by Dave Duncan
Not being offered, or even wanting, a renewal of my intimate association with the saints and martyrs, I remained standing, leaning my weight on my cane.
Neil raised a hand and Piers moved the razor away so he could speak. “Tell him, Vernon.”
“Sir Neil has just explained,” the other knight told me, “that he has decided to leave his train here at Nottingham and proceed to reconnoiter Lincoln Castle alone, so as not to arouse suspicion. He will take only his squire, the man Francois, and your boy, er . . .”
“Eadig.”
“Yes, Eadig.”
“A bold plan from a brave man,” I remarked, and saw a flicker of anger in Neil’s eyes as he detected my mockery. Neither Vernon nor Piers did, of course.
“You,” Vernon continued, “will proceed to Lincoln on your own and see what you can learn by discreet inquiry among enchanters in the town. Today is Wednesday. You will report your success, if any, to Sir Neil at the west door of the cathedral after mass on Friday morning. If he fails to show up for that meeting, you will return at once here, to Nottingham, and put yourself under my orders.”
“If we are to travel separately, how soon may I leave?”
Vernon looked to Neil for guidance. Piers took the chance to strop the razor on his shoe.
“As soon as you are ready,” Neil said. “I must wait until the baron awakens, to appraise him of my needs.”
Which time, I had gathered downstairs, might be several hours yet, for it had been well after midnight before the old souse was carried off to bed.
“If I may offer a suggestion, Sir Neil . . . How old do you think Cantor Eadig is?”
Piers paused just before he pinched his brother’s nose. His brother frowned at this irrelevancy. “Fourteen? Fifteen?”
“Only one month short of seventeen, and he is wise beyond his years. If you need guidance on enchantment, sir, he can advise you almost as well as I can.” I saw that I was spitting into a gale of prejudice and gave up. “Now, by your leave, sir, I shall give Adept Eadig his instructions and be on my way.
It would be best if we travel well apart, so that no one sees us together.”
Going down that spiral staircase was even harder for me than going up, and that time I took it backward, like a ladder. Eadig was waiting for me at the bottom, and we headed off to the stable. I had already warned him that he might be asked to visit Lincoln as a spy, but I wouldn’t force this on him. He had puffed out his chest and then bravely insisted that he would be proud to serve the king that way and wasn’t sc . . . c . . . cared at all.
I ordered both Ruffian and Bon Appétit saddled and asked for guidance out of town. I was given instructions and a pitying look that said only an utter dolt should need them. In fact all I would need to do was follow the river northeast to Newark—another notable castle—and then continue along Fosse Way, another Roman road, until it joined Ermine Street. By then I would be able to see Lincoln. Ermine Street, of course, runs all the way from London to York, which is also known as Jarvik.
I took Eadig with me, because I planned to demonstrate something for which I certainly did not want an audience. Not far outside the city gate we found a patch of woodland where we would be unobserved. There I rode off the road, reined in, and dismounted. Eadig followed my lead and tethered the horses to a sapling, while I rummaged in my spell bag.
“I want to show you something I dared not try in the castle,” I said. “On first glance, I would argue that this expedition is all a wild goose chase. As a trained logician, how would you propound this conjecture, varlet?”
Eadig was grinning. “Easy. An ancient warrior wrote a cryptic letter accusing two highly esteemed officials of high treason, which is ridiculous here in the center of England. The odds are that the old man has lost his wits to old age, or drink, or war wounds—he’s delusional. To pay any heed to the charges would grossly insult one or both of the esteemed Sheriff Alured and Constable Lord Richard. But the king cannot just ignore such a threat. So he sends a very junior, expendable knight to scout and report back. If the sheriff or constable gets to hear of it and takes offense, he tosses Sir Neil into the moat and the king denies knowing anything about it.”
Eadig had more brains than Sir Neil would know what to do with.
“You state the negative case succinctly, varlet. So how would you contend the opposing case?”
