Voice for Princess (v1.1)

by John Morressy

  At the first syllable, the young man jerked up his head. He brushed back his tangled jet-black hair and gazed up at Kedrigern with large, sad brown eyes. “Look you, sir, how I am crippled entirely with the curse of ingrown toenails, and it not ten days since Black Ivor Gruffydd placed it on me,” said he in a deep voice, speaking in a lilting manner halfway between oratory and incantation.

  “Ingrown toenails can be very painful. Particularly if one is required to do much walking,” Kedrigern said sympathetically.

  “That is the plain truth. And a cerddor must do much walking, and that is to say nothing of the taking care of his harp, and the keeping his head filed with sweet sound, or he will be forced to sleep in the woods and feed on nuts and berries,” the young man lamented.

  “Ah… you’re a minstrel, then.”

  “I am a minstrel now. But despite my youth, I was near to being bardd teulu, household bard to a great lord, look you, and would now hold such a fine position except for the dirty underhanded scheming of the Gruffydds to snatch away what was justly mine and hand it over to whining whey-faced Red Gruffydd.”

  Kedrigern shook his head, puzzled. “I thought it was Black Ivor who did this to you. How does Red Gruffydd come into it?”

  “There is sharp you are, mister,” said the young minstrel appreciatively. “Red Gruffydd does not curse well enough to curdle milk on a hot day. It was his brother. Black Ivor Gruffydd, put the curse on me, indeed, and him known as Black Ivor not for the color of hair or eyes or skin but for the black of his nature. I had not seen him, nor he me, since I left my home these two years gone. But I saw him at the fair ten days ago, where he was peddling his bawdry and lechery, and I said for all to hear what kind of a nastiness is in him. And it is then he put the curse of ingrown toenails on me.”

  “What do you plan to do?”

  The young man’s eyes flashed. “I will soak my feet in a pail of the Gruffydds’ blood, that is what I will do, as soon as I can walk without the pains of hell to cripple me.”

  “That’s a bit drastic, isn’t it? Surely it won’t do anything for your toenails.”

  “There is peace of mind it will give me, mister,” the minstrel said grimly.

  Kedrigern nodded to acknowledge the desirability of peace of mind. He seated himself at the minstrel’s side. For a time, neither of them said a word, then Kedrigern, looking off into the trees, said casually, “The local overseer of law and order is a man named Panglunder the Unyielding. He got his name from his practice of tracking down and punishing everyone suspected of crime in this part of the kingdom. As a rule, he hangs murderers, but now and then he impales one. Just for a change.”

  “I would be away from here like the smoke, look you. No man would find me.”

  “When you can hardly walk? Give it up, my boy. Revenge is very entertaining on the stage, but totally unworkable in everyday life,” Kedrigern said with a wise, avuncular smile.

  “There is foolish I am, and have been always,” said the minstrel with a deep despairing sigh. “When we were lads, studying at the feet of the great penceirdd Twin ap Tudur, the Gruffydds learned all the spells for rapid advancement and discomfort to enemies, and far it is that their wicked knowledge has brought them.”

  “From your manner of speaking, and the terminology you employ, I gather that you are no ordinary minstrel, but one of the Cymric bards,” said Kedrigern.

  “That is what I am, mister,” said the young man proudly.

  “And while the Gruffydds were mastering their nasty spells, what were you learning?”

  “Every charm for eloquence and sweetness of speech in the Green Book of Maelgwyn I have by heart. I can make the stones of the ground to sing, look you, and the croaking toad to converse with the voice of an angel. And I would trade it all for a spell to cure my ingrown toenails.”

  Kedrigern turned a broad, beaming smile on the woebegone minstrel and clapped a hand solidly on his shoulder. “It’s a deal, my boy,” he said.

  “There is cruel you are to mock me, mister,” said the youth.

  “I’m not mocking you. I can get you back on your feet in no time. In exchange, I want you to use your spells for eloquence—specifically, the one that makes the croaking toad converse with the voice of an angel. I’m a wizard. Semiretired at the moment, but I do a lot of private work, especially in counterspelling. The name’s Kedrigern,” said the wizard, extending a hand.

