by Dave Duncan
“And he has apparently arrived,” the king agreed. I could see his nimble mind buzzing as he worked out applications for this new magic.
“And the reports are apparently true, my love!”
So we weren’t contumelious Saxon churls! We were heroes. Eadig’s face was a blend of delight and amazement. He looked about twelve.
“I am most impressed,” de Fours said sourly. “Congratulations, Sage. Now perhaps you can enlighten us as to the whereabouts of the two assassins you described so graphically?”
A moment’s silence as everyone considered this suggestion . . .
“Oh, come!” said the queen. “You can see the poor boys are worn out. They’ve had two very hard days. Surely that can wait until tomorrow?”
In retrospect, I can see that she duped me into the giving the answer she wanted. There was no greater man-manipulation expert in Christendom than Eleanor of Aquitaine.
“Oh, we can try, Your Grace. I cannot guarantee that it will work again so soon, but we certainly can try. Right, Eadig?”
Eadig of course agreed. I glanced to the king for a nod of permission, and we launched once again into the Loc hwær. By then I could almost have chanted it without the text. Where, we asked was Sir Neil d’Airelle?
Again acceptance! Then the answer came in a single word.
“Utane!”
“Outside?” I said. “Just ‘outside’? Outside what?”
Eadig’s face crumpled. “Dunno. Just ‘outside’, Sage!” de Fours couldn’t resist, of course. “Outside is a rather large place, unfortunately. It doesn’t really narrow the—”
Something crashed against the door. It flew open. Outside was shouting and the ringing of swords. In stumbled Sir Neil d’Airelle. He was clutching his chest with his left hand, blood spurting between his fingers. He favored his right leg, which was also bleeding. But his right hand held his sword, and he came in a sort of clumsy gallop, half running, half limping, across the room toward the king, with candlelight shining golden on his eyes and his teeth bared in a grimace of hatred.
The queen cried out in alarm. None of us was armed. Leicester grabbed up a chair to use as a weapon, but I was closest to the intruder. I stepped between him and the king and with a shout of “Fiat ignis!” set his face on fire.
chapter 28
screaming a blast of flame, Neil dropped his sword, and clutched at his burning flesh. The earl of Leicester smashed the chair over his head, and he fell headlong to the place the king and I had vacated as we shied back. He lay there, wailing, writhing, burning, and spurting blood. Leicester snatched up the fallen sword.
“Through the heart, if you please, my lord,” de Fours said.
The justiciar obliged, ramming the blade into Neil’s back so hard that it went clean through the chain mail and I heard the floor slates crack. The corpse thrashed once more and then fell still. The pulsing torrent of blood dwindled and died.
The king’s first thought then was his pregnant wife. “Are you all right, my love?”
“Quite all right, thank you for asking.” She certainly seemed so, and her voice was steady.
“We have a couple of qualified healers here if you need anything.”
“I would appreciate some more wine, when one of you noble gentlemen has a moment. Don’t fuss, Henry! I am not fragile.”
She was all right, but one of those qualified healers, me, was staggering around, struggling frantically not to disgrace himself by throwing up, and vowing that never, never, never again would he use that spell on a living being.
Through the door stumbled a man-at-arms, clutching a bleeding arm. “There was only two of them, Your Grace, and we got the other one.”
“At what cost?”
“Three dead, four wounded. Fought like mad boars, they both did, Lord King. Never seen the like.”
de Fours ran to attend the wounded and I hobbled after him.
Three of the wounded needed no more than some competent bandaging and a chant to hasten healing. While I saw to that, de Fours tended the fourth man, who had been run through, a belly wound for which I knew no treatment. The enchanter general did, though, having had battlefield experience. He chanted it from memory, and it certainly stopped the man’s bleeding and eased his pain.
As we returned to the king’s presence, I said, “Will he live?” “No. But he will die in comfort. Your three?”
“They will survive. Will the king reward them?”
“Probably. If not, the queen will.”
