The Haunted Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Then you have come to Merovence to seek asylum?" Drustan asked.

  Matt bit back the urge to say that an asylum was where Drustan and Petronille belonged.

  "Why, no," Papa said. "We are here because of our son."

  "Indeed!" Drustan said, with genuine surprise. "I had heard that you were of great assistance in purging Ibile of the Moors, but I thought you had returned to your homeland for that purpose."

  "No, my lord, we did not know that the Moors were invading Ibile until after we had arrived," Papa said truthfully. "Even then, I only went along on campaign to be with my son."

  "I am amazed to hear of a parent so dedicated," Gaheris said, with an acid glare at Drustan. He was lean and weasel-faced, with his father's long nose but a receding chin, and scarcely any lips at all. His eyes were small and constantly shifting.

  The king glared back. "I, too, am amazed, for it is usually I who must insist that my sons accompany me when we march to war!"

  Petronille rounded on him. "You should not force them, Drustan. Brion, yes, he has a fondness for battle, but Gaheris and John find it repugnant."

  "Not John!" Drustan beamed at his youngest, sitting at Matt's right hand at the foot of the table. "He rejoices in the weight of his armor and the lance in his hand, do you not, boy?"

  If Gaheris looked like a weasel, John looked like a pig. He wasn't terribly fat, only a little plump, but his nose was short and tilted sharply up, his eyes were small and close set, his forehead low under black hair worn, like his father's, at shoulder length. His only attractive feature was his beard, glossy black and silky, which had the double advantage of hiding his cheeks and chin. His doublet was already stained, though they were only on the second course.

  He forced a smile in response to his father's question. "You have taught me well, Father."

  Resentment flared in Gaheris' and Brion's eyes.

  Before they could speak, the nobleman beside Gaheris exclaimed, "Ah, would I could have taken part in those battles!"

  Matt looked up at him in surprise; he spoke with the accent of southern Merovence. He was lean but muscular, perhaps in his thirties, and handsome in an angular way, with dark hair cut short.

  "You would, Orizhan," Gaheris said sourly. "You're almost as bad as Brion in that."

  "Yes, Sir Orizhan is a true knight," Brion snapped. Like Orizhan, he wore his brown hair short, but was even more muscular—in fact, built like a carnival strong man. He wore a dark brown doublet with green facings, and his face was both handsome and regal, his nose as straight as his father's but not as long, his hazel eyes large and long lashed, his face clean shaven, showing high cheekbones and a strong, cleft chin.

  Gaheris and John bristled at the implication that neither of them was truly worthy of knighthood.

  Alisande stepped in to defuse the situation. "But one would expect Sir Orizhan to yearn for battle, when his homeland is so close to peril."

  "Indeed, Majesty!" Sir Orizhan said fervently. "That our province of Toulenge was spared the Moors' rule, I thank God!"

  "Then go to a church," Gaheris snapped, "and spare us your piety!"

  Again Alisande stepped in. "I hope time does not hang too heavily on your hands, Sir Orizhan, for your ward must be quite safe in Their Majesties' keeping."

  "I keep Rosamund close indeed," said Petronille, with a glare at her husband, a glare which he returned.

  Rosamund kept her gaze fixed on her trencher. She seemed cowed and apprehensive, a mousy little thing whose blond hair had lost its luster and whose eyes had dulled, but Matt thought she might have proved quite a beauty if she'd had some spirit. She said not a word, and considering the company, Matt could sympathize. He just had to endure them for the evening, though—she had to live with them every day!

  Sir Orizhan pulled attention away from her before she could be forced to talk. "King Drustan has been kind enough to find employment for me, Your Majesty, so that the time does not hang too heavily on my hands."

  "You'd be better employed minding your own business," Gaheris snarled.

  "Instead, he minds yours," Brion shot back.

  King Drustan gave a shout of laughter. "Aye, Sir Orizhan minds all your businesses, my young bawcocks, and I daresay you embroil yourselves in far less trouble because of it."

  "It isn't always pleasant to have an old man dogging our footsteps, Papa," John said, pouting.

  Matt stared at Orizhan again. The man couldn't have been over thirty-five.

