Murder Most Medieval

by Edited by Martin Greenburg

  “Not as well as you. The years have been kind to you.”

  “You were always a poor liar. How goes the road?”

  “We’ve been doing quite handsomely. We’ve played Orison, Stobs, and a half dozen rat-bitten hamlets between, to very good response.”

  “We?”

  “May I introduce my daughter, Noelle, the finest singer in this land or any other.”

  “I’m sure she is,” Owyn snorted, then read the danger in my eyes and hastily amended his tone. “Because, as I said, your father is an inept liar, my dear. Honest to a fault.”

  Taking her hand, he kissed it with a casual grace I could only envy, favoring her with the smile that melted hearts on two continents. If he noted her blindness, he gave no sign. Owyn is nought if not nimble-witted.

  “I would gladly offer you the hospitality of my camp, Tallifer, but we’re making ready to leave.”

  “I see that. Well, there’s no point in our playing yon town now. A performance by Owyn the Bard is impossible for lesser minstrels to follow.”

  “Even shameless flattery is sometimes a Gospel truth,” Owyn grinned wryly. “Do we meet by chance, Tallifer, or can I be of some service to you and your… daughter?”

  “We meet by God’s own grace, Welshman. Over the past weeks the roads have grown crowded with soldiers. I’m hoping we can travel with your troupe across the border. I can pay.”

  “Don’t be an ass, come with us and be welcome. We’re not bound directly for the border, though. I’ve an agreement to perform in Garriston for Lord DuBoyne on All Saints Day. Do you still want to come?”

  “Why shouldn’t we?”

  “Because the soldiers you’ve been seeing likely belong to DuBoyne or his enemies. Whatever the trouble is, we’re wandering merrily into the heart of it, singing all the way.”

  “We’re still safer traveling with you than on our own.”

  “That may be,” Owyn conceded grimly. “But I wouldn’t take much comfort in it. The sooner we’re south of the Tweed, the happier I’ll be, and devil take the hindmost.”

  Owyn’s company traveled steadily for the next few days, stopping only at night to rest the animals. If anything, we encountered more soldiers than before, but with wagons, we couldn’t cede the road. Troops simply marched around us.

  Owyn’s fame is such that even warriors who hadn’t seen him perform greeted us cheerfully. After chatting with one grizzled guards’ captain at length, though, the Welshman’s gloom was palpable.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, goading my mount to match pace with Owyn’s. Noelle was riding on one of the wagons with Owyn’s wife, or perhaps his mistress. His two companions looked much alike to me, small, dark women, with raven hair. Sisters perhaps? Some things you don’t ask.

  “Everything’s wrong,” Owyn said glumly. “You were a soldier once, Tallifer, have you noted anything odd about the troops we’ve encountered?”

  “Mostly Scots, supplemented by a few mercenaries. Why?”

  “I was talking about their direction.”

  I considered that a moment. “We haven’t met any for the past few days,” I said. “They’ve all been overtaking us.”

  “Exactly,” Owyn sighed. “They’re traveling the same way we are, and the only holding on this road is Lord DuBoyne’s. But when I offered to buy the captain of that last lot an ale at the festivities, he declined. He said he wouldn’t be there.”

  “So?”

  “So there’s nowhere else for him to be, you dolt, only Garriston. And if he’s not bound for Garriston to celebrate…” He left the thought dangling.

  “Sweet Jesus,” I said softly.

  “Exactly so,” Owyn agreed.

  “Perhaps they’ll delay the bloodletting until after the holiday.”

  “That would be Christian of them,” Owyn grunted, “though I’m told good Christian crusaders in the Holy Land disembowel children then rummage in their guts for swallowed gems.”

  “You’re growing gloomy with age, Owyn.”

  “Even trees grow wiser with time. And I wouldn’t worry much about old age, Tallifer. We’re neither of us likely to see it.”

  Arriving at Garriston on the fourth day did little to lift Phyffe’s spirits. It was a raw border town on a branch of the Tweed, surrounded by a high earthen wall braced with logs. Its gate was open but well guarded. Noelle was riding at the front of the train with Owyn as I trudged along beside.

  “What do you think, Tallifer?” he asked, leaning on his pommel, looking over the town.

  “It seems a small place to hire such a large troupe.”

  “So it does. The DuBoyne family steward paid us a handsome advance without a quibble, though.”

  “Is it a pretty town?” Noelle asked. “It feels lucky to me.”

  Owyn shot a quizzical glance at me, then shook his head.

  “Oh, to live in the country of the blind, where every swamp’s an Eden. Aye, girl, it’s a fine town with gilded towers and flags on every parapet. But perhaps you’d better stay in the camp, while your father and I taste the stew we’ve got ourselves into.”

  Leaving instructions with his wives to camp upstream from Garriston near a wood, Owyn, myself, and Piers LeDoux, the leader of the Flemish jugglers, rode in together. In such a backwater, well-dressed mounted men are seen so rarely we were treated like gentry. The gate guards passed us through with a salute, saying the manor’s steward could be found in the marketplace.