  “And I am Rhys ap Gwalter,” said the minstrel, accepting the proffered welcome. “Though it is small need you have of my spells, to hear the speaking of you.”

  “It’s not for me. You’ll see when we get to my house. We should arrive just in time for lunch,” Kedrigern said, rising and brushing himself off.

  “I will be slow in the walking, look you. More like it will be breakfast time two days hence,” Rhys warned.

  “No need to walk at all. I’ll summon my horse.”

  Rhys looked up, wide-eyed. “A great excitement it will be to me to see how a true wizard summons his horse.”

  Kedrigern looked at him, puzzled. “Why? All I’m going to do is whistle.”

  “Oh,” said the minstrel, crestfallen.

  Kedrigern thrust two fingers in his mouth and gave a sharp, long whistle. In a very short time, the sound of measured hoofbeats echoed up the forest path, and soon a shaggy black horse came into sight.

  “That is a horse I would expect to see a great barbarian warrior riding, and not a kindly wizard,” said Rhys, hauling himself painfully to his feet.

  “It belonged to a barbarian warrior once,” Kedrigern said. “He doesn’t ride anymore. Got all stiffened up.”

  With a bit of assistance from Kedrigern, Rhys ap Gwalter mounted the black horse. Kedrigern handed up the minstrel’s harp and skimpy pack, and his own pouch of herbs, and they started off for the wizard’s home, where Princess awaited.

  As they emerged from the forest, and Silent Thunder Mountain loomed before them, far across the rolling grasslands, Rhys uncovered his small harp and began to play a sweet, sad melody. It was a very fine performance, but not at all suited to Kedrigern’s mood, which was improving with every homeward step. He requested something merry, and the minstrel obliged.

  Kedrigern was certain that he had at last found the solution to Princess’s difficulties. The power of the charms over speech and eloquence known to the Cymric bards was the envy of wizards everywhere. Kedrigern had more than once given serious thought to making the long and perilous journey westward in hopes of obtaining bardic help for his wife, but every time he had been discouraged by remembered accounts of the bards’ notorious reluctance to share their magic with an outsider, even a wizard offering an exorbitant price. And now the magic of the Cymri was his for the asking, in exchange for a small, simple healing spell. It seemed to him to be a sign that the universe was in good hands after all. He smiled placidly and began to hum along with the harp.

  They arrived at the cottage just at midday. Kedrigern was helping Rhys down from the horse, and suddenly he felt the minstrel stiffen.

  “What is that, now?” Rhys cried in alarm.

  A grotesque litle creature was bouncing up and down on the flagstones of the dooryard, salivating liberally. It cried “Yah! Yah!” in joyous welcome.

  “Tell Princess I’m back, Spot,” Kedrigern caled, waving a greeting. As the little apparition bounded into the house, he said to the minstrel, “That’s our house-troll. A good hard worker, and absolutely devoted to me.”

  “That is a thing I have never seen,” said Rhys guardedly.

  “No, I suppose not. You have to get them young, or it’s no use at all, and it’s very difficult to find a nice clean tractable young troll. Spot is a real treasure.”

  “Look you, sir, my charms were not meant for trolls, young or old.”

  “Don’t worry, Rhys. That’s not what I have in mind,” said Kedrigern. Spot reappeared, and the wizard sent it off at once to fetch a basin of warm salt water. “You can sit here in the sun and gi
ve your feet a good relaxing soak until lunch is ready. After lunch we’ll get down to business,” he explained to Rhys.

  At that moment, Princess appeared in the doorway. She wore a pale green robe, trimmed with white. Her ebony hair hung loose to her waist. A slim golden circlet bound her brow. Rhys ap Gwallter looked on, bedazzled by her beauty, as Kedrigern kissed her warmly, then took her hand and conducted her to their guest. She curtseyed deeply to his bow, then she smiled a smile that made the spring morning seem dull and cheerless by comparison. Without having spoken a word, she withdrew.

  “There is a fine-looking woman your wife is, Master Kedrigern,” said Rhys reverently. “I have seen queens and princesses and fine ladies, but next to her, look you, they are all as ugly as toads.”

