The Curse of the Giant Hogweed

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “It be,” Edelgysa replied modestly. “I be without peer at ye spindle. There be no threads, be they woolen or flax, stronger nor smoother than mine in all ye kingdom.”

  “You don’t say,” Shandy murmured. He strolled over to Prince Dagobert, who was sitting by himself in a corner looking glum.

  “Care to take a little canter, Your Highness?”

  Dagobert gazed up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “A canter like ye one my father took?”

  “Not like that, no. I simply want you to help me look for something.”

  As Peter had suspected, the young crown prince had brains. Dagobert got up and led the way out to the stables without further comment. It was a revelation to see how many horses King Sfyn possessed, and how handsomely they were kept. Despite the equine plurality, the ostlers offered Peter a mule they evidently kept for visiting clergy. He accepted without any fuss. Peter liked mules. Dagobert chose a sturdy roan, not the horse he’d been riding earlier, and they were off.

  “I want to cover as exactly as possible the terrain you were on when your father fell,” Peter explained. “Do you think you can recall the spot?”

  “Could I e’er forget?”

  “Sorry, that was stupid of me. Let me ask you this, if I may. I understand it’s your Aunt Edelgysa’s habit to carry a small riding whip that she constantly flicks at flowers and insects as she rides?”

  “Aye, and at nephews and nieces and lords and ladies-in-waiting, gin she taketh a notion. We all strive to ride clear of Aunt Edelgysa and her little whip.”

  “Then tell me, was your aunt using the whip as freely as usual today?”

  The question surprised Dagobert. “I—let me bethink myself.”

  “By all means. Bethink as hard as you like. It’s important.”

  “She had it in her hand as she rode,” Dagobert said slowly. “That I be sure of. But—nay, bard, she struck her palfrey to make it run when my father’s horse broke into a gallop, but otherwise she used it not. How did ye divine that?”

  “I have my methods. Now think again. You say she hit her palfrey when your father’s horse started to run. Does that mean just before, just after, or at precisely the same moment?”

  Dagobert pondered a moment, then gasped. “ ’Twas before. Had it been afterward I might well not have noticed, for mine own mount caught ye fever of ye chase and bolted after ye lead horse. I was not ready, and had my hands full reining him in.”

  “Why weren’t you ready?”

  “We ne’er gallop o’er that patch of ground. It be a steep hillside, ye ken, and hillocky. I wondered what madness had o’ertaken my father on a sudden.”

  “But you say your aunt whipped up her horse first.”

  “Aye, she did. And ’twas an odd way she did it. I mind me now. She first hit her mount one smart clip on ye rump, then she leaned forward and raised her arm as if to strike ye head. I saw not ye lash, but I recall well ye raised arm and ye forward lunge. Bard Pete, this maketh no sense. It be not ye done thing to override ye master of ye hunt. Aunt Edelgysa knoweth well ye rule, and she be hottest of all ye court to see everything done according to protocol. Yet one whippeth not a horse by accident. She must have meant to do what she did.”

  “Oh yes,” said Peter, “I have no doubt whatever your aunt meant to do exactly what she did. Ah, I think I see what I was looking for. Just a moment.”

  He climbed down from his mule, scrambled among the nettles for a moment, and came up with stung legs and a long strand of expertly spun black linen thread.

  “All right, Dagobert. We can go home now.”

  Chapter 18

  NOT EVERY MAN COULD contrive to look majestic with a three days’ sprouting of gray whiskers on his face, but Daniel Stott, temporary assistant archdruid to the court of King Sfyn, managed it without even trying. Marrying off seven couples at a time was no big deal to a man who’d presided over the nuptial rites of whole herds of cows, whole flocks of sheep, whole gaggles of geese, and even one whole muster of peacocks. Dan had Tim stand at his right side wearing a wreath of mistletoe and carrying his golden sickle. The trappings might not have been appropriate, but they certainly added a touch of class.

  Peter was at Dan’s left side with a rose behind his ear and his harp at the ready. The Welsh taste for music not yet being developed to the high state it would attain in centuries to come, Peter did not scruple to render his own version of “I Love You Truly” as the brides tripped gaily in through one door and the bridegrooms stamped nervously through another, all scrubbed with fresh-made eel fat soap and wearing spanking clean garments in bright array.

