by Dave Duncan
“My name is Durwin,” I said. “The enchanter is home?” Her smile faltered, as a summer meadow may darken when a cloud passes overhead. She nodded. “But he is indisposed, Your Wisdom.”
“You know me?”
“I can feel the wards on your packs.” The smile flashed back, teeth like pearls. She obviously considered that we were fencing and she had scored the first point.
Female enchanters or even cantors were a new and oddly worrisome idea to me. I could not have named a single one, they were so rare—probably because the biblical condemnation of witches was usually interpreted to apply only to women, not to men. Then it all fell into place. I had not been foreseen; I had been summoned. I drew a deep breath.
“So your name must be Lovise.”
Her eyes widened. Second point to me.
chapter 7
i must have revealed my resentment, for Lovise shed her saucy attitude and assumed a more respectful manner, hands clasped, gaze on the floor.
“That is my name, Your Wisdom.”
“And by what right did you summon me?”
“Our father, sir, Healer Harald Larson—he is urgently in need of aid, so Lars and I chanted the Hwá wer.”
That was a simple appeal for help, and I was surprised that its range was great enough to reach me in . . . in where? In Nottingham, or all the way to Helmdon? Surely not! But neither case sounded reasonable. “When did you do this?”
“This morning, Your Wisdom, a little time after Lauds.”
The timing was paradoxical, for that would be just after I left Nottingham, so I had already been on my way. But the Wyrds had prophesied four days ago that I would meet with Lovise, and it was almost two weeks since the king had ordered Neil to collect me.
“Surely there are other healers in Lincoln who could help?”
“Could help but would not, Your Wisdom.”
“How many?”
“Three others, sir, not counting the castle sage.”
“And how many responded to your summons?”
“None, sir.”
How long did a spell last if it was not implemented? Had the frustrated summons lingered until I rode within its reach? I could not recall such questions ever being discussed in Helmdon. I would need time to think about them later.
“What is his ailment? Is he here?”
“Upstairs, sir.”
“If it is urgent, you had better show me.”
Nodding, she led the way to the other door, and held it for me. Beyond lay a tiny hallway, very dimly lit, with the entrance to another room opposite, the street door to my right, and a steep staircase to the left.
Reluctant to demonstrate my mismatched legs for her inspection, I stepped aside and let her lead the way upward. I was rewarded with a good view of two very fine, surprisingly slender, ankles. At the top was a tiny landing, with a door on either side and a ladder up to a garret hatch.
I followed her into what was clearly her father’s bedroom. I could have guessed that much even without seeing its occupant. The shutters stood open on that hot afternoon, so it was bright and airy enough, yet it had a shabby air, needing a coat of whitewash to freshen it. It was the abode of someone long settled in their ways, someone who no longer cared for change.
The bed almost filled the room, and the man in the bed lay on his back with his eyes shut, breathing stertorously. He was indeed old, older than I would have expected Lovise’s father to be, with wisps of white hair trailing on the pillow and silver stubble on a scraggy face that had sagged over missing teeth. On that scorching day he was covered by a single sheet, and his bare arms lay exposed outside it. Before I could touch him, his eyes opened and struggled to focus on me.
He began to mumble incoherently. “Who’s this why strange man youth in my room the hussy en’nertaining strange men measuring me I’ll be bound coffin maker sniffing at me thinks I’m rotting worms, worms not a priest . . .” And so on.
I walked around to the window side, where he was, and bent to study him. Listening to him, I had first thought that he must be dead drunk, but I detected no ale or wine on his breath. Lovise stood on the other side of the bed, watching me intently, and I didn’t think a woman who could identify an enchantment by touch would have mistaken intoxication for serious disease. I considered a stroke, but his pupils were the same size and his mouth showed no twist. His pulse was steady and beat at much the same rate as my own. He was not feverish. In fact . . . startled, I looked up at Lovise and she nodded.