He’d known that I would ask him that. “The letter mentioned enchantment, you said? So the king would have had one of his enchanters evaluate it before he made his decision. It could have tested high for significance, which would justify sending Sir Neil to investigate, but also high for duplicity, which would explain why he told Neil to bring you along. Already we have received the substantiating testimony of the futhorc tiles, and the warning Healer Fulk gave you last night.”
I complimented him again, thinking that being a familiaris could be a life-threatening profession. Kings’ gifts are often double-edged.
“So your mission may be dangerous,” I said, “even with someone smarter than Sir Neil. He’s not exactly stupid, but he must be aware that the next few days will make or break his career. If he does run up against hostile magic, he’ll be unmasked in minutes. I can show you one incantation that may come in handy if things get curdled. Can you construe this for me?” I brought out one of my scrolls, and between us we unrolled it.
He peered at it, turning it to the light. “Think so. Hic non sum? ‘I am not here’?”
“Correct. It’s a solo voice spell. Read out each versicle and tell me what it means.”
Because in rehearsals we always read the text backward to prevent any dangerous mistakes, he began with the last phrase, which was the same as the first, Hic non sum, and did very well with the translation, needing only two corrections. Of course the text made even less sense that way round than it did forward: “Let no hawk see my shadow on the ground . . . no hound must track my scent . . . dull the ears of the owl . . . my shape is as the shape of the wind . . .” It invoked spirits of air, fire, water, and even the grasses of the forest.
“Very good,” I said when he had finished. “It’s a Release spell, obviously, and repeatable. I know it persists for at least two weeks, and I chanted it the night before we left Helmdon. So watch me. Hic non sum.”
Eadig must have had an idea of what would happen, but he gasped. After a moment he reached out and poked a finger at where he had last seen me. I instantly reappeared. We both laughed.
“Invisibility?” he said.
“Not truly. There is no such thing as a real invisibility spell, but this one comes close. Three things can give you away. One is touch, as you discovered. If someone bumps into you, you’re back again. Another is making a noise, and the third is movement. If anyone glimpses even a flicker where nothing should be moving, they’ll see all of you. You must not attract attention in any way: not visibly breathe, or even blink. The safest place to invoke it is probably standing in a corner, face in. And then don’t sneeze! Obviously it has its limits, but it might help you out of a tight spot.”
He chanted it through in his fine treble and promptly vanished from my sight. Then he sniggered and was back again. After that I could do no more than give him my blessing, some money, and a warning to get his story straight with Neil, Piers, and Francois. Needless to say, I did not leave the vellum roll with him—if challenged, I could justify owning such a thing, but a page could not. I had no other suitable Release spells with me, and we had no time for him to memorize even one solo-voice spell of the Repeat type.
Together we chanted the Min færeld to bless our respective journeys. Then we parted; he went back to Nottingham and I rode on to Lincoln.
As I watched him go, he looked so absurdly young to be sent into unknown dangers, that I very nearly changed my mind and called him back. Had I done so, it is likely that what later became known as the Boterel Conspiracy would have succeeded. Yet Eadig received very little credit for his part in defeating it, and even I did not fully u
nderstand how much he deserved more until I read the Confidential Report.
That report was commissioned by Robert de Beaumont, earl of Leicester and regent, some months later, after the cheers had died and the tears dried. He stressed that no one else was to read it, or hear any of its contents. Easy enough for sages! I sat Eadig down with ink, quills, and a pile of paper, then put him into a full-recall trance. A few days later he did the same for me. The result of our combined efforts was an enormous, overly wordy bore. When I read over what I had written, I was amazed at how many details had already escaped my everyday memory.
Ultimately the king put the report into the safekeeping of the enchanter general, namely me. I have used it to jog my memory several times already in writing this account, and it will enable me to relate Eadig’s adventures in as much detail as my own.
Most of his life Ruffian had lacked enough exercise, and I wondered how he felt about that now, on a third straight day of our trek, but I was happy enough. The fine weather continued unbroken, and the traffic was slight.