  "Unpleasant and pointless," Gaheris snapped. "Nothing can prevent Brion from picking a fight."

  "Nothing except the code of chivalry!" Brion returned. "A true knight never strikes the first blow, except in defense of the weak or innocent."

  "The innocent?" Gaheris gave him a nasty smile. "What would you know about innocence?"

  "Or weakness?" John asked, still pouting.

  "Brion wears a mail shirt throughout the day," Petronille said quickly, "the more to strengthen his body."

  "Indeed," Mama said, all enthusiasm. "I have heard him acclaimed as one of the finest knights in Europe—and he so young."

  "Yes, it is a pleasure to see one's children excel." Petronille tilted her chin a little higher, preening. "You have only the one, have you not, Lady Mantrell?"

  "God has granted me no more," Mama sighed, "but I thank Him that the one He did send me is so good a man."

  Drustan frowned. "Oddly phrased, though I am sure the Lord Wizard is goodly. Are you not more concerned with the strength of his arm than with his saintliness?"

  "No, Your Majesty," Mama snapped, eyes flashing. She caught herself and forced a smile. "Moral strength is the greatest, and that of the mind is second."

  "You speak as a priest would," Gaheris said in disgust.

  "I should hope so, for I am a devout Christian!" Mama turned on the prince. "Are you not, Your Highness?"

  "Well, of course," Gaheris answered, nettled. "Isn't everybody?"

  "But some more than others." Brion gave him a dark look.

  "Yes, and some never relent in their holier-than-thou attitudes!" Gaheris snapped.

  "Nobody ever asks if I go to church," John whined.

  "With respect, Your Highness, I don't think they're talking about going to church," Matt told him.

  Alisande tried desperately to move the conversation back toward a safer topic. "Surely the strength of the body means something, Lady Mantrell!"

  "There speaks the warrior!" Drustan said heartily, and Petronille gave him a glare.

  "Of course a strong body means much, Your Majesty," Mama said, smiling, "and Matthew has always been healthy—but he has gained so much since he came here! I think your climate is good for him."

  Alisande smiled, with a trace of a blush—she understood that Mama spoke of the emotional climate as well as the weather.

  "But you are a knight also, Lord Wizard." Brion frowned. "Surely you have learned the arts of warfare!"

  Rosamund hadn't said a word so far, but now she shot at Brion, "Is there nothing for you but swords and maces?"

  Brion reddened a little but said, "There is also the lute."

  "Yes, the most perfect knights are poets as well as swordsmen," Matt interposed smoothly. "I've learned the arts of war since I came to Merovence, Your Highness—but I do agree that chivalry means cultivating the sensibilities as well as the body. Still, I count myself an indifferent poet. I acknowledge you my superior in verse."

  Brion reddened again, this time with pleasure. "Surely not, milord! You are so much more experienced than I!"

  Matt laughed. "Experience counts for nothing without talent, Highness. I know many excellent poems, but in composing them, I may be clever, but I have no genius."

  Brion leaned forward, suddenly intent. "I must hear these poems that you count great."

  "Then you must find some time alone with the Lord Wizard," Drustan snapped. "There are some of us who can do with just so much rhyming."

  "There are some of us who could do with a good
deal more!" Petronille said, with another glare.

  "I could do rhymes," John said, pouting, "but nobody ever asks me."

  "There are more important things in this world than verses, madame," Drustan said in a frosty tone, "as you would know, if you ever left off listening to your troubadours!"

  "I govern the Pykta very well, thank you!"

  "No," Drustan said, with a cynical smile, "you send Brion to do it for you."

  "I do not order my children to run errands for me," Petronille snapped. "Brion goes where he will!"

  "As a prince should." For once, Drustan seemed to agree with her.

  "Yes, but Brion does not wed to gain what he lost in battle!"

  Drustan reddened. Matt guessed the reference had been to the king's proposing to Petronille, and her lands, right after he had tried to conquer Erin—the Ireland of his own world—and failed. The king snapped, "No prince weds where he is not welcomed! Perhaps that is why Brion travels so widely!"

  "He certainly does." Gaheris made it an accusation. "Myself, I would rather see to the management of my estates than go gadding about to every tournament or battle that crops up."

