Thus was one rubicon temporarily bridged, if not yet crossed. Shandy left Tim and Dan to hoist a flagon with the old king in honor of the swearing-in, and beckoned Torchyld out of the hall. Syglinde came, too, since neither was willing to let the other out of sight.
“What be thy pleasure, honored bard?”
“I want you to show me the hawk house.”
“The hawk house? Mean ye ye mews?”
“I suppose so. Why the mews?”
“ ’Tis where we mew them up, in sooth.”
“Ah, yes. It had slipped my mind that the word mews can mean something other than the noise cats make.”
“In Sfynfford, cats say ‘miaow.’ ” Syglinde made a delightful cat. She was in wild spirits now, laughing up at Torchyld and down at Peter, looking more ravishing than ever.
Peter didn’t feel much like laughing back. He was finding the mews a daunting sort of place. He admired hawks, both for themselves and for their efficiency as unpaid hired hands on farms. However, he preferred to watch them soaring above the turnip fields, adjusting their marvelously engineered wings to the updrafts while they watched for field mice among the leaves. Sitting here silent on their perches with those leather hoods covering their heads, they looked too much like a row of executioners. He supposed that was what they were, from the mice’s point of view.
Each bird had its own wooden stall, with a block to perch on and a screen of rough homespun to hang down over the opening to keep it warm and quiet, he supposed. The hawks’ accommodations were probably superior to the resident hermit’s, and a good deal cleaner. Dan would be relieved to hear how well they were looked after.
He walked around, trying to take inventory without getting too close to those ominous talons. Each buteo and falcon appeared to have its two silver bells firmly attached to the leather strips around its legs. Some birds were tied to their perches by their jesses. Others were allowed to move about freely, although at the moment none of these was taking advantage of its privilege.
“They know they risk being struck gin they fly too close to another whilst hooded,” Torchyld explained. “It be safer to stay in their own stalls, so they mostly do.”
“Smart birds,” said Peter. “Which is Hebog, the one Prince Edmyr was working with?”
“This be she, ye great gyrfalcon. Go not anigh. She striketh like a wyvern. Hebog be commander of ye mews. All ye rest be sore afeared of her.”
“M’yes, I can see why.”
Peter thought he himself might experience a mild perturbation of spirit if that damned great mass of feathers and fury swooped at him with her claws hooked out. Even tied and hooded, Hebog looked hardly more amiable than a wolverine with a sore paw.
“She’s a good deal larger than any of the others, isn’t she?” he remarked. “Don’t you have any male gyrfalcons?”
“Aye, here be one.” Torchyld pointed to a falcon that looked much like Hebog but was only about two thirds her size. “Wist ye not ye females be much bigger than ye tiercels?”
“Certainly I wist,” Peter replied testily, although in fact he hadn’t even known a tiercel was a male hawk until just now. “The light isn’t too good in here, that’s all. What I’m mainly interested in finding out is whether any of these birds has lost a bell. Help me double-check them, will you?”
Peter was hoping he’d overlooked an unbelled leg, but he hadn’t. The master of the hawks, a likable cuss named Murfynn, came in with some fresh meat for the birds’ suppers while they were searching. He assured them none was missing, and then showed them the box in which spare bells were kept.
“Behold, honored bard, all be in their places. We keep one pair for each class of bird. Some be larger, some be smaller, but in no case have we here a single bell.”
Peter nodded. “I see. Very neat. I don’t suppose there’s any chance somebody could have—er—stolen a pair without your knowing?”
Murfynn drew himself up to his full height, which Peter estimated at four feet, six and a half inches. “Steal from King Sfyn? Nay, sire. It be not ye done thing.”
“Urrgh,” Torchyld agreed. “All ye bells we own be either on ye birds or in yon box. Gin more be needed, they must be cast by ye silversmith. Thus hath aye been ye custom.”
“I see. So that would mean they always follow the same pattern.”
“Aye, we have but ye one set of molds.”
Peter took the silver bell he’d found in Prince Edmyr’s hood out of his sleeve, where he’d had it tied up, and passed it to the master of hawks. “Then would you have any idea at all where this bell might have come from?”