I saw more harvesters hard at work there, too. I found it a comforting sight, for I had experienced wet summers and stormy falls, when the grain is beaten to the ground or fails to ripen at all. I knew the terror of famine that stalks the countryside then. I could even recall the days of the Anarchy, when King Henry’s mother and uncle tore the land apart in their struggle for the crown. He had saved us from that, and I would resist any hint of treason against him until my dying breath.
I duly passed the Newark Castle, still under construction on the banks of the Trent. It meant nothing to me then, but I very nearly lost my head there, ten years later.
It was fortunate that I could not lose my way on that journey, because I would have had trouble understanding the locals’ directions. I stopped several times to let Ruffian drink at a water trough and enjoy a brief rest, and every time someone soon arrived to fill a bucket at the well and, incidentally of course, find out who the stranger was. The dialect was very hard for me to follow. As Guy had warned me, this was the old Danelaw, the north-eastern half of England, which the great King Alfred had failed to wrest back from the invading Danes. All the same, it was more than two hundred years since his grandson united the whole land to claim the title of “King of the English,” and I had never heard rumors of the Danelaw wanting to break loose again.
The land around Lincoln is flatter than a puddle, but the upper town, which includes the castle and cathedral, stands on a ridge, visible for hours before you reach it. Just short of the town, Ermine Street passes by Brayford Pool and then enters the lower town through the south gate. The sheer size of the castle looming over it impressed me as I approached, for it would be a very hard bone to chew, as long as it was properly garrisoned.
As I had told Sir Neil, I was reluctant to seek hospitality in religious houses, and a city as large as Lincoln was sure to boast at least one inn where Ruffian could have his rubdown and enjoy some well-earned oats. I asked some people where to look and understood little of what they told me, but their fingers spoke more clearly than their words, and all indicated that I should go up the hill. It was logical that visitors who could afford to pay for a bed would likely be those who had business in either the cathedral or the castle.
It was afternoon by then, and both Ruffian and I were weary, so I let him set his own pace as he trudged up the road called the Danesgate, with the cathedral towering above us to my right and the castle on my left. The cathedral I saw on that visit was not the present one, which collapsed in the earthquake of 1185. From what I have seen of the great work now in progress, the new one will be much larger and grander.
I barely noticed when Ruffian, seemingly tired of the long hill, turned off on a side way. I wasn’t aware of telling him to do so. The alley was narrow and dark below overhanging eaves and second stories. Nowadays in larger cities it is becoming customary for stores to announce their business by hanging painted signs above their doors, but in those days we mostly relied on our knowledge of where everything was, or else we used our noses. Tanners, butchers, bakers, fishmongers, alehouses, even carpenters were easily discerned by their distinctive odors. Others displayed their wares on open counters at the front— ironware, vegetables, draperies, and such—while some tradesmen worked in their windows or yards, where they could be seen: barbers, cobblers, farriers, for example. Those in need of customers would run out to harass passersby. Failing all those indications, the slops and garbage thrown out on the street were often helpful.
One exception, even back then, was the pentacle that advertised a chantry. Ruffian stopped suddenly. I could not recall reining him in, although I must have done, because we were in front of a door bearing a pentacle, boldly marked with red paint.
“That was clever of you, Horse,” I said. “Guy never warned me that you could read.”
I didn’t really believe that he had halted because he knew I wanted to locate a healer, but odd coincidences do happen around those who dabble in enchantment. I did need to speak with an enchanter or two. Why not now? If fortune smiles at you, why frown back at her? I might even beg a bed for the night. I dismounted—stiffly, and probably much to Ruffian’s relief. I had just freed my cane from its sling on my back when the door flew open and a large man burst out and slammed it behind him.
I started to say, “Is the enchanter in?” but he did not give me a chance. He took hold of my horse’s cheek strap, urging me by gabble and gestures to follow him. As near as I could make out he was saying, “This way, noble sir, you are most welcome. This way, what a splendid horse! And you have come far, sir. Did you have a good journey?” There was more, which I did not catch.
