The Haunted Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  "As Your Majesty wishes." The man bowed his head, his delight at her praise glowing through his weariness.

  He turned away, but stumbled, and Alisande told a guard, "See him to food and a bed."

  The guard took the agent away, but Alisande directed the other guard, "Send word to the Chancellor of the Exchequer to lay aside ten pieces of gold for that man, and to send him a note saying it is held for him."

  The guard bowed and stepped out, closing the door behind him.

  Alisande scribbled a note, sanded it, and said, "That will be set into proper form in the morning, and dispatched to the king."

  "Do you not risk war?" Papa asked, frowning.

  "Risk?" Alisande laughed bitterly. "Drustan will declare war on us himself, as soon as he has rallied his forces and buried the dead. He has sought an excuse to capture away from us those provinces he feels should be his. It will probably do no good to demand the return of Rosamund, but it can do no harm, either. At least this spat between himself and Petronille has won us a month or two more to prepare for war."

  "That will not help the princess, though," Mama pointed out.

  "Yes, and if the rumor of her imprisonment is true, she will need help most sorely." Alisande scowled. "What can I do, though?"

  "For one thing, we can discover whether or not that rumor is true," Mama told her, "or whether she is safely gaoled with Queen Petronille."

  "I doubt that," Papa said darkly.

  "I, too," Alisande agreed, "and I am troubled about these 'details' that my agent did not yet know. Mind you, he did right to bring me the great news at once—but the small news can hide great problems."

  Mama glanced at Papa; he nodded. She turned back to Alisande. "If you wish, we can go among the people of Bretanglia and learn what news there is."

  Alisande froze, glowering down at her desktop.

  "I dislike leaving you alone," Mama said gently, "but surely the situation is now grave enough to ask Saul to come guard the castle from evil magic."

  "It is grave enough that I need you here! Let the Witch Doctor go among the people!"

  "He is young," Mama explained, "and less skilled at prying information from the unwary. Then, too, folk are more likely to confide in mature people."

  Alisande had to admit that was true—Mama's motherly air had induced her to confide more than once.

  "Then, too," Papa said, "it is perhaps more important that we do what we can to keep war from coming to Merovence, than help to win it once it does."

  "Keep the war away?" Alisande looked up, frowning. "How can you do that?"

  "For one thing, we can find our son and make sure he doesn't work himself into greater trouble than he can handle," Papa said with a smile. "More to the point, we may be able to find ways to distract King Drustan—say, by using magic to free Queen Petronille and spirit her away."

  "He will not attack if he fears rebellion at home while he is gone," Alisande admitted. Her voice gained an edge of desperation as she asked, "But why must you both go? Surely Papa Mantrell is enough of a spy by himself!"

  "He is quite capable, of course," Mama said carefully, "but you know as well as I that women know things men do not, and are reluctant to speak of them to any but other women. Matthew certainly will not be able to learn such secrets, nor will my Ramón."

  "There is truth in what you say," Alisande admitted, "particularly news regarding Queen Petronille and Princess Rosamund. Yes, there is some chance you may be able to keep Merovence safe from war."

  The older couple relaxed. If it was better for her country, the queen would let them go.

  The queen went to the door, opened it, and told the guard, "Summon Ortho the Frank."

  Mama smiled at Papa and squeezed his hand. Ortho was Matt's assistant, and a powerful wizard in his own right. If he pronounced the castle safe in their absence, they would go.

  When Ortho came, he listened to Alisande gravely, then sighed. "Ah me! War again! Well, if we must face it, we must. But surely King Drustan will give us some warning—an embassy with a declaration, perhaps."

  "He is chivalrous enough for that," Alisande admitted.

  "Then I shall send to inform the Witch Doctor of events, and ask him to hold himself ready to come. There will be time enough to send for him once war is declared."

  "But if evil magic is directed against us before that?" Alisande couldn't help glancing in the direction of the nursery.