Neil’s corpse had been removed, and a couple of flunkies were on their knees, washing away the blood. Leicester, surprisingly, was sitting beside the queen. The king was still standing, his hands resting on the hilt of the broken-tip sword. The mood was grim, for obviously the Satanic plot had come very close to success. Eadig was hovering in the background, trying to be invisible and almost asleep on his feet.
Henry regarded me for a long, nerve-testing moment. “I do not blame you for this, Sage Durwin. You have performed your duties magnificently.”
I bowed. “You are very kind, Lord King. I truly thank God’s mercy that you survived unscathed.”
“So do I. I lost a good man in Neil D’Airelle.”
“And in his brother, Lord King. His squire was practically hacked to pieces out there.”
The king nodded. “And many good men died stopping them. Kneel!”
Chastened by the reprimand, I wobbled down to my knees.
“What is your heritage?”
“As humble as can be, sire. My father was a hostler for Pipewell Monastery.”
The king looked puzzled, likely because I did not speak like a stable hand. “And your ancestors?
Ah! For the first time in my life, I could brag about them. “My great-grandfather was Thane of Pipewell, Lord King, and led his fyrd of fifteen housecarls to Hastings. Had King Harold won that battle, instead of William the Bastard, I would be his successor.”
“Good breeding will always show in the end,” the queen said.
The king said, “Where is Pipewell? Were you born there?”
“I was, sire. Pipewell is near to Rockingham.” He knew the forest there, one of his favorite hunting grounds.
“We shall keep the thanedom in mind,” Henry said with a smile. “But for now—“ he reached out with Neil’s sword, still streaked with dried blood, and tapped my shoulder. “Rise, Sir Durwin of Pipewell.”
Oddly, my most vivid memory of that milestone in my life is of Eadig’s face, with his mouth literally hanging open. Doubtless mine was doing the same. I staggered to my feet. The queen was smiling and holding out my cane, so I lurched over to her to accept it.
“One other thing before we give you our leave,” the king said.
“Sire?”
“You are obviously the greatest sorcerer since Merlin. I am minded to appoint you our enchanter general for England. You will attend our council tomorrow, where we shall discuss this.”
Life in a palace was an interesting novelty, which I was too numb to appreciate that first night. Our chamber was a dream, with a featherbed for me and a rollout cot for Eadig. Even the dramatic knighthood and prospective appointment were not enough to keep me awake.
Morning jumped in with birdsong and the inevitable roosters, backed up by the peacocks’ discordant screaming. Incredible memories came drifting into view. The emergency was over, and I had won royal approval on a scale I had never even dreamed of. King Henry had a reputation for making fast evaluations of people and rarely changing his mind about those he favored.
A quiet voice nearby said, “What must I do for you today, Sir Durwin? Sharpen your lance? Polish your armor?”
I chuckled, because it was extremely rare back then for a civilian to be admitted to the brotherhood of knighthood. “You can write out the Loc hwær in fair, and then translate it into French, so I can give Sir Aubrey de Fours a copy—as a token of my respect and admiration.”
“You really think the Wyrds will answer an incant
ation in French?”
“Not a hope in the world. That’s the whole point.”
Shortly thereafter our chatter was interrupted by the arrival of a valet to shave me, and then by fresh clothes for both of us.
“You’ll get addicted to this, you know,” Eadig said, admiring the softness of his robe.
“And you won’t?”
He pulled a face. “Over my father’s dead body.” Then he hastily crossed himself and muttered a prayer for forgiveness. “Enchanter general for England?” he sighed, shaking his head. “Did you see dear Aubrey’s face when the king said that?”
“No. I saw yours. Was he surprised?”
“Looked like he was going to puke.”
That was a problem I knew I must try to mend. There being no sign of a summons from the king by the time we came downstairs, I told a page to locate Enchanter Aubrey de Fours and ask him if he would graciously grant me an audience.
The reply came that he would be delighted to meet with me in the rose bower. To which I could merely respond that I needed to be led to the rose bower.
