Sir Orizhan turned his horse and swung a cut at another soldier, knocking the man’s sword aside. The soldier howled and ran for the wall. Behind the knight, swords clattered against quarterstaves and the other soldiers ran bleating for the wall, dropping their blades as they ran.
Matt stared as they leaped back over—it had been too easy. He darted a glance back at his parents and saw why—Papa was gesturing and muttering while Mama sat ready to fight off any return spells. Matt wondered what the soldiers had thought they were seeing.
“Are they repulsed so easily?” Mother Diceabo declared in astonishment.
“I doubt it,” Matt answered.
Sir Orizhan sprang up to the low parapet to look over and report, “They are riding to the gate… They are turning their horses’ backs to it…”
“They’re going to try to have the horses kick down the gate!” Matt cried. “Get ‘em away from there!”
One of the nuns started chanting and gesturing as though she was swatting flies.
The horses reared with whinnies of anguish and shot away from the gates, bucking and rearing. The soldiers shouted, barely managing to stay in their saddles, and fought their horses back down, then managed to quiet them—a hundred yards from the convent.
Matt looked up in surprise. “You have some talented people among your nuns, Mother Diceabo.”
“More importantly, they are pious,” the abbess replied tartly. “Even I prayed for your safe arrival.”
“I can’t thank you enough.” Matt wondered what Buckeye would say if he knew he had been part of the answer to a nun’s prayer.
“They are putting their heads together in conversation,” Sir Orizhan reported. “One is riding away … The rest are dismounting … They are picketing their horses… Most are sitting down, some lying, though one stands sentinel …” He looked down at Matt “They have given up assaulting us, it seems—and I would guess the one who has ridden away has gone for aid.”
“Surely they would not bring an army against a House of God!” Mother Diceabo protested.
“Maybe not an army, but probably a sorcerer,” Matt said, his voice hard, “at least, as long as we’re here. I’m sorry, Mother. I hadn’t meant to bring them upon you. There have been a few changes in Bretanglia lately.” Matt dismounted. “Let me tell you about them.”
“Lord Wizard,” Sir Orizhan said, his voice tense, “I think you should—”
Matt didn’t wait for the end of the sentence.
CHAPTER 17
Matt remounted and clambered up on his saddle, just in time to see that one of the soldiers had come to his feet and was strolling toward the convent—but as Matt watched, the man threw off his livery and spun about in a furry fury. With a gibbering cry, he stretched out his arms, forearms whirling in expanding circles as he rushed back at the soldiers.
They didn’t wait for him to arrive—they wailed in terror and ran for their horses. They were just in time, barely managing to throw themselves into the saddles before the beasts reared, pulling up their picket-stakes, and raced away, any way as long as it took them far from the insanely howling monster who rushed at them.
“You don’t have to worry about the soldiers anymore,” Matt informed Mother Diceabo. “They seem to have remembered an urgent appointment somewhere else.”
The abbess frowned. “What could have driven them away?”
“Something that I had better thank.” Matt cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Much appreciate, Buckeye! I couldn’t have done it without you!”
“If you were truly grateful, you would invite me in,” Buckeye called as he strolled back.
Somehow that rang a warning bell in Matt. “I can’t,” he explained. “It’s not my house, and besides—”
“I know, I know—you speak words of gratitude, but do not mean them.” The bauchan sauntered up to the gate—then recoiled, hopping about as though he’d burned his toes. “Avaunt! What sort of town is this in which you’ve taken refuge?”
“A convent,” Matt called, trying to sound as apologetic as possible. “Consecrated ground. Sorry—I tried to warn you.”
“Next time, I’ll believe you.” The bauchan kept hopping. “Oh! Ow! How long mean you to stay?”
“A night, if they’ll have us,” Matt told him. “Not long enough for those soldiers to bring back an army.”
“You need not fear—I’m sure they’ll think ‘twas an evil spirit chased them, and will not be concerned about you if you’re in a house of ill. Oh! Ah! Oh, I shall be revenged when you come out of that place! Owoo! Ooo!” And Buckeye went hopping off into the distance until he hit a dip and the ground seemed to swallow him up.
Matt turned back to see Mother Diceabo eyeing him narrowly—but all she said was, “I would appreciate it if all you men would enter our guest house immediately.” She nodded to Mama. “I shall explain matters to you, milady, and you may discourse with them.”
“Of course,” Mama said, then dismounted and waved her hands at the men. “Away with you, now! Leave civilized people to talk!”
Matt led the way toward the building she indicated, growling, “So men aren’t civilized?”
“Not according to women,” Papa replied. “They have a point, son. Think about the lives most men would lead if they had a clear choice.”
Matt thought about that as they entered the guest house.
Mother Diceabo was right behind them, already talking with Mama. They kept on talking as they sat around a plain plank table on hard wooden benches, though the abbess brought them a pitcher of mild ale and wooden mugs with her own hands.
“So the Prince Gaheris is murdered, and Prince Brion slain in battle,” she said, “while the poor queen is jailed in a silken prison—and the king lies elf-shot, unable to speak to any but Prince John! Can you have any doubt who is behind it all?”
“When you put it that way, it does look pretty bad for him,” Matt admitted. “Trouble is, there’re a lot of other things going on in the kingdom.”
“Indeed?” The abbess fixed him with a penetrating stare. “What sort of things?”
“The barons and their men have lost respect for the clergy,” Mama told her. “The farther north we came, the less the friars could protect their folk from the ravages of their own lords.”
“Say you so?” The abbess’ stare swung to her. “Have they lost all thought of God and goodness?”
“They have,” Matt told her, “because a very powerful sorcerer has cobbled together a parody of the Druid cult and is spreading it throughout the land.”
The abbess’ stare swiveled back to him, appalled. “How can this be?”
“Yes,” Mama said, staring with Papa. “How can it?”
“Because his apprentice synthodruids are leading the people in wild, drunken parties disguised as worship services,” Matt said, avoiding the abbess’ eyes, “with all the, ah, vices that go with drink and wildness.”
“You cannot mean—” The abbess broke off, shaking her head. “Can the land have sunk so low?”
“If it sinks any more, the sea will come rushing in between Bretanglia and Merovence,” Matt said grimly.
“And Prince John is leagued with this self-styled Chief Druid,” Sir Orizhan told her.
“Is he!” The abbess turned her stare on him. “Did I not say the whole coil was of his making?”
Well, she hadn’t quite come right out and said it. “I think Prince John might be more of a victim,” Matt demurred, “one more person lured in by the lies of the sorcerer, lies that he’s scattering over the land like seeds broadcast.”