  “Funny you should put it that way,” Kedrigern said. “Would you believe, Rhys, that only a few—”

  The arrival of Spot, bearing a great wooden tub of steaming water, interrupted Kedrigern’s response. The troll set it down in front of a chair, and Rhys, at Kedrigern’s bidding, immersed his pained feet in the tub with a long, low sigh of relief.

  “Nothing like a nice restful soak when your feet hurt,” Kedrigern said. “Make yourself comfortable. Lunch will be ready shortly. As I started to say,” he went on, pulling up a chair for himself, “you’d hardly believe that only a few months ago—just under a year—that beautiful woman was hopping about in a bog.”

  “In a bog, you say? There is strange in that, now.”

  “Nothing strange about it. She was a toad.”

  “A toad, you say?”

  “Yes. A lovely little toad she was, too. I knew there was something special about that toad the minute I laid eyes on it.”

  “A grand toad she was, I am sure of that. But why would such a woman want to be a toad altogether?” Rhys asked.

  “It wasn’t her idea. Her parents had neglected to invite a local bog-fairy to Princess’s christening, and so the bog-fairy put a curse on the child. On her eighteenth birthday, Princess turned into a toad. Didn’t even get to open her presents. Bog-fairies can be very mean-minded when they think they’ve been slighted.”

  “And it was you changed her back into the lovely lady, then, with the magic of you?”

  “Yes. As I mentioned earlier, I specialize in remedial magic. Counterspells and such. Undoing other people’s nastiness. Been remarkably snccessful with it, too, as you can see. There’s only one—”

  Princess emerged from the doorway bearing a silver tray on which rested a chunk of deep golden cheese, a round of dark bread, and a square of pale yellow butter. Behind her bounded Spot, with a frost-coated pitcher in one hand and three stone mugs clutched in the other.

  Kedrigern, rising and bidding Rhys remain seated, pulled up a chair for Princess, kissed her cheek, and took the tray.

  “Brereep,” she said, smiling gloriously as she seated herself facing the minstrel.

  Rhys gave a little start. Water sloshed from the tub.

  “As I was about to say, there’s only one small problem left to deal with. Nobody wins all the time, even a wizard. But I have absolute faith in you, my boy,” said Kedrigern.

  “There are always the complications,” Rhys said sympathetically. “Things there be that we cannot control. Well I remember a love-chant I wrought, of great potency it was, look you, but I could not get it to work for the complication of the lady’s name.” He sighed and shook his head slowly. “A great beauty she was, but she had a name to her that not one man in all the kingdom could pronounce properly, and so there was no wooing her. How is a man to woo a maid, I ask you, if he is unable to speak her name? There is frustrating it was.”

  “Whatever became of the poor lady?”

  “She changed her name to Ann Jones, and was married in a fortnight.”

  Kedrigern nodded approvingly. “The simple solutions are best in some cases.” He turned to Princess. “I was just telling Rhys about our first meeting, my dear, and how I used my arts to restore your proper—and most attractive—form. Rhys is having a bit of a problem himself right now. Someone has placed a curse on him.”

  “Brereep?” she asked.

  “I am, my dear. And in return, Rhys will place at our disposal his knowledge of the Cymric spells for eloquence and sweetness of speech which he has learned from the Green Book of Maelgwyn. I believe we have solved your problem at last, my dear,” Kedrigern said, squeezing her hand reassuringly.

  “Brereep? Brereep!” she cried happily.

  Rhys looked from one of them to the other, his apprehension evident. “Look you, now, this is a bit more complicated than I thought it would be.”

  “Surely the charms of the Green Book of Maelgwyn can deal with a litle croak,” Kedrigern said, pouring foaming ale into the first mug.

  “A great difference there is, Master Kedrigern, between taking a tongue-tied cerddor and instilling in him sweetness of discourse, and taking a lady who croaks like a toad—a very fine and melodious croak it is, lady, I do assure you—” he quickly added, “and putting eloquent words to her tongue. Oh, a very great difference, indeed.”

  “I have every confidence in you, Rhys, and in the Green Book of Maelgwyn,” Kedrigern said, pouring into the second mug. “And if my confidence is misplaced, you may find your toenails growing out the top of your head.”

  “Brereep,” Princess said softly. She shook her head and placed her hand on Kedrigern’s forearm.

