“Do all bards ask so many questions about other people’s concerns?”
Daniel Stott drew himself up in full majesty and raised his crozier by way of admonishment. “Peter Shandy is no ordinary bard. In his own country, he is famed for his ability to find out the truth when all others fail. He will ask any question if it serves his just purpose, and it behooves you to answer accurately, because he will surely find you out if you do not.”
Owain’s eyelids were raised in astonishment, then dropped again. “A veritable marvel among bards, forsooth. But what be there to find out? My uncle’s horse stumbled, he fell forward, brast his neck, and died. All this ado about a silver bell from ye leg of a hawk may be interesting to a bard, but it be distressing to Prince Edmyr’s father ye king, and to all of us who held our crown prince in due obeisance.”
“My son speaketh well,” said Princess Edelgysa.
“Your son speaketh too damned much,” muttered Prince Dagobert, again not loudly enough for his aunt to hear.
Shandy was not a violent man, by and large; but he wouldn’t have minded watching Prince Dagobert land his cousin a lusty buffet across the chops. He wouldn’t have minded poking Owain himself, for that matter; but belting a prince was probably contrary to court protocol. He settled for a grave look and a stern voice.
“Madam, your son speaks as one who knows either too little or too much. Prince Owain, is your heart overruling your head, or vice versa?”
Ah, he’d managed to wipe that cocksure smirk off Owain’s face.
“I wot not what ye mean,” stammered the prince.
“I mean where were you when your uncle fell?”
“I was at ye rear with my cousins.”
“Nay,” said Prince Gaheris. “Ye were off to ye side with Lady Megan.”
Shandy noticed Princess Edelgysa shooting a remarkably ill-tempered glance at a rosy-cheeked young woman who had a great deal of what it would no doubt take to interest a young fellow with a mouth like Owain’s. Owain himself was glaring at Gaheris.
“She had a bee in her bodice. I but moved to assist her.”
“She carrieth her own bee,” snickered Gelert. “A noble geste, forsooth. Ye took a long time getting it out.”
“How long a time?” Shandy demanded. “Was Prince Owain still engaged in this—er—apian pursuit at the moment Prince Edmyr fell?”
Gelert and his brother looked at each other and shrugged. “We cannot say. Our attention was drawn elsewhere.”
“Where?”
“Someone up ahead cried out,” Gaheris answered.
“Who did?”
“We thought it was our mother. Gelert said to me, ‘Be that Mum?’ ”
“What was she crying out about?”
“Nay, we wot not,” said Gelert. “We looked, but saw nothing amiss. Then our uncle’s horse broke into a gallop and he fell off. After that, all was confusion. I myself had forgotten ye cry until ye asked and my brother mentioned it.”
“That’s why I find it necessary to keep asking,” Peter told him. “It’s natural to forget apparently trivial things in the face of a major crisis. Princess Gwynedd, can you tell me why you cried out?”
The young princes’ mother, a petite and still delightfully pretty woman, shook her head until the heavy plaits of light brown hair flew. “I have no memory of so doing. I think I screamed when Prince Edmyr fell, but that was after. Mayhap ’twas one of ye hawks that screamed afore.”
“Mother, I ken a hawk’s scream when I hear it,” Gaheris protested. “This was a woman.”
“Mayhap Lady Megan found another bee,” snapped Princess Edelgysa.
“Was it by any chance yourself who might have screamed, madam?” Shandy asked her.
“I? I never scream. I have no patience with weak vaporings. Have I, husband?”
“No, my dear,” sighed Prince Edwy. “ ’Tis true, honored bard. My wife screameth not.”
“She bellows,” muttered Prince Dagobert.
Dagobert could be quite a card, Peter thought, if somebody would only give him a course in assertiveness training. “Did you also hear this scream, Prince?” he asked.
“Perchance I did. It seemeth me somebody was always screaming. I paid no attention. I have had other things to think of since my brother’s death.”
“M’yes, I can see where you might have. And now you’ve a good deal more. Do you recall precisely where you happened to be in relation to other members of the party when your father fell?”
“I was beside my cousin Gelert, meseems.”
“Not just then, Dag,” his cousin contradicted, though gently. “I’d hung back a little to let Gaheris catch up. Ye were by yourself, more or less.”
