“Right,” Matt confirmed. “He was so intent on trying to make a good verse that he didn’t pay much attention to what it meant—like a lot of poets I’ve read.”
The minstrel gave him a sharp look. “I think it’s just as well I didn’t tell you my name. You were most restrained with him, wizard.”
Matt shrugged. “No need to do anything more.”
“You might have done something that would make him fear us enough to stay away,” Sergeant Brock said. “As it is, he will only use his magic to find his way back to us. Why did you not punish him sorely?”
Matt shrugged again. “This was all I needed—to get him out of our way for the night. Besides, it was more fun to trick him into sending himself on a long trip.”
“But he set that crowd against us, for surely he must have known you would leap to the minstrel’s defense! Could you not have punished him enough to teach him to cease meddling?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Matt said slowly. “It’s his nature. Anything I did would only have made him determined to have revenge.” He looked to the minstrel, the authority on local folklore, for confirmation.
The minstrel nodded.
“We have trouble enough from him when he’s just being mischievous,” Matt said. “Can you imagine how bad he’d be if he really wanted to get back at me?”
Sergeant Brock shuddered, and Sir Orizhan said fervently, “Your act of mercy was not only chivalrous, but wise.”
“Thanks,” Matt said, “but you and I both know that chivalry is wisdom, in the long run.”
Sir Orizhan looked up in surprise. “I did not know you were a knight as well as a wizard.”
“Oh, I’ve been knighted, yes.” Matt decided it was best not to go into the details. “Of course, in the short run the chivalrous action often looks foolish—for example, letting an enemy live.”
“It seems so, yes,” Sir Orizhan agreed, “but if you can turn that enemy into a friend by your mercy, it is the wiser course of action.”
The minstrel stared. “You don’t mean that you can turn a bauchan into an ally!”
“I’d better,” Matt said. “He won’t stay gone, after all. It’ll take him some time, but he’ll find a way to magic himself back to us—so let’s hope I can find a way for us to be useful to each other. After all, bauchans aren’t always malicious, are they?”
“Well, they have been known to help their hosts if the people really needed it,” the minstrel said, but added, “There’s no way to know, of course. They are completely unpredictable.”
Prince John was playing chess against himself, moving all the pawns into the center of the board one move at a time, then having the knights, bishops, rooks, and queens take turns demolishing the little men. Even with his imagination putting the faces of his brothers on the pieces, it was still boring—he’d done it too many times before.
“Your Highness.”
The prince looked up, mildly interested—anything to break the boredom. “Yes, Orlin?”
His squire was pale of face—bad news. This might be more interesting yet. If nothing else, it could be an excuse to beat the chap.
“Highness,” the young man said, “there is word come from Woodstock.”
Prince John frowned. He didn’t particularly care for Rosamund, but he did lust after her, and treasured the notion of crushing the look of disdain from her haughty features and replacing it with total, abject fear. Besides, she came with the crown—and vice versa. Betrothal would strengthen his claim, and he knew enough of court intrigue to know that, even with Gaheris and Brion dead, he would need every bit of strengthening he could gain, to make the barons accept his reign.
“Highness?” The squire’s voice trembled with fear.
John smiled, liking the sound. Everyone knew his father’s rages and feared his would be every bit as bad, once he had power. “Your news had better not trouble me,” he warned. “Speak.”
“The princess is gone, Your Highness.”
“Gone?” John frowned. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”
“Disappeared, Your Highness.” Squire Orlin swallowed heavily. “The news is that the king went to bring her the news of victory himself, and found a lifeless likeness in her place— a wooden statue.”
John smirked, having some idea of the way in which his father had intended to bring Rosamund the news, and gloating over his discomfiture. “Where was the true princess?”
“Nowhere.” Orlin was used to John’s ability to ignore what he didn’t wish to hear. He took a deep breath and said, “She had vanished.”
“Vanished?” John frowned. “How? She had guards at her door, a wall around her grange, and a moat around the wall! How could she have vanished?”
“I have no idea, Your Highness.”
John finally registered the fact that his intended—well, he had intended to have her, anyway—was gone. “Say not so, knave!” He swung backhanded at the squire. Orlin knew from long practice just how far to lean back—enough to take most of the sting out of the blow, not enough so that John would think he had missed. He fell down for good measure.
“Poltroon and liar!” John raved. “Gone, do you say? Let her jailers be jailed! Let her guards be imprisoned! How could they have failed so in their duties?” Then he froze, eyes widening, “Witchcraft, that’s how! Stolen away by witchcraft— and that means Mother!”
“But—But the queen is herself imprisoned!” Orlin protested from the floor. “The queen is not a witch!”
“Not a witch? Fool, could she have cost Father so dearly in battle if she were not? No, it must be Mother’s doing!” John turned away, glowering, rubbing his left hand around his right fist “She has found a way to cheat me of my prize again, to cheat me of my rights again! But I shall have my due! I shall be revenged!”
“Upon your own mother?” Orlin gasped.
“Of course not!” John turned back to him, scowling. “What fool would risk his mother’s love? No, I’ll be revenged by finding the princess!”
Orlin reflected that John had lost his mother’s love long ago, but was wise enough not to say so.
Mama and Papa walked the high road dressed as peasants, but Papa’s staff was of rowan, and would focus his spells with the accuracy of a rifle. Mama’s hazel wand was hidden in her flowing skirts. Neither expected to use them, of course— they’d found that broadcast spells worked much more effectively, though with less intensity. Still, it never hurt to be prepared, and peasants weren’t allowed swords.
Papa frowned at the trees about them. “Strange to see so much ivy! I hadn’t known that England grew it by the mile.”
“It doesn’t,” Mama told him with certainty, “at least, not in any of the herbal books I’ve read. And so much moss!”
“I knew England was wet, but not so soggy as this,” Papa agreed. “See how many of those vines are mistletoe! Almost as bad as kudzu in our universe!”
“Mistletoe?” Mama looked more closely. “Yes, it is. I didn’t know you had taken up botany, husband.”
“I haven’t.” Papa turned to her with a gleam in his eye. “But if there is one plant I will recognize, it is mistletoe.”
Mama blushed and turned away, but reached out for his hand nonetheless. Lifting her gaze, she looked for a change of subject. “They are as thick as ever, Ramon.”
“The ravens?” Papa looked up, frowning. “Yes, I know. I would have expected them to cluster thickly around old towers, but there seem to be a dozen of them on every tree, too.”
“And the nights are filled with the hooting of owls,” Mama said. “I could swear someone doesn’t want us to sleep.”
“Don’t swear,” Papa said quickly. “You never know what it will bring, here.”
“Of course,” Mama said with scorn. “Oh, look! A crossroads, and a village. It will be good not to have to eat biscuit and jerky again.”