I had not been there long before two men appeared around a hedge. One was a liveried page, who pointed to me and then disappeared, and the other was our guide from Lincoln, Iden Attewell. As he approached, I noticed how bowlegged he was. That explained how he fitted so well on a horse.
He bowed low. “Sir Durwin? When did that happen?” “Somewhere between sunset and dawn. It still feels like a dream. Did you have a restful night?”
“Far from it, thank you for asking. My friend wasn’t there, but her sister made me very welcome.”
I laughed. “I shall not be leaving today. When will you start back northward?”
“Not today, sir. My horse needs a rest.
“Does the sister?”
“Not as much as I do.”
“I shall have letters to go back to Lord Richard. If you could pick them up tomorrow?” And so it was arranged. I would also write to Lovise and Nicholaa, of course. But later. I needed to do just nothing for a few hours.
de Fours kept me waiting for quite a while, but it was a pleasant nook, the roses were remarkable, and so were the swans on the pond. I had plenty of things to forget about the last ten days and plenty of future to contemplate, so I was far from bored.
I was not surprised to see de Fours carrying a satchel when he arrived. I rose and bowed to him, and we exchange polite blessings. Then we settled side by side on the bench, both being on our best behavior.
“Congratulations on your promotion and appointment, Enchanter,” he said with a passable attempt at a smile.
“Thank you, sir, but the appointment is not confirmed.”
“It will be. He wouldn’t mention it and then not do it.”
“I feel as if he threatened to drop Lincoln Castle on me.”
“Oh, no, no. The need for such an officer has been clear for some time. I had pointed it out to him several times, and even mentioned your name in that respect.”
“Then I am truly grateful, sir,” I said, meaning that I would be if I believed a word he’d said.
“I hate sailing,” he murmured. There he might well have been sincere, and he could have added that he couldn’t understand a word of the language. Having England lifted off his shoulders would be a great relief, especially if Le Salon had crossed the Channel. Whatever Le Salon was.
“Did you bring some blocked enchantments for me to look at, sir?”
He had, of course, and I again offered to explain my technique for unblocking them. I am not usually so saintly when it comes to ignoring previous slights, but at that point I needed de Fours much more than he needed me. Besides, we served the same king.
“This one,” he said, opening his satchel, “the two-voice Ubi malum. Two years ago you told me you had made it work?”
I studied the parchment he produced. It was badly faded and cracked, centuries old, so its text had never been considered worth copying out. “This is not blocked in quite the same way mine was, sir. The ‘errors’ were deliberate, you understand?”
Of course that had never occurred to him, or indeed to anyone except me, but he caught on fast enough when I explained what the trip wires were for and how to detect them. I showed him how to look for incorrect grammar, distorted rhythm, or preposterous meanings. After we had gone through six or seven scrolls he was almost giggling, foreseeing the treasure chest of old enchantments I had opened for him.
So much for tat, now for tit.
“Master Enchanter, please tell me what Le Salon is.”
“It is short for Le Salon de Satan, a brotherhood of devil worshipers. They have sold their own souls, of course, and they wield Satanic powers. They understand that they will spend eternity in Hell, but they believe that they will be spared the usual torments in return for serving the Demon during their worldly lives. You witnessed one of their rituals, and you were extremely lucky to survive it without becoming possessed yourself. By wiping out an entire pentacle of Satanists, Sir Durwin, you have done more to set Le Salon back than the rest of Christendom has achieved in the last five years. Corneille Boterel was one of the ringleaders.”
Oh. Then maybe Sir Durwin did deserve his new title and office.
“The credit really belongs to my future wife . . . You were surprised that my Loc hwær enchantment could locate people. How do you explain how Sir Neil found the king? Had he been instructed to report to him here at Beaumont?”
de Fours glanced around to make sure we were not being overheard. “I doubt it. King Henry is as fickle as a bluebottle, Sir Durwin. He got bored besieging a castle and decided to make a flying visit to England to see how his wife fared. Nobody had prior warning of his intent.”