  Kedrigern’s face fell. He nodded and said, “Yes, of course, my dear. You’re absolutely right. No bullying. It’s bad form.” Handing Rhys ap Gwallter the foam-capped mug, he said, “There will be no reprisals, my boy. You must do your best for Princess, and in return, I will free you of Black Ivor’s curse. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” the minstrel said, raising his mug in salute and looking much relieved.

  They partook of a leisurely and satisfying lunch. When they were finished, and Spot had cleared away, and Rhys had dried his feet and donned a pair of soft slippers provided by his host, it was time for business. Rhys took up his harp, struck a few notes, tightened two of the strings, played the notes once more, and then cleared his throat.

  “For my first charm, I would like to attempt Ceiriog’s spell of unlocking,” he announced. “It has always been a great favorite of mine. It is much favored for stirring speech in those who appear reluctant or incapable.”

  “Do you want me to leave? I’d love to stay and watch, but if I’m going to make you nervous…,” Kedrigern said, half rising.

  “I am accustomed to an audience, Master Kedrigern. Stay,” said the minstrel.

  The wizard smiled gratefully and resumed his seat. Rhys struck a chord, then began to play a simple melody, like a child’s song, to which he sang lyrics of great subtlety and very sophisticated poetic technique. When he was done, he and Kedrigern both turned to Princess.

  “How is it with you, lady?” Rhys asked, setting down his harp.

  Princess took a deep breath, swallowed, let out the breath, blinked twice, drew a more normal breath, and slowly said, “I can talk.”

  “That’s marvelous, my dear! Well done, Rhys!” Kedrigern cried.

  “Oh! Oh! I can talk!” Princess repeated, rising from her chair.

  “On the first try! Oh, this is wonderful, my dear!”

  “Do you hear me talk?”

  “Yes. It’s lovely!”

  “Look! Look!” she shouted, and the two men twisted their necks in sudden alarm. But they saw only the litle troll, who had reappeared and was now running about, picking up scraps and tidying the front yard.

  “See Spot run!” Princess cried. “Run, Spot, run!”

  “Yes, my dear,” said Kedrigern, glancing uneasily at Rhys.

  She turned to Kedrigern, and the look in her eyes was enough to break his heart. “I can talk. Do you hear me talk? I talk stupid!”

  “Considering that it’s only a starting point…,” Kedrigern began, looking to Rhys for encouragement.

  “Look you,
Ceiriog’s spell is a great thing for the children, but I am thinking that maybe it is not so good for a grownup,” Rhys said.

  “I talk like a baby. I am a lady. I want to talk like a lady. I do not want to sound like a baby all my life,” said Princess. Kedrigern noticed that she was getting a bit flushed.

  “Maybe you’d better try something else,” he suggested.

  “There is dangerous it is to work too many spells too quickly on one person. If the lovely lady is patient, everything will be fine.”

  “How patient?”

  “Oh, a few years, no more than that, and she will be talking like a grownup,” Rhys assured him.

  Princess glowered at them. “I am getting angry. Do you see me getting angry? Soon I will be very angry, and that will not be nice. Do you want me to get very angry?”

  “I will try something else,” Rhys said.

  “Oh! Oh! I hope it works. If it doesn’t—”

  “Now, my dear,” Kedrigern said, reaching out to take her hand. “We mustn’t upset this young man. He’s doing his best.”

  Princess seated herself demurely, folding her hands in her lap. “I will be good,” she said. Kedrigern noticed that her knuckles were white.

  Rhys took up his harp once again. This time, the melody he played was so intricate, and so lively, that it filed Kedrigern and Princess with wonder to see it played by a single player, with only two hands and ten fingers. The chant that accompanied this whirlwind of music was dark and harsh and impossible to follow. Kedrigern recognized the signs of a powerful charm, and kept a close eye on Princess. She seemed fascinated by the web of words and sound, but quite alert.

  At last Rhys laid his harp aside and wiped his brow, damp from the strain of concentration. In the silence, Princess spoke. Her words came slowly, as if she were groping for each syllable and placing it as carefully as an artisan might place the stones of a mosaic.

  “Mute, tame,

  Oh! long my tongue lay,

  Maelgwyn’s words made go away

  Toad’s gruff croak.

  ‘Twas good coming