A Minstrel’s Quest (The Trouble with Magic Book 4) (2 page)

The greater part of Corlin’s repertoire consisted of old folk-songs and ballads taught to him by his father, and very soon baritones, basses and even the soprano voices of a couple of ‘the ladies’ were joining with his smooth rich tenor, and the mellow and resonant tones of the old gimalin. After about an hour of singing and playing some of the livelier songs and tunes, appetising aromas began drifting in from the kitchen, prompting him to rest the gimalin against Otty’s slumbering form and push his way to the bar.

He grinned at Ned. “D’you think I’ve earned my supper yet?”

The landlord laughed and jerked his head. “Follow me, minstrel.” It was Corlin’s turn to laugh. “My name’s Corlin. Corlin Bentfoot.”

The inn’s kitchen lay behind a door near the end of the bar. On a scrubbed whitewood table were set a pewter trencher, a tankard of ale, half a small loaf and a bowl of thick brown stew.

Ned flicked a hand towards the table. “Tuck in. Molly will look after you, and after you’ve eaten perhaps you’ll entertain my customers again?”

A short plump woman with corn coloured hair worn in thick coiled braids looked round from the big earthenware sink and gave him a broad smile. “That be good mutton stew. It’ll stick to your ribs and put hair on your chest.”

She giggled as, surprised and amused, Corlin waggled his eyebrows at her, and her blue eyes twinkled as she ladled stew into his trencher.

He was just mopping up the last drops of gravy with a chunk of bread when the door creaked open and Ned sidled in, his fearful expression adding length to his already long face.

Lowering his lanky frame onto a chair, he turned troubled eyes on Corlin. “A stranger came in a few minutes past and asked if you was ‘ere. When I said you was in the kitchen, he said to give you this.”

With a trembling hand he dropped a small folded piece of thick coarse paper on the table, and snatched his hand back as if he’d been burned.

A knowing twitch crossed Corlin’s mouth as he picked up the folded square. “It seems to me that you’ve already had a peek at what it says.”

The obviously unhappy landlord nodded. “Yes, and I’m sorry. It’s only one word, but one I never thought I’d see.”

Intrigued and slightly perturbed by Ned’s strange behaviour, Corlin unfolded the little wad, turned it the right way up and stared at the single word scrawled in heavy black ink. It seemed to be a name; ‘Malchevolus’.

Ned’s voice quavered. “Don’t say it out loud. I’ve got to get back to the bar.”

He scraped back his chair and hurried out of the kitchen as though it was on fire. Corlin took one more look at the strange word, shrugged, and tucked the paper into the inside pocket of his tunic. He had a pretty good idea where it had come from. After taking one more swig of his ale, he thanked Molly and followed Ned into the bar. The stool he had been sitting on earlier had been taken, but was eagerly vacated as the gimalin was eased out of Otty’s drunken embrace and thrust into Corlin’s hands. He settled it against his body, struck a chord and grimaced. The old instrument had already gone out of tune. Putting that down to its condition, and the muggy warmth of the room, he took a few moments to retune it, and then settled down to play.

It was only after he placed the gimalin to one side and announced there would be no more songs that night that the inn’s mostly tipsy clientele began to drink up and slowly drift away into the frosty night. When the last one had left, and Otty had been removed to a bed of soft straw in the stable, Ned bolted and barred the door.

Slowly he crossed the room and sat down beside Corlin who was gazing into the dying fire. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

The minstrel nodded and waited, saying nothing as Ned looked everywhere, wringing his bony hands as he tried not to meet Corlin’s gaze.

Suddenly, eyes wide, he grasped Corlin’s wrist. “That name...on the paper; never say it out loud.”

Puzzled by Ned’s apparently superstitious nature, Corlin frowned. “D’you know what it is then?”

The worried landlord gave a vigorous and assertive nod, fear gleaming in his pale eyes. “Yes, I do; but the thing is, do you?”

Corlin thought for a moment before replying. “I think so. I believe it’s the name of the owner of something I’m searching for. But why shouldn’t I say it out loud?”

His hands clasped tightly together, Ned looked round the empty room as if afraid someone might be listening. His voice was hoarse, barely rising above a whisper. “ ‘Cos if anyone says his name, they’re in his power.”

Corlin’s response was a derisory snort. “Thanks Ned, but don’t you think that just an old tale to scare naughty children with?”

Ned bowed his head, shaking it from side to side in despair. “Then at least memorise it and burn the paper it’s written on.”

