“Take baths?” shouted Huw.
“Aye, verily. They take baths all ye time,” said their cousin grandly.
“With soap?”
“Think ye King Sfyn would stint his granddaughters on anything that pertaineth to their rank and dignity?”
“At least now we know what to give them for a wedding present,” Timothy Ames whispered to Peter.
Lord Ysgard’s sons were by now all a-clamor. “Father, how can ye even think of asking us to put off our wooing? E’en now, trains of noble suitors may be wending their way to ye palace of King Sfyn, lured by ye far-flung fame of ye fair-featured females.”
“I’faith, noble apprentice bard,” Medrus insinuated, “gin they be so fair, I marvel these princesses ye tell of be not all wed long ago.”
“They be maids of tender years,” Torchyld roared. “Dost give me ye lie, cave-dweller?”
“Of course he doesn’t,” said Peter. “Sit down, Torchyld.”
Peter wasn’t about to let his assistant get into any kind of brawl, in the course of which somebody could slip a poisoned dagger between his ribs. He suspected Degwel, the smarmy steward, could produce one if asked. He’d further venture to opine that Degwel wouldn’t take much coaxing. It was plain the steward didn’t care much for what was happening around here.
Understandably enough, Peter supposed. With no women around to interfere, Degwel had been running things to suit himself. Now here he was, faced with the prospect of six new mistresses in one lump. It was hardly to be supposed the steward wouldn’t be anxious about how he might keep hold of the reins, and quite possibly he’d decide he’d better do more than sit and worry. The sooner they cleared out of here, the better.
There was to be no wassailing around the banqueting board tonight, that was clear. Lord Ysgard was champing at the bit to get away, and Medrus was egging him on.
“I want no more argy-bargy,” Ysgard was roaring at his sons. “Ye can go and get ye princesses when I have performed my geste.”
“That be no fair,” shouted Yfan. “Ye already had a geste, when ye rode forth and rescued Mama from ye wandering minstrel.”
“Call that a geste? I had to rescue her six more times before I finally said ye hell with it and let her go. Be warned by your father, lads, never rescue a maiden until ye be sure she craveth to be rescued. Not that ye ever pay any attention to anything I say. It be not like ye good old days, when sons had some filial respect for their fathers. Now when I attempt some sage precept, ye just tell me to blow it out my ear and go on your merry way. Ye’ll go hotfooting after those princesses thinking they be going to have ye heralds out on ye drawbridge to welcome ye with fanfare of trumpets. And what will ye get? Like as not, they’ll just tell ye to buzz off because they be all in love with ye stable boy. Pour boiling oil down your necks, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“They will not,” snarled Torchyld. “Ye granddaughters of King Sfyn be models of deportment and good breeding. They say so themselves.”
“There, see,” said Hayward.
“Save it, Hay,” said his eldest brother. “Fare forth fearlessly, Father. We shall man ye battlements as ye command, and make plans for our own expedition whilst watching ye safely away.”
“Good boy,” said Lord Ysgard. “Well, come on, Medrus. We can’t lollygag around here all night. Be ye boat ready?”
“It be provisioned and waiting, Grandiosity. Thanks to ye good offices of thy faithful steward Degwel,” Medrus added diplomatically. Despite his humble beginnings, he appeared to have the makings of a courtier.
“Then we wayfarers will wish you a happy and successful—er—geste,” said Peter Shandy, “and thank you for your hospitality.”
“Ye pleasure will, I hope, have been mostly mine,” Lord Ysgard rejoined with a meaning look at Medrus.
Thus with fair words and much display of courtesy, the parties separated: most of them to the battlements; Medrus and Lord Ysgard, looking sickeningly pleased with themselves, to the jetty. Daniel Stott shook his majestic head as he watched them embark in the little boat that had brought him and his companions to the castle.
“I hope Medrus has inside information as to whether that coracle is indeed a regular ferry between his castle and the vicinage of Gwrach’s cave. To the best of my recollection, such assumptions are not always safe to be taken for granted.”
“All the more reason, then, why we be loath to dally here waiting for them to come back afore we embark on our own geste,” said Yfor.