Murfynn examined the trinket with keen professional interest, then shook his head. “Nay, sire, I wot not. This be none of ours.”
He reached into his box and took out a bell of comparable size. “See, ours be more squat in shape, and hath a groove around ye middle. Wilt please ye to step outside into ye sunlight for a better look?”
“Thank you,” said Peter, and stepped.
Now that he could make out the details, Peter had to agree with Murfynn. There could be no mistaking this bell for one of King Sfyn’s. As a final check, he went around again, comparing it with the bells on the birds’ legs and the ones from Murfynn’s box. All the ones that should be identical were, allowing for the differences in their sizes to correspond with the varying weights of their wearers. None was at all like the one he’d brought with him.
“You’re absolutely right, sir,” he told Murfynn at last. “It doesn’t even come close. So that still leaves us stuck with the question of how it got into Prince Edmyr’s hood. Do you think it might have come off a hawk that escaped from some other owner and strayed into King Sfyn’s territory?”
“Indeed, sire, I doubt it. That would be far to stray. And were a belled hawk to appear in ye forests of Sfynfford, our woodmen would hear its chime and set nets to take it alive, supposing ye bird to be one of our liege’s. And I should know gin they caught it, or heads would roll. Also, noble bard, ye may note this bell be not discolored from lying out of door, but simply darkened with time and lack of rubbing. Ours be bright as stars.”
“So they be,” Peter agreed. “You maintain a taut mews, sir. My compliments, and thank you for your time.”
Murfynn saluted smartly. Shandy gave him a pleasant nod and went outside, where Syglinde and Torchyld had decided to wait.
“Good man,” he remarked.
“Aye,” said Torchyld. “Murfynn wotteth well his hawks. Where hie we next, Bard Pete?”
“You tell me,” Peter groaned. “Does either of you have the faintest glimmering of a notion where in blazes this bell might have come from?”
Lady Syglinde nodded her exquisite head. “Perchance I can find ye a mate to it, gin it please ye. Torchy darling, prithee take Bard Pete to ye treasure room. I will meet ye there anon.”
“Ye leave me, love?” cried Torchyld. “Whither goest?”
“To ask King Sfyn to bring ye key, dearest oakenhead, so we can get in. I shall tell His Highness my betrothed be desirous of choosing me a wedding present.”
Laughing, she ran off. Torchyld stood gazing at her, so utterly besotted that Peter had to give him a few pokes in the ribs to remind him of the business at hand.
“Which way to the treasure room?”
“Ungh? Oh, past ye portcullis and turn right at ye donjon keep. Ye can’t miss it.”
“Aren’t you coming, too? Lady Syglinde told us to meet her there, in case you’d forgotten.”
“Lady Syglinde.” Torchyld reached down casually and grabbed Peter by the throat. “Dost admit my lady to be beyond compare, bard, or do I feed ye to ye eels in ye moat?”
“I admit it freely,” Peter managed to gurgle. “In fact, I’ll be glad to spit in the eye of anybody who says she isn’t, if you’ll kindly ease up on my windpipe long enough to let me catch my breath. Furthermore, Lady Syglinde is not only beautiful, but intelligent.”
“She be what?”
“She thinketh,
my boy. She hath great store of brains packed into that gorgeous noggin of hers. You’re a lucky ex-bard, in case you don’t know it. Now get that blasted paw away from my gullet, and let’s go see what she’s hatching up in the family vault.”
Chapter 16
THE STRONG ROOM LOOKED impregnable enough. Its oaken door was even thicker, even more iron-bound than the one behind which Peter had found Lady Syglinde imprisoned back in Ruis’s tower. Instead of a mere bar, it had a keyhole big enough to stuff a weasel through. Old King Sfyn must need a wheelbarrow to tote the key, Peter was thinking, when Syglinde showed up alone, carrying not only a wrought-iron key the size and heft of a crowbar, but also an armload of slates.
“Here, Torchy,” she panted. “His Highness saith to take ye key and unlock ye door thyself. He be busy telling griffin stories to ye assistant archdruid. Ye end with all ye funny bumps on it be ye one that goeth into ye keyhole. Then ye turn until something clicketh, then ye open.”