  "I can deal with it," Ortho said, with a quiet smile that bespoke a wealth of confidence, "or should I say that I believe I shall be able to cope with any magicks that are likely to be thrown against us, especially with the new spells Lord and Lady Mantrell have taught me. Surely if enemies attack, the ones that conjure defense by the name of El Cid should be particularly useful." He acknowledged his colleagues with a bow of his head.

  They returned the nod, smiling. Mama said, "The Song of the Emperor Hardishane, which you have taught us, will doubtless prove most useful if we encounter difficulties, Master Ortho."

  "Let it be done, then," Alisande sighed. "Go forth in disguise, lord and lady—go forth to protect your son and my husband and to discover the true nature of what passes in Bretanglia." Then her face creased with anxiety. "Though Heaven knows, I shall miss you both sorely!"

  Mama rose and went to her, and Ortho had the good sense to leave without asking his sovereign's permission.

  Three days after Rosamund's escape, the guard threw her door open and bawled, "His Majesty the King!"

  King Drustan marched in, resplendent in velvet cloak and satin doublet, crown on his head and a gleam in his eye. "My dear, good news! We have won!"

  He saw Rosamund standing at the window in a cream-colored gown embroidered with pale roses—only gazing out at the moat, nothing more.

  Drustan frowned at the lack of response. "Do you not rejoice with me?"

  "Rejoice with you." The voice was dull; its owner raised dull eyes to his.

  "Come now, is that any way to greet the conquering hero?" Drustan chided. He stepped over to her, snapping at the guard, "Close the door!" As it shut behind him, he cupped Rosamund's chin and lifted her lips to his. They were cold, unresponsive, but not repelling him, either. Somewhat surprised, he tried a deeper kiss, and again received no rebuff, but no response, either. Still, the flavor pleased him and he drank deeper.

  His hands began to shake with years of desire as he caressed her more and more intimately. The taste of her was sweet, though it would have been sweeter if she had returned his ardor or, better still, tried to fight him off. Nonetheless, he was glad of her resignation, glad that he would finally make her his own, no matter who married her. With trembling fingers he stripped her gown, caressing as he went, stepped back to admire her naked body—though its contours were not quite as rich as he had hoped—then swung her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. He was amazed at her weight.

  She watched him calmly, with a composure that was almost unnerving, as he undressed, and seemed to find the sight of his nudity neither repelling nor inflaming. Drustan frowned, determined to make her gasp with pleasure, and lay down beside her, saying, "You'll learn now the delights of royal lovemaking, my dear, and I'll not let it cease till I hear you moan with longing." He reached out to touch her breast as the fast rays of the setting sun colored her pale flesh, pale flesh that suddenly hardened, roughened, darkened, and Drustan froze, staring at shaggy bark. He shot a glance up at Rosamund's face, but saw only a single knothole and the roughly sawn end of the log.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Superstitious fear froze King Drustan for several moments. Then he sprang from the bed, shouting angry curses.

  The guard hammered at the door, his muffled voice crying, "Majesty! Are you well?"

  "Well enough!" Drustan cried, and dove for his clothes. Dressed, he turned to the door, then with a last thought turned to kick Rosamund's gown under the bed. He turned back to yank the bar off the door. The guards tumbled in, weapons at the ready. "Who dares strike
at Your Majesty?"

  "A witch!" King Drustan pointed a trembling finger at the log. "Or perhaps that puling Lord Wizard of Merovence!"

  The guards turned to stare, then paled with fear of the supernatural, making signs to ward off evil.

  "Oh, be done with your womanish fears!" King Drustan snapped in disgust, all the greater because of the reminder of his own brief terror. "Send men out to seek for the princess! Send more to discover who has kidnapped her! Find me a wizard of my own, to discover whose work this is!"