“Rather more than less, it appears. Thank’ee, Gel.”
“Dag, did I say ilk thing to offend ye?”
“Not if it was the truth,” Shandy interposed. “Prince Dagobert, this is a terrible time for you. Perhaps you’d prefer to—er—go off quietly with your mother for a while. You and I can have a private chat later.”
“Nay,” said the prince. “I prefer to remain. Contrary to what ye and some others of this court may be thinking, I wist not to seek this new responsibility. That fact doth not excuse me from facing it.”
“Dagobert!” His mother looked up sharply. “What say ye?”
“I say only that I be now crown prince and it behooveth me to act ye part. Be that not so, Grandfather?”
“It be so, grandson,” said the old king wearily. “I find some comfort in this direful moment to hear ye talking like a man.”
“Prince Dagobert be perfect in this as in everything,” Owain simpered with the exaggerated courtesy of a courtier.
Shandy gave Owain a thoughtful once-over. Jealous as hell. If it was motive anybody wanted, here was surely the likeliest candidate. The only difficulty was, how could Owain have spooked his uncle’s horse if he was off in the underbrush fondling Lady Megan’s erogenous zones at the time? He asked the lady.
“Do you recall precisely what was happening between you and Prince Owain at the moment when Prince Edmyr fell?”
“Prince Owain, having gallantly removed ye insect that was plaguing me, was then assisting me to regain my composure.”
“How was he assisting you? Were both hands occupied in this—er—gallant effort?”
Lady Megan flushed bewitchingly and cast a nervous glance at Princess Edelgysa. “Of necessity they were, honored bard.”
“And had been for some while?”
She nodded demurely. “Aye, noble bard.”
“Prince Owain be ye soul of kindness,” muttered Dagobert.
Prince Owain was out of the running as an assailant, anyway, unless this little minx was lying. She probably wasn’t, mainly because she now realized certain other members of the hunting party had been taking an interest in her goings-on.
Too bad. Shandy would have enjoyed making that young jackanapes sweat awhile. Furthermore, there was no gainsaying the fact that within a short week or so, Owain had moved from fifth to fourth to third in line for the throne, with only Prince Dagobert and his own father ahead of him.
And what of Prince Edwy, furthermore? At the moment, he appeared to be seeking solace in a drinking horn. Edwy looked like kind of a weedy cuss to Shandy. Maybe, like Dagobert, he wasn’t totally overjoyed at suddenly being shoved up the ladder. But maybe that battle-ax wife of his wanted to be queen. Or maybe his youngest brother Edbert had got tired of being low man on the totem pole. Or maybe Torchyld was right about old Dwydd’s wanting ultimate sovereignty even if she had to bump off the entire court to get it.
Peter had a hunch he wasn’t going to learn anything worthwhile until he managed to get some of these people by themselves. Nevertheless, he went on patiently asking questions. The answers he got were tiresomely similar. Everybody could vouch for somebody, in all cases but one. Only Dagobert had no positive witness to his having remained sunk in thought, as he claimed, throughout the ride.
And
Dagobert was, without a doubt, a capable young man. And Dagobert had resented his father, and had been deeply unsettled by his brother’s death, or so it appeared from what he’d said. And Dagobert, judging from those muttered asides, was more the type to pull a sneak attack than to risk a bold confrontation. It looked as if they’d have to keep a wary eye on Dagobert.
Chapter 15
“I SUPPOSE YOU COULD call it social schizophrenia,” Peter remarked to Dan Stott a little while later.
Everybody knew perfectly well that Prince Edmyr ought to be mourned as befitted his rank; everybody was willing to sympathize with the bereft Aldora and the new crown prince. Yet the sons of Lord Ysgard hadn’t come to wallow in doom and gloom, nor had even the late Edmyr’s own daughters any intention of putting a damper on the prenuptial festivities.
“What we must do,” King Sfyn decided after another beaker of metheglin or two, “is to get these young minxes of ours married off with all dispatch. Then ye young lords can get back to guarding our neighbor Lord Ysgard’s castle, and ye rest of us can get on with our grieving in accordance with usual court protocol. It cometh hard to compose ye mind to sad reflection when ye ear heareth all that squealing and smacking.”