  An old town, Garriston was probably a hamlet centuries before the Norman conquest. Houses were wattle and daub, set at haphazard angles to the mud streets. It was a market day and the air was abustle with the shouts of tinkers and peddlers, the squeal of hogs at butchering, hammers ringing at a smithy, and, beneath it all, the thunderous grumbling of a mill wheel.

  A month earlier I wouldn’t have noted the noise, but after traveling with Noelle I found myself listening more, trying to savor the world as she did.

  A stronghold loomed over the north end of the town. Crude, but stoutly built in the Norman style, the square blockhouse sat atop a hill with corners outset so archers could sweep its walls. And even in peaceful daylight, sentries manned its towers.

  The street wound into an open-air market in the town square, with kiosks for pottery, hides, and leatherwork, an alehouse, and a crude stone chapel. Owyn spied the DuBoyne family steward, Gillespie Kenedi, looking over beeves for the feast day.

  Heavyset, with a pig’s narrow eyes and a face ruddy from too much food, too little labor, Kenedi wore the fur-trimmed finery of his station and its airs as well. He was trailed by a rat-faced bailiff who bobbed his head in agreement whenever his master spoke. Or farted, probably.

  Kenedi talked only with Owyn, considering the Fleming and myself beneath notice. But as the haggling progressed, he kept glancing my way, as though he might know me from somewhere.

  When their bargain was struck, Owyn and the steward shook hands on it, then Kenedi beckoned to me.

  “You there! Where did you get that horse you’re holding?”

  “From a crofter north of Orniston.”

  “And how did the crofter come by it?”

  “As I recall, he said he traded a bullock for it. Why?”

  “It resembles one of our plowhorses that went missing some time ago.”

  “I’m sure Tallifer acquired the horse fairly,” Owyn put in. “If you have a problem, it’s with the man who took it from you.”

  “Unless you believe I’m that man,” I said, facing Kenedi squarely, waiting. But he was more beef than spirit.

  “Perhaps I’m mistaken,” he said, glancing away. “One spavined nag looks much like another. I’ll let it pass, for now.” He turned and bustled off with his bailiff scurrying after.

  “Nicely done,” Owyn sighed. “It’s always good business to antagonize one’s host before getting paid. So? Did you really get the horse at Orniston?”

  I didn’t answer. Which was answer enough.

  AS DUSK SETTLED ON ou
r camp like a warm cloak, townsfolk and crofters from nearby farms began gathering to us. Dressed in what passed for their best, carrying candles in hollowed gourds or rutabaga hulls to light their way, they brought whatever small gifts they could afford, a flask of ale, bread or a few pickled eggs, walnuts, even a fowl or two.

  Drawn by the noise, Noelle came out of the women’s tent. I led her to a place near the fire as Owyn entertained the gathering throng, singing in Italian love songs to folk who barely understood English. And winning their hearts.

  “What’s afoot, Tallifer?” Noelle whispered. “What is all this?”

  “We were hired to perform tomorrow at the DuBoyne castle for All Saints Day. But among Celtic peoples, tonight is a much older celebration called All Hallomas Eve, or Samhain, the festival of the dead.”

  “The dead? But I hear laughter and the music is gay.”

  “Life is so hard for borderland peasants that death isn’t much feared. For the rest of us, Samhain is for remembering those who are gone. And to celebrate that we’re not among them yet.”

  “Owyn is a fine singer, isn’t he?”

  “Aye, he’s very good. He’s an attractive man, too, don’t you think?”

  “Owyn?” she snorted. “You must be joking. He’s a snake. His glib tongue and smooth hands put me in mind of the serpent of Eden. And you should hear what his wives say about his love-making.”

  “You shouldn’t listen to such things.”

  “What do you think women talk about when we’re alone? They asked me about you as well. About what we really are to each other. They noted we bear little resemblance.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “The absolute truth, of course. That you are the only father I’ve ever known and that you never speak of my poor mother.”

  “Very poetic. And ever so slightly misleading.”

  “Thank you. I have a good teacher. What’s happening now?”

  “Piers and the Flemish acrobats are putting on a tumbling show. It’s not so fine as they will do for the nobility, but it suits this lot. Some of the women are cracking walnuts to read the future.”

  “Can they foresee it? Truly?”

  “Certainly. A peasant’s future is his past, and any fool who trusts a walnut has no future at all.”

  The crowd continued to swell with folk from the town, tradesmen, manor servants, even a fat priest who mingled with his flock quaffing ale as heartily as the rest. The steward too made an appearance with his rat-shadow of a bailiff, standing apart from the rest, aloof.

  “Horses,” Noelle said quietly.

  “What?”

  “I hear horsemen coming. Many. Moving slowly.”

  For a moment I thought she was mistaken, but then I saw them, moving out of the woods in a body toward our fires. A mounted troop, battle-weary from fighting by the look of them. Their horses were lathered and played out, and the men weren’t much better, slumped in their saddles, exhausted, some wounded.