  Six of the brides were loaded down with the wedding gifts their wooers had brought, along with presents from King Sfyn and Sir Torchyld, and various other bits and pieces. Lady Syglinde contented herself with one magnificent golden bracelet that was the king’s gift, and a ruby necklace from the wyvern’s hoard. Nevertheless, she outshone the rest as the moon outshines a candle flame.

  Lord Ysgard’s boys appeared quite content with their flames. Privately they’d decided a wife like Lady Syglinde would take a lot of living up to; whereas Immie, Gwennie, Guinnie, Gwladdie, Allie, and Bloddie were cozy, cuddly girls who could keep track of where a fellow had parked his codpiece when he was going out to battle, and have a hot meal waiting for him when he got back.

  All in all, it was a lovely wedding. At the marriage feast afterward, Peter sang, “Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes.” His hearers found that a hilarious notion as they sent the drinking horn splashing merrily around the table. Everybody got at least mildly sloshed except Torchyld and Syglinde. Those two just sat holding hands and drinking to each other only with their eyes.

  Peter caught Princess Edelgysa watching the pair narrowly, her lips tight. The rest of the parents, even Princess Aldora despite her recent bereavement, were waxing mirthful with their daughters and their just-gained sons, consoling each other with reminders that Ysgard wasn’t all that far away and they’d be tottling back and forth for picnics, joustings, maypole-dancing, hangings, and such festivities.

  Come morning, there would be the funeral of Prince Edmyr, then the funeral feast. Afterward, brides and bridegrooms would ride off to Ysgard, accompanied by sundry relatives, attendants, and plump serving maids to gladden the hearts of the boys back home. Sir Torchyld and his new-made lady would stay with King Sfyn.

  What Peter, Tim, and Dan would do had not yet been decided. Peter was cherishing a hope that the completion of these various ceremonies would somehow mark the grand finale of their unsought adventure. In the meantime, however, he still had a duty to perform. It was not going to be a happy one. He hadn’t the heart to hurl his bombshell into the midst of the wedding festivities, but he’d be taking an awful risk if he put it off much longer.

  Dagobert was probably safe enough. The crown prince knew the situation now, and he was a clever lad. He’d make a good king. Better than Torchyld, most likely. Torchyld was still too guileless. He’d be a good husband, a good father, a good lord of the manor, and a damned good man in a dustup, but he did have a lot to learn about enchantments.

  Speaking of which, Peter hadn’t seen Dwydd around. Had he really succeeded in intimidating her, or was she only lying low hatching up fresh perfidy? Nobody’d missed the resident hag, at any rate. The revelry was beginning to break up. Bridegrooms were nudging brides and whispering urgent suggestions into their ears. Brides were flouncing and blushing and nodding their heads. Princess Aldora, whose stock of good humor must be wearing thin by now, rose to address the king.

  “My liege, this hath been a full day and merry one. Wouldst now give leave for these happy couples to repair unto their nuptial chambers and rest themselves for ye morrow?”

  “That be what they’re going for?” Owain murmured archly.

  His remark set off the usual spate of wedding-night jokes, many of which were still being used, Peter was interested to note, back—or would it be forward—in Balaclava County. The weary chestnuts would
no doubt get exported to alien planets along with the space colonies of the future, if they weren’t already being rehashed in flying saucers throughout the galaxy. Perhaps they’d first been uttered by the serpent as Adam and Eve headed for the shrubbery of Eden, shedding fig leaves en route.

  Maybe King Sfyn was tired of the jokes, too, or maybe he knew the newlyweds would sneak off anyway. He graciously gave them permission to retire. Now that the subject had come up, he thought he’d turn in early, himself. It would be nice to have old Ffyff guarding the door again.

  King and Griffin hied themselves bedward. Lords, ladies, and chamberlains of the bedchamber started grabbing the bouquets down from the walls. The flowers were wilted by now, but still serviceable for strewing under the footsteps of the bridal couples, where they’d only get stepped on anyway.

  Torchyld and Syglinde stayed apart from the skylarking; not by absenting themselves from the rest, but simply by being oblivious of anyone but each other. That bothered Peter. He took it upon himself to tag along and make a thorough search of their bedchamber. Torchyld noticed at last that he and his bride were not alone, and took umbrage.