“But you promised to stay and man ye battlements,” Huw objected.
“I said we’d man ye battlements to watch him safely away. I made no promises about afterward. Once ye boat gets around yon bend, we march. Right, brothers?”
“Right,” they howled. “Strike up a brave marching song, Obard.”
“Not so hasty,” said Peter. “First, how many of us are going on this expedition?”
“I be,” said Torchyld.
Shandy damned well was, and so were Stott and Ames, or he’d know the reason why. None of the six brothers would be left behind. That left Degwel and the men-at-arms, along with the scullions, minions, and whatever other lower orders there might be, to defend the castle. Degwel expressed himself as being perfectly fit for the job. Shandy decided he probably was, since it wouldn’t be for long anyway.
Lord Yfor, as regent in his father’s absence, summoned the castle’s entire complement to a conference in the great hall. Boiled eels were served and flagons of ale passed around; then he delivered his oration.
“Men of Ysgard! As ye know, my father hath embarked on a geste we know not whither with ye clerk Medrus. Little do we wot how long he may be away, or in what state he may return. We wish him good fortune on his parlous journey, but in his absence, we must think of ourselves. This sudden turn of events putteth us even more at risk than our womanless condition hath heretofore left us.
“Bethink yourselves! For lo, these many moons there hath been no patter of little feet within our walls, save when a cook beheadeth a fowl. All solace, all softening female influence, all mending of tunics and combing of nits hath been denied to us. For ye welfare of us all and ye survival of Ysgard, therefore, my brothers and I have sworn a mighty oath. We propose to make ye journey so many of our maidens have already accomplished: namely and to wit, to Sfynfford.”
“Do not leave us,” came the frantic cries.
“Nay, list,” shouted Yfor. “We do not stay. We but woo and win ye six fair granddaughters of King Sfyn and bring them back here along with their chambermaids and serving wenches, all of whom be plump and comely, according to last recorded estimate.”
Torchyld nodded enthusiastically. “And unattached, and eager to meet a bunch of strapping men-at-arms and lusty minions of all types. And they all hath sisters, too, ecod. In sooth, owing to ye recent influx from Ysgard, King Sfyn be somewhat overstocked with nubile maidens at ye moment. At Sfynfford be wives enough for all.”
“Then on to Ysgard,” shouted the corporal of the guard.
The cry was taken up and the situation threatened to get out of hand, until Daniel Stott arose, laid down the eel he’d been eating, and surveyed the company with that air of benign but implacable calm he used on Bashan of Balaclava when the college’s prize bull was feeling rambunctious.
“The union of man and woman in lawful wedlock,” he reminded them when the racket had subsided, “is not a matter to be undertaken in a spirit of ribaldry and untrammeled lust.”
There was one shout of, “Huzzah for untrammeled lust,” but it was quickly suppressed. Stott continued.
“The march to Sfynfford will be carried out in a spirit of due solemnity and knightly courtesy. The participants will be Lord Yfor and his five brothers, Sir Torchyld, Arch-druid Ames, myself, and Bard Shandy. It will be your privilege to remain on guard here under the direction of your officers and your able steward Degwel.”
He exchanged a courteous nod with that other grave and portly dignitary. “Guided b
y the honorable Degwel, you must proceed forthwith to cleanse the castle and prepare it by every means in your power for the reception of the six princesses and their attendant ladies. It may be here stated that before we leave, the archdruid will entrust to the honorable Degwel his secret formula for making soap.”
Murmurs of awe and reverence spread through the assemblage. Degwel swelled even larger than usual with this new augmentation of his importance. “There will be soap for those who merit ye largesse,” he announced with lofty benignity.
“You will manage everything with wisdom and justice, I’m sure,” said Shandy. “Er—you needn’t worry about the contents of the strong room. The archdruid has put a strong spell on the lock, so that a fearsome fate will overtake any miscreant who gets any funny ideas about Lord Ysgard’s treasure.”
“Oh?” Degwel’s composure wobbled slightly. “Wouldst care to describe ye spell, noble bard?”
