“Guilty conscience, maybe.” Matt watched, too. “He’s got awfully hairy hands, hasn’t he?”
They all looked and nodded. “Most marvelously hairy,” said the carter. “I know a plowman who is almost as bad.”
Matt made a mental note that the bauchan was allergic to the Sign of the Cross, then realized it would probably do no good if he deliberately used it as a weapon. He sighed and braced himself for more mischief.
Apparently it was going to be delayed, though. A sudden commotion of talk swept through the room. Everyone turned to everyone else, either asking or telling.
The carter leaned over to the next table. “What has happened?”
“A minstrel!” a farmer told him. “He has just said that Princess Rosamund is gone from her moated grange!”
“A minstrel! Will he sing of it?”
“Not until he has finished—there! He has swallowed the last bite of his dinner!”
The minstrel stepped into the clear space near the hearth, lifting his lute. As he tuned it, the bauchan, on his way out the door, stopped and turned back to listen. As the strains of the lute grew louder, the people gradually fell silent, and Buckeye settled down, leaning against the wall.
Matt made another mental note—that the bauchan liked music—for it might come in handy, whether he meant to use it as a charm or not.
The minstrel began to sing.
The minstrel slipped into a slightly higher voice for King Drustan.
The women in the crowd exclaimed in indignation, and the men muttered in agreement—everyone seemed to think that hearing confession under false pretenses was pretty low.
“Now, God forbid, said Earl Marshal,” the minstrel sang in a deeper voice,
A murmur of approval ran through the crowd. The true knight had remained true.
The bauchan looked up and turned his head, frowning at the crowd’s idealism.
The minstrel slipped into Drustan’s voice again.
“Which conveniently explains any lack of evidence,” Matt muttered to Sir Orizhan. The knight looked surprised, then nodded slowly.
The minstrel went on.
“They really like hanging people in your country?” Matt muttered to Sergeant Brock.
“Just a minstrel’s nonsense,” the sergeant said, but he didn’t look all that sure.
” ‘We’re monks of Merovence,’ they said,
Matt frowned. “Why’s that important?”
“Monks say Mass every day,” Sir Orizhan explained, surprised. “They had only arrived that day, and after Mass-times.”
“Oh, of course,” Matt said, abashed. “Silly of me.”
“The first vile sin that e’er I did, To you I shall unfold…’”
Indignant or not, everybody leaned forward, eager for gossip. Some sixth sense made Matt look at Buckeye just in time to see the bauchan’s lips moving as he made an intricate, double-handed gesture toward his mouth, then blow a kiss toward the minstrel. Matt turned back to watch, his stomach roiling.
The minstrel sang on in happy ignorance.
The whole room broke into a furious hubbub, everyone denouncing such a vile accusation—but doubt shadowed many faces. The minstrel himself looked shocked at his own words, but his lips kept moving, as though of their own accord.
Matt glanced at the bauchan and saw him grinning. He didn’t know how this was going to rebound onto himself, but he braced for the worst The minstrel began to sing in the King Drustan voice: “
The crowd went wild, and the minstrel clapped his hand over his mouth, appalled. People were on their feet, shaking their fists at him and shouting angrily—but he was a veteran and realized that he had to get them under control somehow. He kept playing until they had quieted a little, then called out over the noise, “I only sing what I have heard, good folk! But if it offends you…” He stopped playing and started to swing the lute over his shoulder.
Matt had to admire the man for a graceful exit from an explosive situation. It almost worked.
“No, no! Go on!” a dozen people cried at once.
The minstrel hesitated, looking uncertain.
“A penny to sing us the rest!” one man cried, and a copper flew through the air to land near the minstrel’s feet.
“A silver penny!”
“A shilling!”
Coins rained on the singer. Reassured, he took up his lute again, playing while he waited for silence.
“Nice technique,” Matt said slowly. “I can see minstrels are going to be singing this version of the song all over the country, if it brings them that kind of cash.”
“There are a few towns loyal to the queen,” Sir Orizhan said noncommittally.
“So they won’t perform there. I wonder how this song would have sounded if the minstrel could have sung it the way he intended.”
Sergeant Brock stared at him. “What makes you think he does not?”
Matt jerked his head toward the bauchan. Sergeant Brock looked, saw, and went stiff.
The minstrel, not one to let a good thing go, lifted his lute again and took up the song.