Some of the damage had come from the earthquake. Great cracks ran down some of the walls, but they should have been mended by now. “It’s like the vision I had,” murmured Jack.
“Blow the trumpet, Ratface,” commanded Father Severus. Ratface had been taught the skill at Din Guardi, to muster soldiers. What he lacked in musical ability he made up for with zeal. The trumpet shook the air again and again. The monks jumped up from the rubbish heap and ran into each other in panic. The pig dashed for the woods. Cries came from within.
“That should do it, Ratface,” Father Severus said. The boy grinned and wiped the spit off the mouthpiece.
“Run! Run!” cried voices.
“No! Fight! Fight!” shouted others.
“It’s the Northmen! We’re doomed!” one monk wailed.
“If it were Northmen, they’d be inside by now,” remarked Thorgil. Soon a group of slaves armed with cudgels was pushed out the door by cowering monks.
“Tell Brother Aiden we’ve come to see him,” Father Severus called out over the heads of the unwilling slaves. “We bring the new Lord of Din Guardi.”
“Hurrah for King Brutus!” shouted the townspeople, who were gathered behind. Brutus rode at their head, as befitted a noble lord. He drew Anredden and brandished it wildly. The crowd cheered.
“Someday he’s going to do himself serious harm with that,” muttered Thorgil.
“Forward!” ordered Father Severus, and the crowd streamed around the horses. They were thrilled to be part of such a momentous event, and if they punched a monk or two who had cheated them, who could blame them? Very soon St. Filian’s Monastery was under control. Brutus rode into the courtyard, beaming goodwill on all sides. Jack looked around until he saw a small man appear from the chapel.
“Brother Aiden! Thank Heaven, you’re all right,” the boy cried.
The monk’s face broke into a smile. “Jack! Brutus! I’m so glad to see you! And—and—it can’t be!”
“It is, my friend,” said Father Severus.
“You were taken by the Northmen. You were killed!”
“I was sold into slavery, but there’s far too much to explain here,” said Father Severus. “As soon as I’ve sorted things out, I’d be eternally grateful for a mug of your heather ale. Oh, and I’ve come to take over the monastery. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Such a blessed event has been in my prayers every night!” exclaimed Brother Aiden.
“Good,” said Father Severus with a not-so-pleasant smile as he looked around at the subdued monks, some with black eyes and all looking as repentant as one could wish. “I have a few chores to attend to first.”
The Bard and Father were in the infirmary, the most comfortable place in the monastery. The Bard had added to the collection of herbs hanging from the ceiling, and he was explaining their uses to Giles Crookleg when Jack and Thorgil came in.
“Jack—oh, my son,” cried Father. His leg was still bound in splints and he leaned on crutches, but Jack was delighted to see him looking so healthy. “I thought you’d never return. When Yffi covered the well—” Father straightened up to study Jack. “I swear you’ve grown, though it’s only been a few weeks. And where did you get those clothes?”
“Well done, Jack!” the Bard said heartily. “You’ve accomplished extraordinary things! Ah, Thorgil, we meet again.”
“Dragon Tongue?” the shield maiden said.
“I told you he was alive,” said Jack.
“Who is this lad?” said Father. Jack was flummoxed. All along he’d been going over ways to explain Thorgil. He realized that not only Father, but also the townspeople had taken her for a boy. That solved the problem of her refusal to wear dresses. She was still a Northman, however, and would be killed if anyone found out. And then Father made things worse by asking, “Where’s Lucy?”
The moment Jack dreaded had arrived. “She’s well,” he faltered. “She’s happy.”
“She was never ours, Giles,” said the Bard. “From the very beginning, you knew that. I assume she’s still in Elfland.”
“She didn’t want to leave,” Jack said miserably.
“Not for me? Or Alditha?” cried Father.
The Bard laid his hand comfortingly on Father’s shoulder. “Elves don’t think the way we do. You can break your heart on them and they’ll only laugh and turn away.”
Jack watched awkwardly, not knowing what to do as his father wept. Lucy had never loved him or anyone else. She’d probably forgotten all about him by now.
“Don’t you want to know about Hazel?” said Thorgil suddenly.
Father looked up. “Who are you?”
“I’m Thorgil Olaf’s—”
“That’s quite enough information,” said the Bard. “This is someone Jack met on his travels. Hazel is your real daughter, Giles, and last I heard, she was living with a family of hobgoblins.”
“Hobgoblins!” Father was suddenly roused from his grief. “They’ll eat her!”
“Nonsense. Hobgoblins are good-hearted creatures, and they adore children. I take it Hazel didn’t want to leave either.”
Jack’s heart sank even further. “You see, she’s never known anything else. She thinks she is a hobgoblin, and she loves her foster parents. It would have been cruel to kidnap her.”
“Although I did think of it,” said Thorgil.
“It’s a good thing you failed,” said the Bard. “Now, we have much to talk about, and Aiden will surely want to hear what happened. Jack, why don’t you ask him around for dinner. Oh, and you might take Pega and her friends a basket of food. Tell them they’ll be most welcome after dark.”
Jack left at once, wondering which bird had told the old man about Pega and the hobgoblins. It was uncanny how the Bard always seemed to know everything that was going on. As he went out the door, Jack heard Father say, “Thorgil is a strange name for a Saxon.”
“It’s very popular up north,” the Bard informed him.
When evening fell, the townspeople went home. They were in a fine mood, laughing and congratulating one another on the victory over the monks. “Father Severus put them on bread and water for a month,” one of the men said.
“Prayers every four hours and work duty the rest of the time,” said another happily. “When they’ve finished mending the walls, they can start on Din Guardi. Ah, it’s good to have a real king again!”
“A fine little princess he’s got himself too.” The men chuckled and made their way through the darkening fields to Bebba’s Town.
Jack listened to them as he lay on his stomach in the long grass beyond the monastery’s perimeter with the hobgoblins and Pega. “Do you think it’s safe?” whispered the Bugaboo.
“I hope so. Brother Aiden told me to enter by way of the lych-gate.” They crept forward until they reached an opening in the wall around the graveyard. It was completely deserted inside, with weeds growing over sad little crosses marking the monks’ graves. A mist drifted in from the meadow.
“All the better to hide us,” murmured the Nemesis.
They came to the back door of the infirmary, and Thorgil opened it. “About time,” she grumbled. “Dragon Tongue wouldn’t let us eat until you arrived.”
Jack was used to the strange appearance of hobgoblins, but Father almost fell off his stool when he saw them. “Demons! D-demons! Come to drag us down to Hell!”
“Stay calm, and you, too, Aiden,” ordered the Bard. “These gentle creatures are hobgoblins, the kindest folk on earth. Welcome, Pega. I’ve saved you the best seat.”
The girl hung back in her tattered and dirty clothes. “I’d rather stay with the Bugaboo and the Nemesis.”