“It’s rather a specialty of me archdruid’s, actually. You might well call it a fate worse man death, because it first makes the would-be thief a laughingstock among all people, then reduces him to the state of me lowliest thing that crawls. Naturally it can’t affect anybody who’s honest and true to his trust, so you, noble Degwel, have nothing to fear. Nor does anybody else who performs his duty faithfully during the very short time Lord Yfor and his brothers will be away.”
“Ye return not with ye young lords?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. No doubt you’ll be receiving an honor guard and a deputation from King Sfyn, however. They may come on ahead, so don’t shoot at any soldiers until you’ve made sure they’re not your future in-laws.”
Amid cheers and laughter, the wooing party set off. The younger brothers had been loud in their demands to go in style, on horseback, but the elder ones had scruples against depriving the men-at-arms of six good mounts during Lord Ysgard’s absence. Torchyld assured them that was quite all right; the princesses would be quite willing to love them for themselves alone, so long as they brought nice presents. Since Lord Ysgard had already selected a choice assortment, that was no problem. They just bundled the baubles into their pouches and beelined it for Sfynfford.
The going wasn’t bad, even by moonlight. There’d been so much traffic of late, between the abductors and the would-be abductees, that the path was well worn. Seeing this, the six brothers set such a pace that Peter again grew anxious for Tim, and insisted they construct a litter to carry him. Tim protested, but Peter shushed him.
“For Christ’s sake, Tim, remember your dignity. You’re supposed to be head man in charge here. If you arrive at King Sfyn’s court out of wind and reeking like a horse, you’ll ruin the show before we get a chance to do our stuff.”
“What in hell are we supposed to do, anyway?”
“Search me. We’ll know when we get there. We haven’t managed too badly so far, have we?”
“We’ve got rid of that smarmy little son of a bitch Medrus, anyway.”
“M’yes, and I have a hunch we ought to be glad we did. I just hope Lord Ysgard won’t find out he’s bitten off more than he can chew.”
“Serve him right, the ornery sidewinder. Though I suppose I shouldn’t run him down. He was generous enough with his eel grease.”
“By the way, did you in fact remember to give Degwel the recipe?”
“Sure, why not? I wasn’t about to spend the rest of my life, assuming I have any left, stirring a stinking soap kettle. Pete, do you honestly think we’ll ever get out of this crazy mess?”
“Ask Dan. He’s the expert on never-never land.”
“He’s contemplating his—Jesus, what’s that?”
A hideous growling, whirfling howl was rending the air and cracking the treetops. The six brothers were clutching each other in panic. Daniel Stott had assumed a posture of grave concern. Only Torchyld showed no fear, but charged headlong toward the frightful sound.
“For God’s sake, Torchyld, come back!”
Without reflecting that he must be losing his own mind to act so, Peter charged after his apprentice, yelling and waving the three useless wands he was still, for some reason, lugging around. His example emboldened the rest to run after them, all except Daniel Stott, who merely briskened his walk. Thus it was the whole brigade that burst into the clearing whence came the direful roaring.
And there beheld the awestruck group a sight to make the hottest blood run cold. A great, winged creature with the body of a lion and the wings of an eagle was rearing up on its gruesome talons to strike. And Torchyld was laughing his head off!
“He runneth mad,” cried Hywell.
“To ye rescue!” cried Hayward.
“Now Hay runneth mad,” cried Yfan, tripping up his youngest sibling and sitting down on him for his own good.
“What be we to do?” cried Yfor. “We be not cravens to just stand here and watch—arrgh!”
The monster was opening its vast mouth, sticking out its huge tongue, lunging its head at Torchyld. He, seeming unmindful of this dire peril, merely ducked, laughed harder, and punched at the huge beast’s chest with his bare fist.
Then Torchyld was down on the ground, wrestling with the monster. Then the monster was on its back, waggling its talons in the air, for all the world like a foolish puppy. And Torchyld was up on his knees beside it, rubbing its belly!
“Aw, ye silly old griffin. What ye hell hast been up to, scaring us all into fits and making Great-uncle Sfyn feel bad? Come, puff a little fire for His Majesty.”
The griffin puffed, but achieved only a lopsided smoke ring.
“Hey, Ffyff, art feeling off thy feed? What hath that old bat been a-doing to ye?”