  The soldiers bowed and ran from the room, all too glad to get away from the scene of witchcraft. Drustan stood his ground, glaring at the log and fuming. He didn't really believe that Matthew Mantrell had done this, but he would learn who had, and they would suffer for his embarrassment!

  It was another night and another inn—but this time they were in Bretanglia, for during the day, they had crossed the Calver River, the border between Bretanglia and Merovence. Matt was constantly on edge now, and acting all the more casual because of it, very much aware of being an alien in his enemy's land. At least he was accompanied by a knight who had acquired the accent of Bretanglia's nobility, when he chose to use it, and a peasant who had been born with the burr of the village folk of the North Country.

  The common room was full, peddlers and carters jostling elbows with the local farmers as serving wenches threaded through the maze of tables with handfuls of mugs and laden trays. The companions elbowed their way through to a few seats and wedged their way onto the benches.

  "Good e'en to you, travelers!" A jovial carter raised his mug in welcome. "Have you come far?"

  "From Bordestang, good fellow," Sir Orizhan told him.

  The man sobered at hearing his accent. "A weary trip, sir."

  "Weary indeed," Sir Orizhan agreed, "but liable to prove unhealthy, if we had stayed."

  "So!" The carter raised his eyebrows. "The rumors are true, then?"

  "Which rumors?" Sergeant Brock asked.

  "That Prince Gaheris was murdered in Merovence, and King Drustan may make war upon Queen Alisande in revenge?"

  "True enough," Sergeant Brock said, "though who can tell how a king thinks?"

  "But there's no proof that he has call for revenge," Matt said. "The killer might not have been a man of Merovence."

  The carter turned to him, frowning. "You've an odd way of speaking, friend. Where is your home?"

  "I grew up far to the west," Matt said, "very far."

  A peddler next to the carter leaned in and said, "We have heard it was a Merovencian sorcerer what struck the prince."

  "It might have been a sorcerer," Matt agreed, "and it might have been a Merovencian—but the truth is that no one saw it happen, or who did it. They only know that a man leaped out the window right afterward, and he was both a sorcerer and a man of Bretanglia."

  "Was he! We've not heard of that!" the carter said.

  But the peddler frowned. "Where have you heard this, fellow?"

  Matt forced himself to ignore the "fellow"; after all, he was disguised as a peasant. "From those who saw it," which was true enough.

  "Did they?" Another peasant leaned in, his hood still up. "How did they know he was a sorcerer?"

  "Someone saw him work magic." Matt didn't feel obliged to say whom. "As to his being a man of Bretanglia, that was his accent."

  "Phaw!" the third peasant said in disgust. "Any man can fake an accent!"

  Matt shrugged. "It's all just rumor, as our friend the carter said. But what news have you heard? There must be some folk come down from the north with word of the war there."

  "Ah." The carter glanced to left and to right, checking who was in earshot, then leaned even farther forward and said in a conspiratorial tone, "They say that when the Earl Marshal left Prince Brion alone, on foot and unarmed, one of his troopers turned back and saw a blue knight come riding down upon the prince and slay him."

  Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock sat stiff with shock, but Matt's mind leaped past the emotion and onto what was, to him, just as important. "Prince Brion was slain? And there was a witness to it?"

  "Aye, but he says the prince claimed the right to know who slew him, and the Blue Knight raised his visor."

  Matt braced himself. "What face did he see?"

  "None." The carter's voice was hollow with dread. "The helmet was empty. Dark, and empty."

  The other peasants muttered and crossed themselves—but the one with his hood still up howled as though he'd burned his hand and leapt up from the table, stalking away.

  The other peasants stared, watching him go. Then one said, "What bit him?"

  "Guilty conscience, maybe." Matt watched, too. "He's got awfully hairy hands, hasn't he?"

  They all looked and nodded. "Most marvelously hairy," said the carter. "I know a plowman who is almost as bad."

  Matt made a mental note that the bauchan was allergic to the Sign of the Cross, then realized it would probably do no good if he deliberately used it as a weapon. He sighed and braced himself for more mischief.