  Their leader was young, less than twenty, but he was no boy. Dressed in mail with a black breastplate, he sat on his horse like a centaur. His armor was spattered with blood, not his own, and a broken arrow was stuck in his saddle.

  A shaggy mane of dark hair obscured his eyes, but as he scanned the camp, I doubt he missed a thing. Including Noelle. His glance lingered only a moment, but I’ve seen the look before. In battle. We’d been marked.

  “God’s eyes,” Owyn said, sidling over to us. “Here’s trouble if I ever saw it.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Milord DuBoyne’s men. That’s his eldest son, Logan. Black Logan he’s called, both for his look and his sins.”

  “What sins?”

  “Cattle raiding’s a national sport in Scotland, but instead of beating or ransoming the thieves Logan hangs them, then guts them to make easy feeding for the ravens.”

  “I can see why he’d be unpopular with cattle thieves, but that’s hardly cause for sackcloth and ashes.”

  “He’s a hotspur, gives battle or extracts a tax from anyone found on DuBoyne lands, even neighbors. He’s killed three men in single combat and God knows how many more in frays. There’s already a ballad about him.”

  “He seems a bit young for a song.”

  “The legend is that after two babes were stillborn, his mother made a Christmas wish for a healthy son. Instead, the devil sent a demon child who sprang full-grown from the womb, called for his armor, and rode off to fight the Ramsays. Villagers hide their children when he passes.”

  “They hide from thunder as well.” I spoke lightly, but in truth I was growing concerned. Black Logan was conferring with Kenedi, and both of them were glancing our way.

  “Perhaps you’d better take Noelle…” I began. Too late. The steward was bustling toward us, looking altogether too pleased.

  “I’m told this girl is with you, minstrel,” he said without preamble. “How much for her?”

  “What?”

  “The girl. Young DuBoyne wishes to buy her for the night. He’s willing to pay, but don’t think you can—”

  And then he was on the ground, stunned, his lip split open. It happened so quickly I didn’t even realize I’d hit him.

  “Damn,” Owyn said softly. “Now we’re in for it.”

  Logan strode angrily to us, his hand on his sword. “What madness is this? You struck my father’s steward!”

  “He asked my daughter’s price and paid a small part of it. Are you here for the rest?”

  He blinked, eyeing me more in surprise than anger. “Are you offering me a challenge, commoner?”

  “He asked the price, I’m simply telling you what it is. Your life. Or mine. Is that plain enough?”

  It was a near thing. Young or not, he was a warrior chief with a small army at his back. I was but a cat’s whisker from death. He cocked his head, reading my eyes.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked quietly.

  “I only know I’m not your man, nor do I owe that hog on the ground any fealty.”

  “I’m Sir Logan DuBoyne—”

  “He’s lying!” Noelle snapped, pulling free of Owyn’s grasp.

  “What?” DuBoyne and I said together.

  “Any DuBoyne would be noble,” she continued coldly. “At the convent they said I could tell the nobility by their scent and fine manners. You smell like a horse and show your breeding by insulting my father who was a soldier before you were born. Yet you claim to be a knight? I think not.”

  For a moment, I thought he might butcher us both. His eyes darkened, and I could see why the villagers hid their children. But the rage passed. He shook his head slowly, as if waking from a dream.

  “You were convent raised, miss? Then clearly I’ve… misunderstood this situation. I apologize. I’ve fought two skirmishes today, and I’m not as young as I used to be. I meant no offense to you. But as for you,” he said, turning to me, “if you ever lay hands on a man of mine again, I’ll see your head on a pike.”

  Reaching down, he hauled Kenedi to his feet. “Come on, Gillespie, let’s find some ale.”

  “The bastard struck me!” Kenedi said, outraged.

  “He saved your life,” DuBoyne said, leading him off. “The girl would have cut our hearts out.”

  “You idiot,” Owyn said angrily, spinning me around. “You could have gotten us all killed!”

  “And if she were yours? Would you have sold her?”

  For a moment I thought I’d pushed him too far. But Owyn is nothing if not agile. “Sweet Jesus, Tallifer. You may not be the world’s greatest singer, but by God you’re never dull. And you, girl, you’ve enjoyed my hospitality long enough. It’s time to earn your keep. Come, sing for us. If I’m to be slaughtered defending your honor, you’d better be worth it.”

  I wanted to fetch my lute to accompany her but I was afraid to risk letting her out of my sight, even for a moment. Black Logan was prowling the camp, talking with pedlars and travelers. And glancing my way from time to time.
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  It didn’t bode well. Most men with black reputations have earned them. His own people shied from him as if he wore a leper’s bell and I knew that if he snatched up Noelle, none but me would oppose him.

  And so I watched tensely as Owyn led Noelle into the ring of firelight, introduced her, then stepped back. It was an impossible situation. Drunken revelers were bellowing jests, laughing, groping their women. A clown troupe juggling lions with their manes ablaze wouldn’t satisfy this lot.