“May I be of service?” Daniel Stott had intrepidly advanced to Torchyld’s side. “Am I to infer this is not a well griffin?”
“Nay, I know not. Ffyff hath always breathed fire before.” Torchyld was running his hands over the vast body, feeling for signs of injury. “He feeleth not—I wot not how to say it.”
“Allow me.”
Stott knelt beside the griffin. The six sons of Lord Ysgard sucked in their breath. Tim muttered, “Cripes.” Peter said nothing. Dan knew his stuff. He rubbed and pressed, felt the griffin’s back, put his ear to me heaving chest and listened to its heartbeat.
“I did him no hurt?” Torchyld was asking anxiously. “I meant not to be rough. ’Twas but that I was o’erjoyed to see him.”
“He was equally gratified to see you, I am sure,” Stott replied. “I suspect his affliction to be mostly fatigue and perhaps malnourishment. He is, as you have explained, an elderly griffin, and one used to what might be termed the easy life, though no doubt performing his court duties with punctilio. I should venture to suggest this griffin may have been held captive in too confined a space and deprived of adequate rations, possibly with the idea of weakening him and thus making him more amenable to captivity. Fortunately he cannot have been imprisoned long enough to effect serious debility. Against this factor, however, must be weighed his advanced age. I can find no serious injury, but there is a definite tremor in the wing joints and a general flacidity in the muscles, along with shortness of breath and a rapid heartbeat that would be consistent with exhaustion. The noble beast has obviously managed to escape his prison and fly some distance.”
“To meet me! Good old Ffyff. But what be we to do?”
“I should say our wisest move at this juncture will be to camp here with him for the night, feeding him at intervals from the stock of cold boiled eels I brought as provision for the march, and keeping him well watered. I mention boiled eels, Sir Torchyld—that is to say, apprentice bard—because you say he is accustomed to such food as you yourself eat. Perhaps you might select a succulent tidbit and try him with it.”
“Ye be going to feed that griffin our food?” demanded Yfan. He was, as Peter had noted earlier, inclined to be greedy.
“I am going to feed him my own food,” Stott replied with vast dignity. “For a beast of his size, adequate nutritional intak
e is essential to the maintenance of full vigor. His need, as Sir Philip Sidney will one day put it, is greater than mine. Perhaps you would be good enough to fetch water from yonder spring I hear trickling, so we can give him a drink. According to the literature, your helmet would make a suitable receptacle.”
Chastened, Yfan went to get the water.
Chapter 12
PETER OFFERED TO TAKE a turn sitting up with the griffin, but Dan and Torchyld wouldn’t hear of it. Dan was quite happy having a large animal to doctor, even when its affliction involved its inability to breathe fire; a circumstance for which the cows, sheep, pigs, and horses of Balaclava Agricultural College had not prepared him.
Torchyld was even happier merely to sit beside the griffin with that immense beaked head resting against his knee, stroking the long wing feathers and bursting forth with an occasional, “Aw, ye fat old griffin, ye,” at which Ffyffnyr would beat his long, skinny tail with its arrow-pointed tip against the ground and purr for a while before falling into another griffin-sized catnap.
As dawn broke, Dan Stott found a patch of catnip growing beside the stream from which they’d been baling Ffyffnyr’s drinking water From this, he managed to concoct a medication which so improved the griffin’s condition that he coughed up enough sparks to light a small cooking fire. This enabled Stott to brew several quarts of catnip tea, using the young lords’ helmets for cooking pots. So efficacious was this potion that after a few helmetfuls, Ffyffnyr belched a wonderful globe of blue-green fire with vermilion trimmings and was pronounced ready to travel.
The six prematurely lovesick swains all had some catnip tea, too. They’d grumbled at the enforced rest, being of a mind to march by night and burst upon their unwitting ladies by sunrise. Shandy, however, had managed to convince them that they must give the princesses time for their morning baths before arriving.
Anyway, they had to wait for Torchyld and the griffin. If they’d gone barging up to the castle without proper introductions, they’d have been more apt to get a hail of spears through their gizzards than tender maidens’ greetings.
The Curse of the Giant Hogweed Page 10