I now saw that, although he was large, he was not yet a man, but a husky youth of around fifteen, with a grin as wide as the River Nene. Clearly he had mistaken me for someone else, but I would rather explain that to the master of the house than argue with a yard boy, even, as I suddenly realized, was an unusually well-dressed and well-spoken yard boy. More likely he was the master’s son.
He turned the corner into a gap between his house and the next, a space only just wide enough to take Ruffian and his saddlebags. Normally the way was barred by a gate, but someone on the other side was in the process of opening it for us. This was the sort of welcome I would be gratified to receive at an inn, and I felt guilty at accepting it under false pretenses.
Ruffian announced his approach with a loud whinny, which was answered from the poky little yard ahead. Trusting his judgment, I made no objection, just hobbled along behind, hearing bolts being shot on the gate behind me. A chestnut gelding was watching our arrival with interest, but did not contest it. The yard barely deserved the name, being merely a space between houses. It was obviously the gelding’s normal abode, and was filled to capacity by the privy, a couple of water butts, a thatched rain shelter for the horse, and now two horses. The walls were two stories high, enough to keep thieves out and livestock in.
The boy began unstrapping my bulky saddlebags, as he must do before he could unsaddle Ruffian. I dared not let those out of my sight, for I would be almost useless as an enchanter without the incantations they contained. I was about to take the first bag, when another hand reached for it, and swung it out of my reach.
I turned to take my first look at the person who had let us in.
I blinked and took a second.
She was young, little older than the boy, and almost as large—as tall as I, big-boned, and buxom. She was the sort of woman destined to bear a dozen children and bloat up like a hay wain. Her gown of green and white was crisply clean; a cascade of red-gold hair hung down her back from under her bonnet. She had a round and merry face with blue eyes, a button nose, and a complexion as smooth as an egg, lacking any trace of the smallpox scars of city folk or the weathering that soon tarnishes farm girls. She did have a million or so freckles, enough to outnumber the stars of heaven, but I have always found freckles alluring and failed to understand why many women dislike
them. She was certainly no classical beauty like the unlamented Baroness Kilpeck I had encountered at Barton a couple of years earlier, but she would not lack offers for her hand when she was ready to consider them. Even in that gloomy little yard, she gave the impression of standing in full sunlight.
I carefully noted her unbound hair, which advertised that she was not yet married. When our eyes met, a twinkle in hers told me she had noticed my interest and was returning it. I smiled back, to show that the approval was mutual and she lowered her gaze modesty. Meanwhile she was holding my two heavy packs and bracing the door open with one of them, waiting for me to enter. I accepted the unspoken invitation and hobbled past her, into the house.
The doorway was narrow, and neither of us was small. We did not touch, but our noses were barely a finger width apart as I went by her. Like the boy, she was obviously wearing her best— church clothes, not workaday garb. She carried a fragrance of lilac and had darkened her ice-pale eyelashes.
Now I decided that the enchanter must have foreseen my arrival. I was reacting in exactly the same fashion as Sir Neil had on Monday, when he had found me anticipating his arrival—I was both annoyed and worried. There went secrecy! If any back-alley healer could predict my coming, then there was nothing to stop the sage or sages in the castle from foreseeing Piers’s. My companions might be heading straight into a trap.
Furthermore, magic is like the law, in that it does not deal with trivialities. More and more this affair was coming to look important; the stakes must be very high.
The big lass let the door swing closed and followed me into the kitchen. She set down the bags gently, which in itself was unusual. A male porter would have dropped them.
The kitchen was roomier than most, large enough to hold a heavy plank table with room for the eight stools tucked out of the way below it. Like kitchens I had seen in the gentry’s houses, it had the usual larder, water tub, chopping block, a work bench, shelves of pottery, hanging pans and nets of victuals, a large fireplace with a spit and a grille to hold pots, although currently the hearth was cold. There were stout bars on the window and clean flagstones on the floor. The owner was prosperous.