What my fingers sensed when I felt his forehead was chill— not the chill of a corpse, but the flavor of enchantment, learned by every sage in his training. Lovise had detected it on my warded saddlebags. So Harald Larson had been cursed? Helmdon’s standard instruction was skimpy on curses, because we never met them. My treatment for this one would take some planning.
I nodded in the direction of the door and led the way back downstairs, while hearing Larson continuing to mumble to an empty room.
“Please sit, Your Wisdom,” she said as she followed me into the kitchen. “You must need refreshment after your journey, and I can talk while I prepare something for you. All cold, I am afraid, because we keep no fire on such a warm day, but we have fresh bread and ham and onions and of course our fine local cheese. And fresh, juicy berries, picked today.”
She rinsed her hands, gave me water and a towel for mine. She produced a large pottery beaker and filled it with ale, bustling around efficiently. Housewife as well as enchanter— she was talented for her years. How many years? I wondered. Not yet twenty and perhaps much younger, for her size might be misleading.
“What do you think ails your father, Lovise?”
“He has been cursed, Your Wisdom.”
“Please call me Durwin. Your father has been tutoring you in enchantment.”
“Me and Lars, too. Just healing enchantments, sir, er Durwin. None of the higher philosophical arts like they teach in academies.”
“Which are mostly hocus-pocus to deflect the Church’s bigotry. Enchantment is our heart and soul. And do you know who did this to him?”
The boy, Lars, swept in from the yard, saw the bucket in which his sister had deposited our wash water, scooped it up, and swept back out with it. If you own a horse, you always know where to dispose of excess water.
“I can guess,” Lovise said grimly, sawing at a crusty loaf that both looked and smelled delicious. “Healing’s become a dangerous business in Lincoln of late.”
“Then I need to hear the whole story.”
Lars returned and flopped down on the bench across from me, still grinning. He grabbed for a slice of bread before his sister could block him. He had not yet lost the juvenile energy that compelled him to do everything as fast as possible.
“My name is Durwin,” I told him. “I’m a healer. Your sister’s about to tell me what ails your father.”
“Sage laid a curse on him.” Evidently Lars could chew and talk at the same time, but he should be heard and not seen when doing so.
“What sage?”
“The constable’s sage, Quentin of Lepuix.”
“You don’t know that!” Lovise snapped. “Take our . . . You will stay the night with us, Your Wisdom?”
I glanced at the window to judge the height of the sun. It seemed that I was about to obtain exactly the sort of information I had come to Lincoln to find, so I must not leave before I had heard it. But I had already learned enough to confirm that Sir Neil and his party were heading into danger, so should I go galloping back along the Nottingham road in the hope of intercepting them? I obviously couldn’t do both at the same time, evening was drawing in, and I had a patient upstairs in need of treatment. Ruffian and I were both tired. I must concentrate on my own mission and leave my associates in God’s hands.
“That’s a very kind offer, which I am happy to accept.”
“Take our guest’s bags upstairs, Lars.”
Lars obediently stuffed the rest of the bread in his mouth and
disappeared, heavy packs and all. I heard his boots thundering up the stairs. He reminded me of a colt named Pepper, dropped by one of the Pipewell Abbey’s mares when I was a child, all legs and frantic haste.
“I wish I had his energy,” I sighed.
“But not his wits, sir.”
“They did not strike me as lacking.”
She smiled apologetically. “No, I misspoke. He is oversudden, is all. There is nowt wrong with Lars that he won’t soon grow out of.”
“If he grows much more you’ll need a bigger house. Now tell me the story.”
“Yesternight our father went to a meeting. When he failed to return by sunset, we began to worry. I sent Lars off to bed and waited up. The watch brought him—Father, I mean—home after midnight.”
“In his present condition?”
“Worse, for he was reeking of wine. His clothes were soaked with it. If he had not been who he is—if one man in the watch had not recognized him and they had taken him for a common drunk—they would have locked him up in the stocks until morning.” She slid a platter across to me and began to load it with ham, onions, bread, and cheese.