Rubbing his eyes, Corlin pushed himself off his chair and stood in front of the fire. “I’ve already memorised it, so if it will make you feel any better...” He fished the folded paper out of his tunic pocket and threw it into the glowing embers. “...there. Now, I’m very tired. I’ve been on the road for three days and, and entertaining your customers half the night.” He gave Ned a cheeky little half smile. “Have I earned bed and board, or shall I go and keep my horse company?”

Looking greatly relieved, Ned pointed to a door in the far corner of the bar-room. “Turn right at the top of the stairs. Your bed’s well earned; as for your bath, I’ll get Molly to do you one in the kitchen in the morning.”

Corlin nodded. “I’ll just go out and check on Megan and Hobb, and then I’ll be away to my bed.”

When he came back, Ned was still sat gazing into the fire. He looked up and smiled his thanks as Corlin bolted and barred the door. “Good night Corlin Bentfoot. Sleep well.”

Corlin nodded. “I will. Good night.”

Ned listened to the uneven cadence of the minstrel’s twisted foot on the wooden staircase. When he heard the latch clatter and his door close, Ned turned out the lamps and checked the fire. The piece of paper still lay among the last embers, its edges barely scorched, the black scrawled name glowering up at him. Grasping a heavy poker, Ned pushed the malign scrap further into the coals, holding it down until it finally flared out of existence in a sickly green flame. His mind more troubled than it had been for many years, Ned made his way up the stairs to his own bed.

Ned was already up and about when Corlin, wrapped in a blanket, limped down the stairs. He could hear Molly singing as she clattered about in the kitchen.

Ned’s welcoming grin changed to a frown as he caught sight of Corlin’s feet below the edge of the blanket. “Pardon me for asking, but can’t you walk without your boots on?”

Corlin pulled the blanket closer around him, against the morning chill. “Oh. I can walk, but not very well.” He stuck out his left foot. “I had this boot specially made. You can take a look at it if you like, while I’m having my bath.”

Embarrassed by the minstrel’s candour, Ned gave a brief nod and went back to trimming the lamp wicks.

Molly poked her head round the kitchen door. She grinned as she saw Corlin. “Your bath’s ready, young man. I’ll leave you to it as I has things to do upstairs.”

The heat of the bath water crept into Corlin’s bones, the strong soap eased muscles that ached from too long in the saddle, and with his body scrubbed and his shoulder-length hair washed, he generally felt a whole lot better. The water began to chill and Corlin stepped reluctantly out of the round wooden tub. He had just wrapped one of the large linen drying cloths around his waist when Molly came bustling in with his clothes draped over one arm.

Totally unabashed by Corlin’s semi-nakedness, she dropped the clothes on a chair. “I’ve brushed your coat and trousers as best I can, but the rest you’ll have to make do with.” She looked him up and down, eyeing his broad shoulders and well-muscled body, an appreciative smile on her full lips. “When you’re dressed perhaps you’ll give Ned a hand with the tub?”

Before Corlin could reply she had bustled out again, leaving the young man a little bewildered, and shivering in the kitchen’s early morning chill. He dried and dressed as quickly as he could, hoping there would be some breakfast before he continued on his journey.

He was just combing his fingers through the tangled mess of his hair when Ned strolled in and nodded towards the bathtub. “We’ll take that outside and sling the water down the yard if you’re ready. Then Molly can come in and make us some breakfast.”

Right on cue, Corlin’s stomach growled and Ned chuckled as he grasped one of the tub’s thick rope handles. “In return for breakfast...” Corlin’s stomach growled again as he gripped the tub’s other handle...”I’ll be asking a favour of you.” Just before he braced to lift the tub, Ned glanced down at Corlin’s foot in its calf-length, laced and buckled boot. “Will you be able to manage this? If not, Molly can do it.”

Corlin gave Ned a twisted little smile. “It’s all right. I was born with it. I might be gimpy but I’m not a cripple, so let’s get this out of the way. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”

As if to add credence to his statement, his stomach growled again. Ned grinned and the two men hauled the tub out through the back door and into the yard. By the time the tub was emptied and stowed away, and Corlin had attended to the needs of Megan and Hobb, a hearty breakfast of bacon, fried potatoes and beans was ready in the kitchen. The two men ate in silence for a few minutes, while the early morning sounds of carters, street hawkers and travellers drifted in from the street.

With his trencher almost cleared, Corlin frowned and looked across the table at Ned. “So, what was this favour you wanted?”