  “Do ye leave quietly, bard, or do I assist ye?”

  “Don’t get into a swivet,” said Peter. “I’ll go in a minute. I just want to make damned sure there’s nothing in your bed that shouldn’t be here.”

  Syglinde laughed. “Such as what? Prince Owain?”

  “Such as a venomous snake or a poisoned thorn, since you ask. I hate to put a damper on the fun, kids, but it would be a shame to have your honeymoon end before it ever got started. How’d you feel, Torchyld, if it was your wife instead of yourself who got killed by mistake?”

  “Arrgh!”

  “But if Torchy were to die, think ye I would let myself go on living?” Syglinde sobbed from the depths of the massive bosom to which she was being desperately clutched. “Why speak ye these dreadful utterings, Bard Pete? Tonight, all should be joy and love.”

  “All will be, if you’ll simply let me exercise a few rudimentary precautions. By tomorrow, your trouble will be over. I promise.”

  Because tonight he, Peter Shandy, was going to camp on a certain doorstep and make damned sure the person inside didn’t take a notion to sleepwalk. Maybe he’d have been wiser to blow the whistle sooner, but how far would that have got him? His case was tenuous, to say the least, and he was dealing here not with knaves and churls, but with a royal family that had its own headsman on the payroll. Guile and diplomacy were needed. He borrowed Lady Syglinde’s sharp little knife, left the newlyweds to their well-deserved digrifwch, and cleared out.

  Guard duty was no great chore. Peter’s only trouble lay in staying awake. To beguile the hours, he whittled at those three slender wands he’d been carrying with him ever since the morning he’d escaped from Gwrach’s cave. After he’d got them smoothed to his liking, he added small bedizenments. At last, when cocks began to crow and the sun to do their raucous bidding, he decided it was safe to assume his quarry wouldn’t try anything funny now, and betook himself to the kitchen. There he found a minion astir, made known his requirement, and got what he’d gone for, along with a pledge of silence. At last he went along to the chapel, where Prince Edmyr lay in solitary state with guttered candles at his head and feet.

  Normally, no doubt, there would have been an honor guard with members of the family mourning in shifts beside the body. Last night’s multiple wedding had made it necessary to cancel the vigil. That was fine as far as Peter was concerned, and Edmyr didn’t appear to be minding. He performed a few experiments, nodded to himself when he’d got the hang of what he wanted to do, carefully arranged the little bundle he’d brought from the kitchen under the heavy purple pall that covered Prince Edmyr’s bier, and went to break his fast.

  King Sfyn and Ffyffnyr were the first ones down this morning. It was a heartening sight to watch them sharing a trencherful of boiled eels in comradely silence. Shandy took a manchet of bread and was munching on it when Dan Stott and Timothy Ames entered the banqueting hall, anxious to get the obsequies over with and hoping to God they wouldn’t have to perform any more solemn druidic rites until they could get hold of a real druid and get some idea of what in fact a druidic rite was.

  Then came Prince Edwy and Prince Edbert, both of them red-eyed and morose from the combined aftereffects of the wedding carouse and the prospect of having to bury their elder brother. Their ladies, they explained, were still upstairs packing folderols for their daughters to take to Ysgard. As for the brides and bridegrooms, they didn’t appear until after King Sfyn had sent up a posse of ladies-in-waiting with terse messages about the fun’s being over and the solemnities about to start. At last they straggled in, herded by the three elder princesses, also red-eyed but far from morose and displaying well-whetted appetites.

  Sir Torchyld and Lady Syglinde were the very last ones down, looking so radiant that Princess Edelgysa made a caustic remark about people who didn’t know enough to put on sober faces for sad occasions.

  “I was sober enow when my Torchyld went to kill ye wyvern and I wist not gin he would e’er return,” Syglinde retorted. “I wept when he was falsely reviled by those who also should have known better for stealing Ffyffnyr, and when I was cruelly rapt from his side by ye evil wiles of Dwydd. None mourned for me then. Now that my love and I be together as man and wife, I find it hard to mourn for anyone else. But I do feel for Princess Aldora and Gwennie and Immie, and most of all for Prince Dagobert.”