  "Yes, because you fear the pain of a wound!" Brion snapped. "You fear even the sound of battle!"

  "And you, brother, should beware the knife between your ribs." Gaheris made it a threat.

  "They always go on like this," John confided to Matt. "It makes dinnertime so nasty."

  "I can see that it would," Matt said politely. For himself, he was tired of it already.

  "The knife between my ribs?" Brion gave his older brother a wolf's grin. "Who would dare wield it?"

  "Anyone," Gaheris said flatly. "You may have already carved out a name as the perfect chivalrous knight, brother, and the people may love you because of the songs you give the troubadours to sing about you, but anyone who knows you in person finds little to love!"

  "When you speak of yourself, brother, don't attach my name to it," Brion countered. "Even your fiancée can find nothing to love in you!"

  Rosamund looked up in alarm.

  Gaheris gave her a shark's grin and looked her up and down, letting his gaze linger over her contours, where her loose gown hinted at them. "She need not love me, brother. I shall do what loving is needed."

  "None shall be needed!" Drustan barked. "Wait until you are wedded for such talk, boy!"

  "Is it not his right?" Petronille challenged. "Or are you so prickly about every slightest comment made about every pretty young thing?"

  "Should you not see to the protecting of this child you have reared as your daughter?" Drustan demanded.

  "How can I, with you about?"

  Rosamund turned on Brion. "See what you have done now! They're back to their old wrangling because of you!"

  Brion bent his brows as he turned to her. "They will wrangle no matter what I say or do not say. Is it I who have sent you to be tossed about like some pawn in a chess match?"

  Rosamund flinched as though she'd been slapped. "What parent would not wish his child to be a queen?"

  "Your father might have taken the precaution of meeting the groom first."

  "Speak no ill of the dead, boy!" Drustan snapped.

  "It is not the dead of whom I speak ill." Brion regarded his elder brother narrowly. "Even at twelve years, no one could have thought Gaheris a true knight!"

  "Oh, aye, chivalry is the only measure of worth for you, isn't it?" Gaheris sneered. "Never mind the dealing of justice, the prosperity of the people, or the good governance of your own province!"

  "The people of Yorkshire are quite happy, thank you, and quite prosperous and safe!"

  "They are, for you have had the luck to find an excellent seneschal!" Gaheris snapped.

  "Whereas you have not bothered to choose one at all, Prince of Wales—and the Welsh toil in misery because of it!"

  "Oh, stop it, stop it!" Rosamund clapped her hands over her ears, glaring at Brion. "Can't you give even a little respect to your future sovereign? Will you scold him so when he is your king?"

  Brion reddened with anger and hurt, and Gaheris grinned, crooning, "Do not give a lady a cause for grief, O Chivalrous Knight! Nay, do her bidding and speak with respect to your elders!"

  Brion gave him a whetted glare, but said only, "I will do as my future sovereign wishes."

  "Silence is golden," John sighed. "My future sister-in-law has a knack for making it."

  Only because Brion was willing to listen to her, Matt thought. And for this she snapped at him?

  "You speak as a true knight should," Alisande told Brion, and turned to Petronille and Drustan. "You have cause to be proud of him."

  Petronille fairly glowed at the compliment, turning a doting gaze on her middle son, but Drustan frowned, displeased.

  "Yes," Gaheris said acidly. "It's just as well the troubadours don't know what a bully Brion really is."

  "Why, for interrupting your pleasure when you were whipping that peasant?" But Brion glanced uneasily at Rosamund, and Matt had no doubt as to the peasant's gender. Rosamund didn't see it; she had gone back to staring at her trencher.

  Gaheris gave him a black glare.

  It made sense, Matt supposed—if the second child tends to be a rebel, then in this family, Brion would opt for being noble and upright.

  "No one ever talks about me," John whined to Matt.

  Matt bit back the temptation to say that he could see why, and started a polite rejoinder, but Gaheris snarled at Brion, "As I recall, you were wearing a mail shirt at the time and had your sword at your belt, while I was unarmed!"