“True, wise father,” said his son Edwy, who had been silently addressing himself to the drinking horn. “Let them go off to honeymoon in a happier place, then come back when ye mourning period is over and we can merrymake to their hearts’ content. Can’t do it now. Unseemly. Besides, perchance getting her daughters ready to be wed will take Aldora’s mind off Dilwyn and Edmyr. Give her a grandchild to look forward to.”
“If she hath not one already in ye making,” sniffed Princess Edelgysa, with a scowl in the direction of her niece Imogene. Prince Yfor was demonstrating what a thoughtful husband he intended to be, by making sure Imogene didn’t have a bee in her bodice.
“A sound decision,” Peter agreed.
The princesses and the young lords all had ironclad alibis for the time of Prince Edmyr’s death. They’d been right here at the castle participating in a whirlwind mass betrothal. The sooner they were all out from underfoot, the easier it would be for him to get on with the investigation. Furthermore, Peter was enough of a prude to agree with what King Sfyn was no doubt really thinking. The sooner this collective union was legitimized, the less complicated it might become picking out eligible successors. At the rate the supply of currently available princes was running out, Sfynfford could before long find itself needing another generation of heirs.
As for Ysgard, it was entirely possible Lord Yfor might already have a job waiting for him back home. Peter was none too sanguine about the success of any geste that had Medrus at the head of it; at least not so far as Lord Ysgard was concerned. The ex-glow might have picked up a few of Gwrach’s tricks.
Peter wouldn’t have minded settling down in a corner for a quiet ponder on the possibilities, but Syglinde was clamoring for his support in petitioning the king.
“Gin all ye princesses are to be wed, may not Torchyld and I also be united at the same time? We have been betrothed so long.”
“And so often,” murmured Dagobert, loudly enough this time to raise a small gale of giggles from the princesses and their lovers.
“But then ye will leave me, to build thine own castle,” the old king protested.
“And Torchyld will set up his own kingdom, belike,” Owain drawled in that languid, teasing way; showing that while he pretended to joke, he meant to be taken seriously.
“Nay,” roared Torchyld. “Gin I be lord of mine own demesne or disenchanted ex-apprentice bard, King Sfyn hath my sworn fealty. And so will King Dagobert. And, faith, he may need it gin able-bodied relatives be still swaggering around his banqueting hall fattening themselves on his bounty and plotting how best to undermine his puissance, instead of getting up off their rumps and going on gestes of their own.”
“Brave words from a poor relation,” snapped Princess Edelgysa.
“From an erstwhile poor relation,” Torchyld reminded her. “Unless somebody hath been plundering ye king’s treasure house in mine absence.”
“Fool, dost not know ye law of Sfynfford? Any spoils of war won in ye king’s service belong to ye king, to be divided among his lieges as he seeth fit. Wouldst rob an old man?”
“Wouldst let ye old man reign, woman?” barked King Sfyn. “I be none so feeble that I need my daughter-in-law to rewrite ye laws of ye kingdom according to her own convenience. Since when doth a wyvern’s hoard count as spoils of war? When my son Edwy slew yon dragon that held ye prisoner, did I insist he share ye amongst my liegemen, forsooth? Torchyld hath made rich gifts to his kin, as a hero should. The rest of his wealth be his own, to spend as he chooseth. Yea, great-nephew, ye shall wed our beloved Syglinde. Ye shall choose land where ye wist, so it be not too far from me. There build ye a lordly manor house and live as befits ye rank and dignity of a king’s great-nephew, and beget strong sons to serve ye chiefs of our line as valiantly as ye have served me. Doth mine answer please ye, Lady Syglinde?”
“Aye, dearest liege. And Torchy and I shall invite ye over for a weekend as soon as we have a roof to put over ye, and then our great-great-grandchildren will be able to boast, ‘King Sfyn slept here.’ ”
“Ah, dear fosterling, dost think future generations will ken or care who old King Sfyn was? E’en poor Ffyffnyr will be forgotten,” he added mournfully, rubbing his hand over the graying muzzle.
“Not Ffyffnyr,” said Peter Shandy.
In his mind’s eye, he could see the souvenir shop outside his hotel: griffins on coffee mugs, griffins on neckties, on plastic notebook covers, on souvenir maps, on teacups, on aprons, on God knew what. Even the cardboard coaster on the pint he’d never got to drink in that misbegotten pub would have had a scarlet griffin printed on it.