Torchyld took the key rather gingerly and spent considerable time trying to fit the wards into the lock wrong side up. At last he snarled, “Here, Bard Pete. ’Tis work for a wizard, not a warrior.”
Peter accomplished the feat in a trice, thus earning their amazed reverence. In fact, the lock had been a cinch to open. It moved so easily despite its size that he decided it must have been oiled not long before. With eel grease, if his nose failed him not. The weighty door swung at a touch, without a sound. Oiled hinges, too. The castle maintenance man must have been on the job.
Torchyld entered first. Syglinde held high the rush light she was carrying, somehow, along with her other impedimenta, and motioned Peter inside with a sideways nod of her head.
His first reaction was, “Holy cats! That wyvern must have kept its mind on its job.”
For at least the past three centuries, from the look of things. The three oaken coffers that presumably held King Sfyn’s own treasure were outshone by a shoal of eel baskets, all of them heaped high with gold and silver, copper and bronze, and jewels of every shape and color.
“Looks as if you won’t be hurting for the price of a meal yet awhile,” Peter told the young knight with typical Yankee enthusiasm. “Not bad at all, for a young fellow just starting out. But how in Sam Hill are we supposed to find one measly little hawk bell among all these gold eyeball-gougers and diamond-studded maces? How do you know you’ve even got one?”
Syglinde shuffled among her pile of slates, and pulled out one of them.
“We have thus many.”
She pointed to the slate, on which she’d drawn—and even Torchyld would have had to admit drawing was not Syglinde’s outstanding talent—what was presumably meant to be a falcon. Beside the hieroglyphic were a dozen or so little scratches.
“I wot not of writing or numbers,” she confessed prettily, “so I scratched a mark for each bell, and scratched a bird to show whereof I scratched.”
Great Scott, cried Peter. Then all these slates mean you’ve taken inventory of the whole shebang?”
“Aye, gin ye mean we made a record. Torchy sorted into these eel baskets all ye armlets and necklets and plates and cups and different things, and I made scratches. See, here be an arm with a bracelet, and here be scratches, one for each bracelet. And here be a hand with a ring, and these be ye scratches for rings. Was this not ye right way to do, Bard Pete?”
“It’s an excellent way. Which of you thought of it?”
“We thought of it together. Torchy said how ye hell were we going to remember how much we had of what, and I said mayhap we could keep track as children do when playing a game. See, gin we give or spend a piece, I will scratch off ye scratch for that piece. Torchy made rich presents to King Sfyn and to all his aunts and uncles and cousins when he brought home ye wyvern’s hoard so we did not count those. And now we must pick out wedding gifts for our cousins. Dost think Immie would like this necklace of blue stones, Torchy dearest?” Syglinde wondered, picking up a few thousand dollars’ worth of rough-cut sapphires set in heavy gold.
“Er—could we get this little matter of the hawk bell settled before you go on to the wedding presents?” Peter suggested.
“Hawk bell. Where did we put ye hawk bells, Torchy? There were but a few pair. Oh, I know. In a little leathern bag here among ye coins. I will spill them out on this treasure chest. A pair for a peregrine, a pair for a merlin, a pair for a harrier, a pair for a—no, that be not a pair. Where be its mate?”
“I expect this may be the mate, right here,” said Peter, producing the one he hadn’t been able to match up at the hawkery.
“Unless there be still another here,” said Torchyld, fussing with the dainty bells.
“I don’t see how, if you started out with pairs. You’re one short, you know.”
Peter, who loved to count things, had already totted up the number of bells spread out on the chest against the number of scratches on Lady Syglinde’s slate. According to her tally, there should be sixteen. He saw only fifteen, not counting the one that had hit Prince Edmyr.
“Looks to me as if somebody’s been dipping into the till, Torchyld. Why don’t we try another batch? These jeweled necklaces, for instance. Chances are if somebody was looking for a few easily portable souvenirs, he’d pick these because they’re probably the most valuable.”