  "If you would strengthen your body, you too would be able to wear a mail shirt whenever you go out to—" Brion glanced uneasily at Rosamund, and changed whatever he had been about to say. "—whenever you go out among the people."

  " 'Go out,' forsooth!" Drustan chuckled. "That's as much as to say a rooster 'goes out' in a hen house!" But he was watching Rosamund as he said it, and her cheeks burned with embarrassment, which seemed to gratify Drustan.

  But if he was watching Rosamund, Petronille was watching him, and her face darkened at his attention to the princess. "So you think the lad should take pride in philandering, husband?"

  Drustan turned to her with an easy grin. "Surely it is better that he do so before he marries than after, wife."

  "Yes," Petronille hissed, and her gaze shot icicles, points first. "It is far better not to stray once one is wedded."

  "More wine," Alisande said quickly, holding her standing cup toward the steward.

  "The butt is out, Your Majesty," the steward said apologetically. "Shall I draw from a new?"

  "No, I think it is time for brandywine." Alisande rose, and the others perforce rose with her. "Majesties, shall we leave the young folk to their sport and discuss the more sedate topics that accord with age?"

  "Well, with rank, at least," Drustan said. Then, gallantly, "You could scarcely be numbered among those who carry the weight of years."

  Petronille glared more icicles at him—she was considerably older than he.

  "You are gracious, Majesty." Alisande turned to Rosamund. "Shall I bid the fiddlers play for dancing, lady?"

  "Not on my account, I pray you, Your Majesty," Rosamund said quickly. "I find that my head has begun to ache, and think that I shall retire directly."

  Lucky kid, Matt thought. This kind of table talk would have given anyone a headache. He, of course, couldn't beg off from the rest of the evening even if he'd had a migraine.

  "I shall retire, too." John cast a covetous glance at Rosamund—and Gaheris stepped on his toe. John clamped his jaw shut in a way that spoke of long practice.

  "Yes, do retire, brother," Gaheris said, with a nasty grin. "Leave the life of the night to those who are lively enough for it."

  "Beware, Gaheris," Drustan said, chuckling. "I've been practicing swordplay with the lad. He might have more energy than you think."

  "Then let him spend it by himself." Gaheris turned away to Brion. "C
ome, brother! Let us seek a chessboard and turn to gaming!"

  Matt didn't doubt for a second that they would be playing games late into the night, but somehow he suspected that those games wouldn't involve a chessboard.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The royal couples retired to Alisande's solar with Mama and Papa to act as buffers. A servant poured the first round of brandywine, then left the decanter and, at a sign from Alisande, departed.

  "What a pleasant chamber, Your Majesty!" Petronille looked around at the wainscotted walls hung with tapestries, the Persian carpet that covered the hardwood floor, the huge clerestory window with its draperies closed now against the night. Opposite it was the fireplace and the tall bookcase that stood between it and the heavily carved table that served Alisande as a desk. Six hourglass-shaped chairs stood about in a rough circle.

  "I thank you, Your Majesty." Alisande smiled, sitting in a chair a little taller than the others, with the crown and lilies carved in its back. The rest of the chairs were spaced equally around the room, so there could be no concern about rank in the seating—none would have denied Matt's right to sit next to his wife, and Papa and Mama were careful to take chairs across from them, to avoid having Merovencians on one side and Bretanglians on the other.

  They sat, and Drustan sipped at his brandywine and smiled. "Excellently brewed! But now, Majesty, we must discuss the future."

  "If we must, Majesty," Alisande sighed. "At times it seems all I can do to cope with the present."

  "Indeed it does," Drustan said wryly, "but the future will become the present all too soon, and we must plan for it before it comes."

  "Of which matters do you speak, Lord of Bretanglia?"

  "Of the inheritance of Pykta and Deintenir, Sovereign of Merovence." Drustan lost his smile.

  Matt braced himself, even though he'd known this was coming. By a quirk of history, Drustan and Petronille had inherited provinces in Merovence, and Alisande naturally did not want them to become part of Bretanglia. More to the point, she didn't want to lose any of her people to the rule of a monarch she didn't trust, or his heir, whom she trusted even less.

  "Do you speak as Duke of Deintenir or King of Bretanglia?" she asked.