I reached eagerly for the knife on my belt. “Why?” I asked. “What reason would the constable’s sage have to lay a curse on your father and tip wine over him? Is he a practical joker?”
“Far from it, Your Wisdom.” Lovise refilled my beaker, ignoring my protests that I must keep my head clear. “Listen, sir, er, Durwin. For years there were three healers in Lincoln town: Nerian, Peter, and Harald. Plus the castle sage, of course, to look after the health of the garrison. This past spring, when Sir Alured took over as sheriff, he brought his own sage with him, Quentin of Lepuix. Bjarni, the house sage, had served the de la Haye family since before the Battle of Lincoln, more than twenty years ago, but Sir Alured told Lord Richard to dismiss him. Bjarni and his wife moved into the town and he set up shop as a public healer, a fourth. The other three made him welcome, for they had all the work they needed and he was well known and respected in the town. But Bjarni died a couple of weeks later, may he rest in peace.”
“Amen.” Healer Fulk had told me of Bjarni’s dismissal, of course, but had not mentioned his sudden death.
A rockslide out in the hallway announced Lars’s return. He flopped down on the bench even before the door slammed shut behind him. Lovise pushed a loaded platter across to him.
“Did Bjarni die of a broken heart?” I asked. “A sudden change in a man’s life can do that.”
At last Lovise sat down to eat her own portion, notably smaller than the other two. “None know. He just died. He was replaced by Walter, and none know where he came from. Or what good he does, for I hear that nobody consults him. Soon after that, Healer Nerian was bitten by a mad dog and died. He was replaced by another stranger, Tancred. And in July, Peter decided to sell his practice and take employment as house sage to some lord down south, near Wintanceaster.”
“And who replaced him?”
“Henri of somewhere.”
So three healers of Saxon or Danish lineage—Bjarni, Nerian, and Peter—had been replaced by four with French names: Quentin, Walter, Tancred, Henri. And the last native healer lay upstairs in a coma. My hopes that I might learn something from the local healers’ community were being amply rewarded already, but not quite in the way I had expected. “There’s a pattern there, certainly. And now Harald . . .?”
“Now Harald has had a narrow escape from being denounced as a public drunk,” his daughter said bitterly. “What would happen to his practice then? Nobody wants to be treated by a sot. Luckily business is slow just now, because so many folk are busy out harvesting. I managed to treat the few patients who came in today, implying to the nosy parkers that Father had been called away to treat a noble lady in the country. Lars helped me.”
“I held them down while she stitched them,” Lars explained. I assumed that he was just joking, but wasn’t certain and didn’t ask.
“What happened after the watch brought your father home?” “I wakened Lars to help me carry him upstairs.”
“Warn’t enough room for two,” Lars said indignantly.
“I put him over my shoulder and carried him up by myself.”
“You must be a very strong young man,” I said. He leered at the compliment and nodded proudly. I tried not to think what could have happened had he overbalanced on that precipitous staircase.
“Lars washed him and put him to bed,” Lovise continued. “That was when we realized that he wasn’t drunk at all. This morning we hunted through his grimoires to find an antiphon. We found two, but neither worked. So we chanted the Hwá wer.”
“Father taught us that one in case we needed help when he wasn’t around,” her brother explained.
“Did you feel acceptance?”
Lovise said, “Yes,” and her brother nodded.
“Faint, though,” he said.
The Hwá wer is a cry for help. If they had directed it correctly, it should have brought every healer in town. It would not have brought carpenters or thatchers, but healers should all have felt the urge to go and see what was wrong with Harald Larson, their colleague and, hopefully, friend. Even if they didn’t feel it consciously, they should have found themselves heading this way when they had intended to go somewhere else, just as I had. The fact that they had been able to resist the call showed that they had armored themselves in advance with a counter spell. The stench of conspiracy was growing stronger.