  Apparently it was going to be delayed, though. A sudden commotion of talk swept through the room. Everyone turned to everyone else, either asking or telling.

  The carter leaned over to the next table. "What has happened?"

  "A minstrel!" a farmer told him. "He has just said that Princess Rosamund is gone from her moated grange!"

  "A minstrel! Will he sing of it?"

  "Not until he has finished—there! He has swallowed the last bite of his dinner!"

  The minstrel stepped into the clear space near the hearth, lifting his lute. As he tuned it, the bauchan, on his way out the door, stopped and turned back to listen. As the strains of the lute grew louder, the people gradually fell silent, and Buckeye settled down, leaning against the wall.

  Matt made another mental note—that the bauchan liked music—for it might come in handy, whether he meant to use it as a charm or not.

  The minstrel began to sing.

  "Queen Petronille was a sick woman,

  And afraid that she should die,

  So she sent for a monk of Merovence

  To come to her speedi-lye.

  King Drustan called down his nobles all,

  By one, by two, by three,

  Then sent away for Earl Marshal

  To come to him speedily."

  The minstrel slipped into a slightly higher voice for King Drustan.

  "Do you put on one friar's coat,

  And I'll put on another,

  And we shall to Queen Petronille go,

  One friar like another."

  The women in the crowd exclaimed in indignation, and the men muttered in agreement—everyone seemed to think that hearing confession under false pretenses was pretty low.

  "Now, God forbid, said Earl Marshal,"

  the minstrel sang in a deeper voice,

  "That such a thing might be.

  Should I beguile madame the queen,

  Then hanged I would be!"

  A murmur of approval ran through the crowd. The true knight had remained true.

  The bauchan looked up and turned his head, frowning at the crowd's idealism.

  The minstrel slipped into Drustan's voice again.

  "I'll pawn my living and my lands,

  My scepter and my crown,

  That whatsoever Queen Petronille says,

  I shall not write it down!"

  "Which conveniently explains any lack of evidence," Matt muttered to Sir Orizhan. The knight looked surprised, then nodded slowly.

  The minstrel went on.

  "So thus attired, they both did go

  Till they came to Whitehall,

  And the bells did ring, and the choristers sing,

  And the torches did light them all.

  'Are you of Merovence,' she said,

  'As I suppose you be?

  For if you are Bretangl'n friars,

  Then hanged you shall be!' "

  "They really like hanging people in your
country?" Matt muttered to Sergeant Brock.

  "Just a minstrel's nonsense," the sergeant said, but he didn't look all that sure.

  " 'We're monks of Merovence,' they said,

  'As you suppose we be,

  And we have not been to any Mass

  Since we came over the sea.' "

  Matt frowned. "Why's that important?"

  "Monks say Mass every day," Sir Orizhan explained, surprised. "They had only arrived that day, and after Mass-times."

  "Oh, of course," Matt said, abashed. "Silly of me."

  " 'The first vile sin that e'er I did,

  To you I shall unfold...' "

  Indignant or not, everybody leaned forward, eager for gossip. Some sixth sense made Matt look at Buckeye just in time to see the bauchan's lips moving as he made an intricate, double-handed gesture toward his mouth, then blow a kiss toward the minstrel. Matt turned back to watch, his stomach roiling.

  The minstrel sang on in happy ignorance.

  " '...Earl Marshal had my maidenhead

  Underneath this cloth of gold.' "

  The whole room broke into a furious hubbub, everyone denouncing such a vile accusation—but doubt shadowed many faces. The minstrel himself looked shocked at his own words, but his lips kept moving, as though of their own accord.

  Matt glanced at the bauchan and saw him grinning. He didn't know how this was going to rebound onto himself, but he braced for the worst.

  The minstrel began to sing in the King Drustan voice:

  " 'That is a vile sin,' said the king,

  'God may forgive it thee.'