a mug in his hand.

“Does the king have a wizard on his side?” Matt asked.

“Aye,” said the newcomer, “but the elves and the pixies will fight for the queen.”

Matt looked up in surprise, and felt a shock run all through him. The hood and tunic were those of a very ordinary peasant, but the hand that held the mug was covered with silky, tawny hair, and the face was Buckeye’s.

The bauchan grinned. “You did not think I would stay banished, did you?”

Through stiff lips Matt demanded, “Where’s the peasant who used to wear that outfit?”

“What outfit?” Sergeant Brock looked up, frowning.

“Don’t fear for him,” Buckeye said. “He sleeps in the stable, quite well, and will find his clothes by him when he wakes.”

Matt turned to Sergeant Brock. “You see that peasant sitting across from us?”

“Peasant!” the bauchan said indignantly.

“The one whose hood hides his face?” the soldier asked. “He is nothing to worry you. You may speak freely, milord.”

“Not too freely, ‘milord,’” the bauchan mocked. “You would not want them to think you daft, now, would you? Or, by the rook! Haunted! Forfend!”

That made Matt mad. Blackmail attempts always had that effect His eyes narrowed, his lips thinned, and he said to his companions, “By the way, have I told you I’ve picked up a mascot-spirit?”

“Spirit!” Sergeant Brock leaned away, eyes wide.

“Mascot?” Sir Orizhan frowned. “What is that?”

“A sort of a pet.” Matt ignored the hoot from across the table. “It goes wherever I go. It’s a bauchan.”

“A bauchan!” Sergeant Brock turned pale.

“What is that?” Sir Orizhan asked, interested.

“It’s a Bretanglian spirit,” Sergeant Brock explained. “I knew they came down into the north of Merovence, but I never thought to have met one.” His eyes widened. “That empty cottage! I should have known it would be haunted! ‘Twas there you met him, was it not?”

“It was, yes,” Matt admitted.

“The man is canny,” Buckeye said with approval, letting the sergeant and the knight hear him.

“I am flattered.” But the whites showed around Sergeant Brock’s eyes as he glanced at their new neighbor.

“What, that fellow a spirit?” Sir Orizhan frowned. “I see naught but a peasant!”

“Look at his hands,” Sergeant Brock said.

“He wears gloves with the hair on the outside. What of it?”

“Gloves with nails?” the sergeant asked.

Sir Orizhan studied the bauchan’s hands. Buckeye grinned and, very slowly, raised the tankard to his lips and tilted his head back to drink, letting the light from the tallow lamps show them his face. Sergeant Brock shuddered.

“He is quite ugly,” Sir Orizhan said, “but surely no spirit”

Matt’s heart warmed to the man.

“Ugly!” Buckeye slammed his mug down on the. table. “Forsooth! I suppose you think you are comely, fellow?”

“I am a knight.” Sir Orizhan frowned and rested his hand on his sword. “I’ll not have a varlet call me ‘fellow.’ “

“I don’t think you want to draw on him,” Matt said nervously. “Unfortunately, that face is the most human thing about him.”

“If a sharp edge will not harm him, cold steel will,” Sir Orizhan countered.

Buckeye frowned. “I like ye not, soft man of warm climates.”

“It won’t do any lasting good,” Matt warned. “I tried to banish him right off the bat, but the spell seems to have worn off.”

“He did not fry a bat,” Buckeye corrected. “That might have lasted a wee bit longer.”

“A bat for a bit?” Matt turned to him, interested. “I’ll remember that.”

Buckeye’s glance flashed with malice; then he was all mischievous grin again. “It will do ye no good.”

“It will not that,” Sergeant Brock agreed. “When a bauchan attaches himself to a man, he’ll never forsake him—nay, neither him nor his family.” He shook his head sadly. “I pity you, Lord Wizard. Not all your power will make this spirit flit.”

“Oh, I’ll find a way.” Matt wished he felt as confident as he sounded. “But I can’t ask you guys to suffer along with me while I’m trying. If you want to go off on your own, go ahead.”

“Go off!” Sir Orizhan exclaimed, affronted. “When my queen has commanded me to accompany you? I am a better knight than that, Lord Wizard!”

“And I have my good name to restore.” Sergeant Brock had recovered from his first fright. “I’ll stand by you night and day, Lord Wizard, until we’ve hung the murderer by the heels and proved I fought my best to save my prince.” His eyes narrowed and held steady on the bauchan’s ugly face.

“A murderer and a dead prince?” Buckeye asked, interested. “I may have come upon more fun than I expected! Whatsoever it may be like to follow you, wizard, I doubt it will be dull!”

“You don’t know how I’ve wished for some boredom,” Matt sighed.

“Still, I cannot let you suffer that, can I?” Buckeye reached out with a long arm that stretched even longer and caressed a waitress’ bottom as she was passing Matt.

The girl shrieked even as she turned and whacked Matt soundly across the face.