“I predict,” he said, “the day will come when it will hardly be possible for anybody to travel a mile throughout the length and breadth of this land without coming upon at least one likeness of Ffyffnyr.”
“Can such a thing be possible?”
“Ask Assistant Archdruid Stott. He’s the animal expert.”
“My colleague does not err, Your Majesty,” Stott assured the king. “Ffyffnyr’s semblance will appear on flags and coats of arms. The red griffin will be honored as the symbol of an entire nation.”
King Sfyn beamed. Ffyffnyr burped a few royal blue and purple flames, then went back to sleep.
“He be such a sweetie,” sighed Syglinde. “Would we could but have a little Ffyff of our own in our new home. Torchy darling, dost suppose there might somewhere fly a nice red lady griffin whom Ffyffnyr would like to meet? E’en mayhap a pretty pink-and-white one?”
“Grandpa,” cried Gelert. “I crave a boon. As soon as we get our sisters married and Uncle Edmyr buried, can Gaheris and I go on a geste to find a wife for Ffyff?”
“Perchance, lad. Ye decision must await our royal pleasure until more urgent affairs have been transacted. Let ye chapel be made ready for the lying-in-state of Prince Edmyr’s body, then bedeck ye banqueting hall with flowers and rich hangings for the wedding. ’Tis indeed a confusing state of affairs. Let us be thankful ye archdruid be here to perform ye ceremonies in all good order.”
“Huh?”
Timothy Ames, who had been refreshing himself in a light doze, jumped awake as if he’d been zapped with a bean-blower. “Who, me? Don’t you have a resident friar of orders gray, or a chaplain of the regiment, or somebody? I can’t go muscling in on the local man’s territory.”
“We have only a smelly old hermit who liveth in a hut and maketh offensive suggestions to any woman who passeth by,” Syglinde protested. “I will not be wed by ye likes of him.”
“Nor I,” cried Imogene, Gwendolyn, Guinevere, Gwladys, Aloisa, and Blodeuwedd in order of precedence. Tim realized he was in for it.
“Cripes, I better hold a conference with my boys. Excuse us, folks.”
He beckoned Dan and Peter over to a neut
ral corner. “What the bloody flaming hell do we do now? I can’t go around marrying and burying all this goddamn royalty. I wouldn’t even know what to say. Hell, if I could have heard what the minister was getting at when he asked me to say ‘I do’ to when I married Jemima, do you think I’d have been fool enough to say it?”
Daniel Stott cleared his throat. “As it happens, I am well acquainted with the marriage ceremony, having gone through it with both Elizabeth and Iduna, not to mention my eight children’s weddings. Furthermore, I have personally united twenty-seven couples in lawful wedlock.”
“I’ll be switched! How come?”
“My beloved father was, in addition to being a prominent pig farmer, our community’s only justice of the peace. During one especially busy week in June, he contracted laryngitis. Rather than disappoint the large number of would-be brides and grooms, many of them also expectant parents, who had scheduled their nuptials for that auspicious time, he swore me in as assistant justice and had me perform the rites for him.”
Peter Shandy rubbed his chin. “Er—Dan, how long ago did this swearing-in take place?”
“You raise a nice legal point, my friend. It would seem to me, however, that since we are now in the kingdom of Sfynfford, we are subject only to the local ordinances. Therefore, if we can obtain the king’s formal permission, we may venture to perform a civil, though of course not a religious ceremony. As to the funeral, I submit that our qualifications, or lack of them, will probably make little difference to Prince Edmyr at this juncture. Therefore, we have but to manage the affair in such a way as to offer comfort and reassurance to the bereaved.”
“And it would seem to me Dan’s hit the nail on the head,” said Tim with immense relief. “Okay, boys, let’s tackle His Highness.”
King Sfyn was somewhat puzzled at being asked to repeat, “By virtue of the power vested in me as high king of Sfynfford, I hereby grant Daniel Augustus Stott official permission to perform marriage and funeral ceremonies at my court,” but the formality made the three visitors feel easier. As for the young people, they were delighted that the stately assistant archdruid instead of his no doubt more distinguished but physically less impressive superior would get to officiate.
The Curse of the Giant Hogweed Page 13
