Sir Orizhan matched his pace, and Matt told him, “Rare old lady, this!”
“I was thinking that, too.” Sir Orizhan watched Old Meg with a brooding gaze.
She led them past the end of the village to a weathered cottage with a moldy thatch that stood at the edge of the sand. There she turned sharply and paced down the beach to a small boat with a short mast. The companions followed after, skidding and sliding in their hurry. Then Matt came close enough to see the craft, and stopped dead staring in alarm.
The little sailboat was battered and patched its paint chipped and peeling, its ropes frayed and worn. It scarcely looked big enough for two people, let alone five.
“It lets a little water,” Old Meg told him, “and you’ll have to take turns bailing, but it will take you across the water.”
“If you say so.” Matt gave the little boat a jaundiced eye, but he came closer anyway.
“A little help, lad.” Old Meg held out her hand. Matt took it, and she climbed up the two pilings to which her boat was moored. They formed a rough staircase, and as she stepped down onto the seat by the mast, she told Rosamund “Lady, come aboard. You men can shove off and get your leggins wet before you climb in.”
Sir Orizhan handed Rosamund up—she didn’t look any happier about it than Matt felt—men joined Matt and Sergeant Brock in leaning against the bow and shoving hard. Sand slipped under their feet, and Matt wondered how the old dame managed without any help—probably just climbed aboard and waited for the tide to come in.
The boat floated, and seawater drenched Matt’s boots and hose. He grumbled as he hauled himself in over the gunwale and settled down on a bench, shivering and miserable already. At least he didn’t have to worry about getting his feet wet in the bilge. He took up the leather bucket and started bailing.
Old Meg had managed to haul up the sail and work her way back to the aft seat by the tiller. Now the wind filled the canvas, and she turned the boat into the breeze. Matt saw, with misgiving, that the sail was even more patched than the hull. He wondered what kept the boat afloat—magic? You never could tell, with these old semi-hermit women.
The three men huddled in the bow, shivering in the night breeze with their soaking legs, their faces grim and stoic—but Rosamund sat high and dry, slippers tucked under her skirts, which were gathered around her legs, listening wide-eyed as Meg explained how to sail the boat. “If the wind shifts, lass, the boom—that’s the pole that sticks out from the mast, with the bottom of the sail lashed to it—the boom will come about—that means it will swing, sometimes very quickly, and if you’re not watching sharply, it could strike you a nasty blow, or even knock you overboard. Beware the change of the wind…”
Matt listened closely, some sixth sense telling him he was going to need the knowledge someday, but growing more and more confused by the wealth of details the woman spewed out, not with any organization, but as they occurred to her in response to her trimming of the sail and leaning on the tiller. His stomach churned with the rocking of the boat and the constant conviction that they were going to capsize, and he became more and more befuddled as he watched the village grow smaller and smaller behind Old Meg. By the time it disappeared, darkness had fallen, and Matt had become thoroughly convinced that he could never have sailed the little boat.
Then, in the darkness between sunset and moonrise, rising and falling with the roll of the sea, Old Meg dropped the sail suddenly and, as the boat coasted to a stop, turned to Matt and demanded, “Why do you wish to go to Erin?”
Matt rocked back, jolted by her tone of accusation. Caution ruled, and he said the first partial truth that came to mind. “Well, we’re trying to escape a bauchan, you see, so we’re flitting.”
A gravelly basso from under his seat agreed, “Aye, Meg, we’re flitting, you see.”
Matt jumped a good six inches. It felt like a mile.
Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock turned and stared, astounded, and Rosamund looked alarmed, but Old Meg only narrowed her eyes and said, “A bauchan, is it? In my boat? You were not invited, creature, and you’re not welcome!
“Get you back to shore, And bother me no more!”
She followed the simple rhyme with a verse in a foreign language while she stirred the air with a forefinger, then jabbed it back toward the land. Something shot from under Matt’s seat with a hooting and whooping and went galloping back over the water toward the village, clutching its buttocks and howling in alarm.
Matt stared after the departing bauchan in amazement. “Wow! Wish I could do that!” Then the implication of the phrase hit him, and he turned back to find Old Meg staring straight at him, her eyes narrowed and her mouth a hard line.
“You didn’t tell us you were a magician,” Matt said.
“Nor did you tell me you were,” Meg returned, “not that I had any need to be told—and I’ll warn you, wizard, not to try your magic on me, or you’ll have a very unpleasant surprise.”
“If you feel that way about it,” Matt said, “why did you offer us a ride?”
“Out of the fear of the mischief you might breed if I left you in Bretanglia. If you’d been by yourself, be sure you’d have been dazed by a blow of magic and be lying unconscious this moment.”
Matt gazed at her a minute, then turned to Sir Orizhan. “Looks like it’s a good thing you guys came along.”
“Not them, foolish male!” Meg snapped. “The maiden! I’d toss the three of you overboard without a thought, but I’ll talk to her.” She turned to Rosamund. “How say you, lass? Why do you go to Erin?”
“Why,” Rosamund said, “because I seek to escape the king and Prince John, and that is where my protectors are going.”
“Protectors?” Meg turned back to the men. “How do I know you mean to protect the lass, not despoil her?”
Sir Orizhan’s head snapped back in outrage. “Why, because I have been her guardian these ten years, and would slay any who sought to harm her!”
Meg gazed at him a moment, then said, “A fair answer, and I feel the truth of it. But why do you travel with this wizard?”
“To learn who slew Prince Gaheris,” the knight said, “for this sergeant and I had been set to protect him.”
Again Meg gazed at him in silence, then glanced at Brock.
The sergeant sat bolt upright, staring at her in alarm.
“There is truth again,” Old Meg said, “though I sense there’s some missing. Still, I’m not sure you know of it.” She turned to Matt. “Now, wizard, the full truth: Why do you go to Erin?”
“To look for Prince Brion’s body,” Matt said. “There’s a rumor that he isn’t dead, only lying in a magical sleep. If that’s so, we mean to find him and wake him if we can, then bring him back to fight the false druids who are stealing the realm from the people.”
Rosamund gave a little, inarticulate cry, and Meg’s sharp eyes swung to her. “You did not know of this, maiden?”
“I did not,” Rosamund said. “I only sought to go as far from King Drustan and Prince John as I could, and these good men were taking me where I wished to go.”
“Would you have gone if you had known they sought Prince Brion?”
“Oh, yes,” Rosamund breathed. “Oh, most surely would I have gone, and with even better heart, if I had known!”
Meg studied her for a long while, men gave a nod of satisfaction. Turning, she raised the sail again. “Well enough, then, we go to Erin.” She set the sail by taking a bight around a cleat with a turn of her wrist.
Matt decided to keep his mouth shut, but curiosity got the better of him. “Why are you willing to help us? This isn’t your fight”
“But it is.” Meg turned back to Matt, her eyes burning into his. “Know, O Wizard, that you are not alone in your enmity to the mock druids.”