“I shall try, mine host,” the minstrel answered, and struck some chords from his lute, then began to sing “Queen Petronille’s Confession.”
“Amazing how that song is getting around,” Matt said in an undertone.
“Yes, but it is even more amazing how carefully that minstrel sings it,” Sir Orizhan answered, “as though he were afraid each and every word might bring that hound of menace back again.”
It was true, and Matt saw that the minstrel, along with everyone else who had witnessed the scene, had realized its meaning—that there was to be no freedom of speech of any kind, not even the slightest hint, in Regent John’s England.
Just across the border in Merovence, Mama and Papa were hearing the same song in a very similar inn that same night.
Papa frowned as he listened, and considered how to talk to Mama in public without worrying about eavesdroppers. He couldn’t speak the English of his own world!—being his native tongue and the first words that answered the impulse of speech, it emerged here as the language of Merovence. Then he realized that French wasn’t a native language to either of them, and should emerge here as words no one else understood. “Ma cherie, comprends-tu cette langue?” My dear, do you understand this language?
Mama looked up in surprise, then realized what he was doing and smiled with delight. She answered in the same language, “Yes, I understand. So we can speak French here, though we cannot speak English? How clever of you to think of it!”
“Thank you, my dear. What do you think of this song we have just heard?”
“That it is slander,” Mama said instantly, “and the proof of that is that it makes John out to be the legitimate heir, even if Brion had still been alive.”
“I knew it was slander, but I didn’t think of the purpose,” Papa told her. “Do you think there can be any truth to it at all?”
“That Drustan might have disguised himself to learn Petronille’s secrets, I might believe,” Mama told him, “but Earl Marshal is far too chivalrous to stoop to such a deed, even if his sovereign commanded him to do so.”
“He is indeed,” Papa agreed, “and too chivalrous to commit adultery, even if he had been in love with Petronille—the kind of love the troubadours praised was love from afar.”
“Well, sometimes not,” Mama demurred, “but when it was anything else, it involved years of courtship. No, I think we can safely rule out Brion’s being anyone’s son but Drustan’s— especially since John needs to sway the people to his side, and it would be amazingly convenient for him if Brion, the people’s darling, turned out to be a bastard, dead or not.”
Papa nodded. “A propaganda piece, then. And to think our politicians think they invented mudslinging!”
Mama stood up, blazing with indignation. “We must tell everyone the truth!”
“No, wait.” Papa forestalled her with a hand on her arm, and jerked his head toward the rafters. Looking up, Mama saw two ravens squatting on the beams, glowering down at the people.
“Hugi and Munin?” she guessed.
“Like them, at least. They may not be spying for Odin, but I feel sure they are someone’s eyes and ears. We know there is a sorcerer involved in this affair somewhere, my dear.”
“Yes, we must assume the worst.” Mama sat down and looked out over the room with a stern gaze. “And we dare not put those birds to sleep, or we will reveal that there are master wizards here.”
“I had not thought of that, but you are certainly right,” Papa said, frowning. “No, my dear, for the time being, I’m afraid we must watch and learn, and wait for the time to use our knowledge.”
“And hope those ravens do not speak French,” Mama replied.
The road opened out into a huddle of huts before the companions, and Brock reminded Matt, “You said we should stop at the next inn.”
“Yes, but there’s a good two hours of daylight left!” Matt protested.
“Who says that they will be good?” Sir Orizhan asked airily. “Besides, we might not find another village with an inn before midnight.”
Well, Matt doubted that—the villages tended to be about two hours apart, even by the back roads they were traveling— but he gave in with a sigh. “Okay. If there’s an inn here, we’ll stay the night.”
They sauntered down the single dusty street, with wary eyes watching them from every window and women’s cries warbling from every door. Children heard and scurried for cover behind their mothers.
Sergeant Brock grinned. “Cautious, but not frightened. The war has spared this place.”
The cottages opened out into the village green, with a two-story thatched inn at one side and the church at another. In the center of the green a man in white robes and sandals stood atop a small knoll, his head wreathed in mistletoe. He held high a staff carved into a snake as he cried, “Come at sundown, come! When your day’s work is done! Come to the gods of your ancestors! Take up again the Old Worship! Come with Banalix the Druid, to honor Toutatis!”
A score of villagers surrounded the man already, and housewives were drifting closer. The men coming in from the fields looked up with interest.
“What have we here?” Sir Orizhan looked up, on his guard.
“Someone trying to bring back that Good Old-Time Religion,” Matt said slowly. “Talk about a revival meeting!”
“He is a druid,” Brock said with certainty.
Something in the tone of his voice made Matt turn to study him. He was somber, but not angry or contemptuous—and Matt realized he had expected the sergeant to be so. Why? He looked at the so-called druid again, and caught the flash of something bright at his belt…
A gilded sickle.
Suddenly Matt remembered the sickle in Sergeant Brock’s pack. If the soldier really had fought these latter-day druids, he should be angry at the mere sight of Banalix, the more so because the man was standing boldly forth in broad daylight and openly calling people to his religion in defiance of the Church.
“The Old Gods knew the ways of war!” Banalix orated. “They shall protect you from the bloodthirsty hordes of Merovence!”
Sir Orizhan stiffened. Matt took umbrage himself.
“The Old Gods shall lend skill to your hands and show you once again the use of weapons, not merely the handles of a plow! Come to the Old Gods! Grow strong again!”
“You lie, rogue!” thundered a voice from the church, and the village priest came striding forth, his face red with anger. “There is great strength in the Christian God, but His strength is tempered with mercy!”
“Strength?” Banalix turned to meet the attack with a relish that spoke of success; he had meant to provoke this cry of defense. “When did the Christ ever wield a sword?”
“He stood barehanded against blades, for He told us that any who live by the sword must die by the sword! Yet He had the courage to stand unarmed before soldiers!”
“Surrendered himself meekly, you mean!” Banalix sneered. “When did He ever fight?”
“When He threw the moneychangers out of the Temple! To cleanse the House of God! For a good and godly reason, Christ fought, as must we all!” He turned to the crowd, raising his arms. “Fight against the seduction of this man’s lies! Fight in your hearts for the salvation of your souls!”
“Fight?” Banalix jibed. “What weapon did your Christ ever use? Only a whip of knotted cords!”
“That, and the force of His anger, against which no man can stand!” the priest declared. “Beware, impostor, for that anger shall be directed against you!”
“I am not an impostor!” Banalix cried, reddening. “I am a true druid!”