  She went over and gave the widow a hug and a kiss. “When we have our own manor, ye will come and stay with us, and tell us about your beautiful grandchildren. ’Tis some comfort, belike, that when one life is over, another beginneth. We must next find a wife for Dagobert.”

  “I expect I’ll have abundance of wives to choose from, once ye word goeth around that I be now heir to ye throne,” said the crown prince cynically. “Grandfather, a boon. Now that we be all assembled and our fast broken, may we not get on with ye funeral rites? My sisters and cousins and their husbands have yet a long journey to travel. And I, I fear, have a longer and a wearier.”

  “Being king hath its good side as well as its bad,” said his royal grandsire kindly. “Be of cheer, Dagobert.”

  “Aye, Dagobert, be of cheer,” echoed Owain with a sneer in his voice. “Cry we all, ‘Long live ye king,’ and so mote it be.”

  “We have talked enough,” cried Princess Edelgysa. “An it please Your Majesty, let us now repair to ye chapel for ye solemn rites, and thence to ye burial. Be ye archdruid ready?”

  “As ready as I’m ever going to be,” said Tim. “Assistant Archdruid Dan Stott will deliver the eulogy, followed by the head bard singing ‘Abide with Me’ with harp accompaniment. You remember the words, Pete?”

  “Certainly.” Peter had a phenomenal memory for verse. “I thought maybe I’d recite “The Cremation of Sam McGee’ for an encore. Or do you think they’d prefer the one about Mad Carew?”

  “Let’s play it by ear.” Tim sounded ridiculously pleased with himself. “All set, everybody? Let’s go wash off the eel grease and buckle down to work. You folks go first and grab your seats, then the boys and I will enter in solemn procession. See you in church. Cripes, I’m really perking today.”

  “Well, simmer down,” Peter told him sotto voce. “We’ve got some serious business on hand here. Listen, this is what we do after Dan finishes the eulogy.”

  He explained. Stott nodded. “An excellent plan, friend Pete. And you wish Tim and myself to be on the qui vive for signs of undue agitation among the congregants.”

  “I expect they’ll all be pretty agitated. You just stand by to grab the one who tries to run.”

  They marched into the chapel, Peter strumming “We shall meet but we shall miss him” as reverently as he could manage, and Dan, who had a fine bass voice with a range of almost half an octave, droning a sort of bagpipe accompaniment. Tim, who couldn’t have carried a tune in a basket, confined himself to lifting
his sickle now and then in some intricate gesticulations that didn’t mean anything but seemed to impress the congregation. They marched twice around the bier, then took up strategic positions according to their prearranged plan.

  Daniel Stott, who could make even a page of hog statistics sound impressive, recited several of the more affecting verses from sympathy cards received at the time of his first wife Elizabeth’s demise. Then he launched into a stirring eulogy, touching on Prince Edmyr’s prowess in the hawking field, his lofty bearing and premonarchical mien, on the loss to his family and to the realm occasioned by his demise, and on a number of other things that might or might not have any particular relevance to the deceased. The eulogy was well constructed, eloquently delivered, and probably not more inanely inappropriate than most. When Dan showed symptoms of running down, Peter stepped forward.

  “And now comes the time for each person here to pay his or her last respects to our departed crown prince. Led by your monarch, will you all rise and walk slowly past the bier?”

  “Nay!” Old Dwydd had come out of hiding, all set to do battle. “It be unlucky to bestir ye atmosphere around ye dead, lest his ghost come to afright us.”

  “His ghost will not walk in this holy place,” said Peter sternly, “unless there be someone among you who is guilty of having caused his death. No innocent person need fear to perform this rite. To refuse in the presence of the king and the archdruid, would constitute a confession of guilt. Now rise and pass along, as the archdruid directs. Slowly and reverently, please.”

  After that, nobody would have dared hang back. Tim stood like a French gendarme, directing traffic past the bier while Peter made indeterminate noises on the harp strings. One by one, the family walked over to Prince Edmyr’s corpse and around the bier. Peter watched narrowly. At the critical moment, praying his aim was true, he fitted one of the improvised arrows he’d worked on during the night to a string of his harp, drew back the string as far as he could, and fired.