The landlord took a swig of his small beer, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and leaned back in his chair. “Well, master Corlin; I was wondering if, seeing as it’s se’en-night and we usually gets a bit busy, whether you’d oblige by staying one more night and entertaining the house?”

Corlin felt torn between decisions. He had been made to feel welcome in this busy market town beside the River Teg, and he knew it wouldn’t take much for him to be persuaded to stay for a week or two. On the other hand, although there were still almost ten months before the next Winter Festival, something was telling him that there was no time to waste. He had a feeling deep down that his quest to find the mysterious clock and so free his brother Clies from slavery was not going to be easy.

Almost as if he was reading his thoughts, Ned volunteered “There’ll likely be a hard frost tonight.”

Born and raised on a small-holding, Corlin was used to all weathers, but the thought of a full stomach and a warm bed on a frosty night, won hands down over the prospect of sleeping under a hedge or in someone’s barn. He cleared his trencher, then smiled and nodded as he chewed the last tasty mouthful. Ned stood up from the table, clapped him on the shoulder by way of a thank you and went out into the bar to lay and light the fire. A few minutes later, Corlin followed him out and perched on the wooden bench by the wall. To his surprise, Otty’s gimalin was still there, but when he thought about it he realised that it probably wasn’t worth anybody’s while to steal it anyway.

He called across the room to Ned, who was busily laying sticks and kindling. “Is Otty still in the stable?”

Ned shook his head. “His da will have fetched ‘im in the cart like he always does. Won’t see ‘im again for a while, not ‘til he’s done some labouring and earned a few coppers.”

Corlin thought about tuning the gimalin, but then realised it would be out of tune again, long before the time came to play it, so he decided to spend an hour or two exploring the town. After checking that his hosts had no need of his help, he pulled on his coat and let himself out into the street, leaving Megan and Hobb to rest in the comparative warmth of the stable. It being the week-end, the market was already set up, and he headed through the narrow winding streets towards the unmistakeable sounds rising through the chill morning air from the busy stalls and stock-pens.

He had no coin to spend so, letting himself be carried along by the crowd, he immersed himself in the hustle and bustle, occasionally pushing forward to view a stall or a pen of livestock. It was while he was staring with some amazement at a pair of massive-horned and ferocious looking goats, that he felt someone nudge his arm. He stepped to one side, thinking it was merely a jostle, but another nudge, more deliberate and insistent, made him turn. Just behind his right shoulder stood Otty.

The florid-faced man’s wide mouth curved in a nervous little half-smile. “You’re still here then?”

Concerned for his personal safety, Corlin took half a pace backwards. “Yes; just letting my horse rest. I’ll probably move on very soon.”

Otty frowned and hunched his broad shoulders. “You’ll be wanting to use my gimalin again then?” Before Corlin could reply, Otty flapped a dismissive hand. “It’s all right. I don’t mind. You make a far better job of it than I ever could. I never seem to be able to get the tuning right.”

Corlin grinned. “Hardly surprising. Most of the tuning pegs are worn out.”

Placing his hand on Corlin’s arm, Otty cast a few furtive glances around before steering the minstrel to the side of the street. He turned his face away from the crowd and put his mouth close to Corlin’s ear. “Have you heard of the Duke of Tregwald?”

Corlin shook his head. “No, but if you sing it once, I’ll pick it up.”

Otty’s head jerked back, his mouth fell open and he let out a loud and high-pitched shriek of laughter. “Ohhh! That’s a good one!”

Ignoring the stares of passers-by, Corlin frowned. “What?”

Quickly recovering his composure, Otty leaned forward, his expression suddenly serious. “It’s not a song. The Duke of Tregwald is the overlord of the City of Tregwald, and all the land thereabouts. It’s about a day’s ride south of here.”

Corlin shrugged. “So, what?”

Otty let out a great sigh, his breath rising in a white cloud on the cold air. “You obviously haven’t heard the tale.” His face brightened and he looked up at Corlin. “Buy me a tankard of ale and I’ll tell it to you.”

The minstrel shook his head. He might be country born and bred, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew that once the ale was inside Otty, who, according to Ned, couldn’t hold his drink, the tale would remain untold.

“I’ll tell you what. We’ll go back to the inn, you tell me the tale, and if I think it’s worth it, you shall have your ale. How’s that?”

Otty’s face screwed up as he considered Corlin’s offer. After a moment or two he nodded, if reluctantly. “All right then. Anyway, it’s cold out here.”