“Yet no one responded?”
“Only you, Your . . . sir.”
“Call me Durwin, both of you. I’m a licensed sage from Helmdon Academy, but if anyone asks, pretend that I’m your mother’s sister Mary’s son from Pipewell, and a man-at-arms who limps because he was wounded in battle, fighting for the king in Wales last year.” I watched their eyes brighten as they realized that I was taking their story seriously. “What was this meeting your father attended yesterday?”
Lovise added more water to her ale. “Back when Sage Bjarni was sage, he entertained the healers to dinner at the castle every month. They would talk business: cases they had seen, so that they were all warned of any serious outbreaks, and could count supplies of potions, in case there might going to be a shortage. They might delegate someone to warn the apothecaries about those.” She took a sip of her ale. “Or they might meet with a visiting sage, and so on. Quentin continued the custom. After his dismissal, Bjarni never attended, though.”
“Understandably so. I’m sure I would not, in the circumstances.”
“So that was where Father went yesterday—to the castle, to dine with the sage and the other healers from the town.”
The four with French names. And if they all knew about his curse—had even, perhaps been present when it was chanted— then they would have known to resist the next day’s Hwá wer. Conspiracy now seemed certain, but what sort of conspiracy? At best it might be no more than a bad case of anti-Saxon prejudice—Sheriff Alured from Normandy or Anjou disliked or distrusted Saxon sages and had replaced them all with his countrymen cronies, but even that theory would seem to have required a murder or two.
At worst this might tie in with the king’s high treason suspicions, although I recall that I could not immediately see why it should, which in retrospect was incredibly stupid of me. If Quentin and Sheriff Alured were using black magic in the castle in some way, why did they need to purge the town’s existing healers? The replacements, it must be assumed, were trusted to support the treason, but I could not see why the town healers needed know what the two villains were up to behind their great ramparts. I wished that I could discuss this with Guy, or some of the other Helmdon sages.
I had been silent too long. Lars suddenly burst out, “Can you help us, Your Wisdom?”
His sister tut-tutted at his manners, but I nodded.
“I will certainly try. I am sure I have some spells back at Helmdon that would be useful in this case, but I brought nothing like that with me. Let me see the texts
you tried last night.”
Lars was gone in a blink. Hic non est.
I knew all the theory about dealing with curses, but I wished I had some practice at it. I knew how to remove a warding from a door or a strongbox, but dare I try something like that on a person? I knew that my grimoires back in Helmdon included several spells dealing with curses, but I had neither studied them nor brought any with me. I did not even know what would happen to Harald Larson if he were left untreated— would he recover on his own or starve to death, unable to feed himself? Before I could ask Lovise whether her father was accepting nourishment, Lars returned.
He brought with him the largest book I had ever seen, both in page size and thickness. He carried it clutched in both arms, and even our resident strongman clearly found it quite a load. The grimoires I knew were mostly made of the best parchment, such as lambskin, but these larger pages meant thicker, heavier leather, probably from cattle. That might be cheaper, or the sheer size of the volume might be intended to impress the healer’s patients.
When Lars dropped this tome on the table, the dishes jumped. Lovise went to help him. Together, brother and sister untied the ropes and raised the front cover. The book was obviously very old, with many of the pages starting to crack. The spells they had tried were marked by ribbons.
I placed a candle closer and bent to read, while my companions waited anxiously for my learned opinion. The first was useless for me, because it was written in runes, and not the futhorc I knew. The language was probably Danish, but it might as well have been Coptic or Farsi for all the good it did me.
The other, Abi maledictum, was in Latin—rather bad Latin, although that might not matter—and right away I checked the second and third versicles, for that was where trip wires were most often set. Sure enough, there was one in the first line of the second versicle. I read the whole spell through three times, and everything else seemed to make as much sense as spells ever do.