As it turned out, Peter was right. After they’d spent half an hour or so checking against the slates, Torchyld found he was the poorer by three necklaces, one of which Syglinde remembered well and was none too happy about because it had stones like dewdrops sparkling in the morning sun and she’d been planning to knock everybody’s eyes out with it at her wedding. They’d also lost three rings, two massive bracelets, and seven loose stones as big as hens’ eggs. Syglinde thought they might have been green ones but couldn’t be sure as she hadn’t yet figured out how to draw colors. In any event, it had been a tidy haul for somebody. Peter could readily understand why Torchyld and Syglinde were deciding to take a strong line about the theft.
“ ’Tis not ye done thing to rifle a king’s treasure room,” said Torchyld severely. “Great-uncle Sfyn will go up in smoke when he heareth of this fell deed. ’Tis noble to give, but wicked to take without leave. So hath it aye been in Sfynfford, and so shall it be or I’ll have ye guts of him that robbed me.”
“An ’twas not a him, Torchy dearest?” Lady Syglinde suggested. “Bethink ye who hath caused us so much grief.”
“Dwydd, by all ye powers of darkness! Accursed hag, where be she now? I will tear her foul carcass to shreds and feed ye bits to Hebog.”
“And Hebog will get pains in her belly and Murfynn will be furious, silly.”
“Then I will—Syggie, what be I to do?”
“I think ye should be guided by Bard Pete, whose wisdom surpasseth mine in e’en so great a measure as my beauty surpasseth his, darling ox-brain. Bard Pete, how shall we punish Dwydd and get my dewdrop necklace back?”
“Good question,” said Peter. “I’d say our first step is to make sure it was in fact Dwydd who swiped the swag. Where do you suppose we’re most likely to find her right now?”
“Skulking in her turret, belike,” said Torchyld, “thinking up greater evils.”
“Which way is the turret?”
“Bard Pete,” gasped Lady Syglinde, “we cannot go there. She hath ye place guarded by ugly basilisks and foul demons.”
“And old King Ruis with his head tucked underneath his arm, no doubt. I’m not impressed by Dwydd’s bogles. Lead the way, Torchyld. You needn’t come with us if you’d rather not, Lady Syglinde.”
“Nay, whither Torchy goeth, I go. Shall I leave ye slates here?”
“No, it may be the part of prudence to keep them with you. Does anybody other than ourselves know you’re keeping this tally?”
“Nobody. They would laugh and call it silly. And snatch away ye slates to scale from ye battlements, belike.”
“I shouldn’t be a bit surprised. You stick to those slates like glue, young woman, un
til you and Torchyld get that treasure safely into a strong room of your own. Let’s have that key again. I want to make sure we leave this room locked up as tight as we can make it. Doesn’t King Sfyn usually keep a guard posted here?”
“Nay, who would steal from ye king?”
“Good question. Does he sleep with that blasted great lump of iron every night? It must be hellish hard under his pillow.”
Syglinde managed a nervous giggle. “Nay, Bard Pete, he hangeth ye key on ye same hook as his crown. With Ffyffnyr guarding ye door, none dare go in to take it away lest they be rent in twain.”
“Except that Ffyffnyr’s been off the job those past couple of nights. I wonder whether that’s why he got poofed in the first place, or if somebody merely took advantage of the fact that the griffin wasn’t around. It must have been somebody with plenty of gall, though, to stroll into the king’s bedroom, collect the key and rob the strong room, then sneak the key back without being detected. Old people like him don’t sleep all that soundly, as a rule. Could somebody have slipped a Mickey into his metheglin?”
“Be that a spell to make one sleep?” Torchyld asked.
“I expect you might call it that,” Shandy conceded. “No doubt a similar effect could be obtained with a—er—posset of herbs. Do you grow any chamomile around these parts?”
“Herbs be women’s work. Syggie, what be chamomile?”
“Nay, I wot not. But we do have herbs to calm and soothe. Like poppy, to rub on ye gums of sweet babes when their tiny teeth be trying to come out. We must plant abundance of poppy, Torchy darling.”
“Drat it, Torchyld,” said Shandy, “get your lecherous paws off that wench and attend to the business at hand. Lady Syglinde, I’ll thank you to quit seducing a man while he’s on the king’s errand.”
“Be ye on ye king’s errand, sweetest one?” murmured that Cymric Delilah, running her fingertips across her lover’s lips with predictable results.
The Curse of the Giant Hogweed Page 14