“Then Sir Neil . . . ?”
“I expect he headed to Dover or Hastings and then was advised by the Fiend to change direction and come here.”
So my Loc hwær, of which I was so proud, was a mere trifle compared to the powers of the Devil’s agents.
“And when he got here,” de Fours added, “he learned that you had preceded him, or perhaps he already knew that. Since he could no longer hope for a private audience with His Grace, he tried to force his way in.”
Had I arrived an hour or so later . . . Better not to mention that.
“Obviously, master, if His Grace does appoint me enchanter general for England, I cannot hope to serve his needs without a huge load of help and advice.”
Which de Fours was now happy to supply. Our rivalry was over. The ocean was to separate us, and I would not become a threat to him, a royal favorite ready to stab him in the back at every opportunity. We talked of the number of helpers I would need, how and where I should set up my headquarters, and how I should test all applicants for Satanic possession.
“I will send Sage Serge Silvain to advise you about le Salon,” de Fours announced. “He is well informed on its aims and methods, and his mother was Saxon. He speaks your argot.”
So he would be an excellent spy, able to report to de Fours on whatever I got up to in England. I saw that at once, and my guess was later confirmed, but at the time none of it seemed real to me.
In later years, de Fours and I met a few times and corresponded frequently, but I never saw the ten marks he owed me.
My hours with him that day were well spent, though, because just when everyone was ready to break their fast with dinner, we were summoned to the room where the previous night’s mayhem had taken place. A large table had been added, but the only person seated at it was a tonsured clerk, who wrote only what the king told him to.
Around it stood the half dozen or so lords able to attend at such short notice, most of them still wearing dusty travel garb. They varied in age from a bishop a little older than I to a toothless geriatric who sat beside the queen near the fireplace. The king paced. He had cast off his military ginger beard, and for the first time I saw him in formal robes, which looked very hot in that stuffy oven of a room.
de Fours and I were
recognized and our presence entered in the record. I was not told the names of the others; that had to wait until I was sworn in as a privy councillor, a few years later. I was grateful for an encouraging smile from craggy old Leicester.
“Tell them how you got here,” the king said.
Knowing how limited his patience was, I outlined my adventures very briefly, from Sir Neil’s arrival at Helmdon until he turned up where I was now standing, just inside the door.
Leicester took up the story without mentioning his destruction of a chair. “My lords, I assure you that I thought I was going to see our gracious lord struck down before my eyes. We owe the king’s life entirely to Sir Durwin. None of us was armed. I was over there, by the window, and could never have moved fast enough to interpose my person. But Sir Durwin just snapped his fingers and the assassin immediately burst into flames! He may not be a conventional swordsman, but he is a doughty fighter!”
More applause. The bishop, I noticed, remained silent, but to everyone else I was the hero of the hour. I did not feel it. I should have protected Neil and his brother from the Satanists— why else had I been sent to Lincoln with them? Now I was being honored, and two fine, honorable men had already been buried in unhallowed ground with spikes through their hearts.
“Furthermore,” the king added, “this latter-day Merlin has predicted that King Arthur is indeed buried at Glastonbury, and that my gracious wife is carrying a son!”
More wild applause. I wished the earth would open or the sky fall. Suppose I was wrong on either prediction? My reputation would be even briefer than a sneeze.
Then Enchanter General de Fours was questioned about Le Salon, and I saw that several of these English-resident councillors were as ignorant of it as I had been until the previous evening. He did go so far as to say that my success in Lincoln had been “remarkable”.
“When compared to what has been achieved in France,” the king snapped.
“And the rest of Christendom, Lord King,” de Fours protested, and cringed under a royal glare.
“The attempt on my life that was made right here in this room,” the king said, “must remain secret. You are all charged never to mention it, by speech or script. The events in Lincoln must already be public knowledge. Now, my lords, we are minded to appoint Sir Durwin our enchanter general for England, and task him to lead the battle against the Satanists here. What say you?”
