An hour later Matt halted and pronounced them far enough away to be able to risk camping. He and his companions set about their usual tasks without even discussing them. He was surprised and pleased to see the minstrel pitch in and help— gathering wood, clearing a fire ring and rolling stones for it, and cutting boughs for sleeping. The wood he chose was very dry, so their minimal campfire gave off very little smoke. The minstrel pulled out a small kettle and went to fill it with water from a nearby stream. By the time he came back, Sergeant Brock had rigged a greenstick pothook to hang the kettle over the fire.
“I think we could all use a warm draft.” Matt took out some dried herbs and crumbled them in. His companions shied a little, so he told them, “Don’t worry, it’s just chamomile. Congratulations on your performance, minstrel.”
“I’ve seldom sung with so great an effect,” the singer said with a wry smile. “I hope I can remember the words.”
“You made them up on the spur of the moment, then?” Sergeant Brock hunched forward, intent on the answer.
“Made them up? I didn’t even sing them!” the minstrel shuddered. “The words I did sing were only the tale of the queen’s regrets for her son’s death and her ward’s kidnapping.”
“Kidnapping?” Sir Orizhan pressed close.
The minstrel looked at his face and shrugged uneasily. “How else explain her disappearance from a moated grange?”
“Escape.” Sir Orizhan leaned back. “My lady is far more resourceful than most would think, to look upon her—so pale of complexion and hair, and so quiet in her manner.”
The minstrel looked keenly at him. “Your lady?”
“He’s from southern Merovence—the princess’ home district, in fact,” Matt said quickly. “But about your song, minstrel—could vow hear the words you were singing?”
“Not those I sang myself, no. I knew what words I meant, knew which sounds my mouth shaped—but I, too, heard only this treacherous slander of the queen’s confessing an adultery she never committed.” The minstrel shuddered again. “I cannot wonder that my listeners should be so angered!”
Sir Orizhan frowned. “Why should they suddenly attack, though? These same people had already listened to the earl being blamed for deflowering the queen, though all know King Drustan was her second husband and wedded to her before she ever met Earl Marshal. Worse, they had heard him named as Prince Brion’s real father, both with nothing more than shouts of outrage. Why should they turn violent so suddenly?”
Within Matt’s head, Memory recited, Peace. The charm’s wound up. Aloud, he said, “I think it was another effect of the spell.”
“Spell?” The minstrel stared, eyes almost bulging. “What foul magic was this?”
“Well,” Matt said, feeling sheepish, “I’m afraid part of it came from a spirit who has picked me out as the target for his mischief.”
“Spirit?” The minstrel began to inch away from him.
“A bauchan,” Matt explained. “I picked him up by accident when we camped in a deserted cottage. Now he won’t leave us alone.”
“Aye. Such is the way of bauchans.” The minstrel kept inching.
“He could have created the illusion of different words coming out of your mouth,” Matt said, “but I don’t think he could have made up those verses.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed an indignant voice behind him. “Do you think I’m lacking in cleverness, then?”
The minstrel froze, staring, as Buckeye stepped out of the shadows to hunker down by the fire, dressed only in his own hair, which admittedly was total cover. He fixed Matt with a malevolent glare. “You should know by now there’s no end to my deviousness.”
“Being devious doesn’t mean you can craft verses.” Matt thought of Auden and wondered about that. He glanced at the minstrel. The man had stopped trying to get away and was following the conversation with fascination. Matt could almost hear him thinking, What a great song this will make! He tried to ignore unwanted publicity and went on. “But clever or not, be honest for once. Did you make up those words, or did you just say the first thing that came into your mind?”
Buckeye glared at him, but admitted, “The latter. I thought the verses quite inspired, myself.”
“Quite,” Matt said dryly. “The question is, who inspired them in you?”
“Why, myself!”
“Was it?” Matt challenged. “Or did somebody put them in your head for their own purposes?”
The bauchan reared back, affronted. “Who could invade my mind so?”
“Well, for the first part of the song,” Matt said, “I thought it was some sorcerer who was working for King Drustan, since the words made Queen Petronille look so bad—but by the end, the lyrics added up to making John look like the only legitimate heir. Maybe he has a sorcerer who worked on you.” Even as he said it, he felt a thrill of discovery—John having a pet sorcerer would explain an awful lot.
“No sorcerer or wizard could scramble my thoughts so!” the bauchan spluttered. “I am a creature of the land! Bretanglia itself protects me!”
Inspiration struck Matt again. “Unless the sorcerer was himself a creature of the land.”
The bauchan glared at Matt.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Matt pressed. “If the sorcerer was using magic that had grown up in Bretanglia, or if he was the descendant of generations of Bretanglian village magicians, he might be able to meddle with Bretanglian spirits, mightn’t he?”
Buckeye glared at him silently, but the minstrel found his voice. “Aye. He could.”
“If I did not craft the verses myself!” Buckeye snapped. “Credit me with some intelligence, wizard!”
“Wizard?” The minstrel glanced at Matt, wide-eyed, then at Sir Orizhan, who gave a one-inch nod. The minstrel’s gaze snapped back to the bauchan.
“If you think you’re such a great poet,” Matt told him, “prove it.”
“I will!” the bauchan cried, and began to recite, “Whan that Aprille, with her flowers soote—”
“Foul!” Matt cried. “How do I know you’re not reciting that from memory?” In fact, he suspected the bauchan was doing just that—or Chaucer had a lot of explaining to do.
Buckeye shut up and glowered at him. “How would you have me prove my cleverness, then?”
“I’ll give you a list of words,” Matt suggested. “You have to make a verse that uses them.”
“What words did you have in mind?” the bauchan asked warily.
“Oh… let’s say…” Matt thought fast.” ‘Self, pelf, send, bend, spice, sand, ice, and land.’ “
“Ha! Nothing easier!” the bauchan crowed. “You’ve made them rhyme yourself! Let me think… I have it! I’ll craft the stave!
“There!” Buckeye slapped his knee, staring at Matt in triumph. “I can craft a verse as well as—YAWK!”
He disappeared so quickly that air whooshed in to fill the space his body had occupied. Somehow the companions were left with the fading impression of eyes wide and appalled in a rubbery face.
Sergeant Brock stared. “What happened to him?”
CHAPTER 11
“He made a verse,” Matt said, “and it worked—worked magic, that is. It transported him somewhere very far to the north—or maybe very far south, where there’s ice and snow all year ‘round. Don’t worry, he’s built for it. All that body hair…” Matt wondered if bauchans were related to yetis.
The minstrel grinned. “He forgot that verses work magic, didn’t he?”