Song of the Gargoyle (3 page)

On his right now was the fosse, the narrow inner moat that surrounded the castle keep, and to his left, a warehouse and granary. And just beyond the granary was the passageway that led steeply down a cobblestoned ramp to the postern gate. Tymmon ran again now, but softly, trying to make no sound. Everything depended on whether the watchmen were awake or asleep, and if he could pass them and open the small but heavy gate without being seen.

A few yards from the guardhouse he slowed again to a walk and then went forward on tiptoe, clenching his teeth against the fearful ragged sound of his own breathing. He drew even with the guardhouse wall and crept on, afraid even to turn his head to look over his shoulder to where the guards would be sleeping—or watching him with angry suspicion. But when he was almost past and no one had called to him to stop, he glanced over his shoulder, and there they were, just as Komus had said they would be, sprawled forward across the stone table. As he watched, one of them, old Topad it was, snorted and stirred in his sleep, lifted his head slightly, turned it to face directly toward Tymmon—and went on sleeping.

Two heavy crossbars held the gate, and he was forced to put down his bundle and use all his strength to lift them one by one and slide them back. At his push the gate swung heavily with a muted groan, and he darted out. It wasn’t until he had pushed it back into place and started down the path that he remembered his precious bundle. For a moment he wavered, taking two steps forward and two back. But surely no fate could be worse than to be a fugitive trying to live off the land—with nothing but empty hands.

Running back frantically, he pulled the gate open a tiny crack and peeked through, to see both of the watchmen now on their feet and staring—but not at him. Standing in the doorway of the guardhouse the two old men were looking up the ramp in the direction from which Tymmon had come. And from beyond them something that had not yet come into Tymmon’s range of vision was approaching, clanking and thudding as it came.

He seized his bundle and shoved the gate to. For a moment he leaned against it, gasping with fear. The pathway that led down from the postern gate was long and narrow and zigzagged steeply down the face of the cliff on which Austerneve Castle was built. As it twisted and turned it passed again and again under the turrets and ramparts from which boiling oil had once been poured down upon would-be invaders. And it also passed, again and again, in full view of anyone standing outside the postern entry.

If they opened the gate and came out he was doomed—or would have been if this pathway down to the village of Qweasle had not been, for many years, a favorite playground for Tymmon and Lonfar. Only a few yards away a stunted, wind-twisted tree grew up out of the cliff face just below the surface of the path. Below the leaning tree the cliff fell away sharply, a sheer drop to the next crossing of the path almost fifty feet below. But if one was agile and daring enough one could drop down onto the thick trunk and then swing beneath it into a shallow depression beneath a network of exposed roots.

Tymmon was crouching in the Troll’s Lair, as he and Lonfar had named the shallow cave, when the two guards, and others—unseen, but surely the same men who had taken Komus—came through the gate and stood almost directly above him. There was the squeak and clank of armor, the thud of heavy footsteps, and the mutter of muffled voices. And then the voice of Black Helmet, hollow and gonglike, rang out clearly.

“Then tell me, old man. If, as you say, no one has passed through this gate since yesterday, why were the bars not in place? Is it not part of your duty to see that the bars are set at nightfall and remain so until dawn?”

Another familiar voice, that of old Topad, spoke then. “It is indeed, good sir. But the Qweasle stonemasons are expected soon, and I had just opened the bars in preparation for their early arrival when your lordships came upon us. But no one has yet passed through the gate this morning. If your lordships are looking for someone in particular, we will be glad to watch for such a person and send him to your lordships when he arrives.”

“Very good.” A new voice was speaking now, high-pitched and youthful. “You should be on the lookout for...

But at that point Black Helmet spoke again, his voice blurring into a meaningless roar. A long pause followed and then the sound of heavy clanking footsteps began again and gradually faded into nothing. When the sound had completely died away, Swiffer, the other watchman, spoke accusingly.

“You lied about the bars, Topad.”

“Yes, I lied, Swiffer. To protect your worthless hide. Was it not your turn to bar the gate last night?”

“It was. And I did. I particularly remember the barring last night because it was then that I caught my third finger behind the bar and mashed it badly. See how bruised it is. Do you not remember how I remarked about it?”

Old Topad laughed.
“Remarked,
indeed.
Cursed
might better describe your comments, as I recall. But that was two days ago. Your mind is playing tricks on you again.”

“Or yours on you. I am certain ‘twas but last night.”

For a moment the watchmen’s voices gave way to silence, and then Swiffer spoke again. “Seems strange,” he said.

“What seems strange to you now, old friend?”

“That our recent visitors hid their faces behind lowered visors, although they were not under attack or even the threat of it.”

“That is so. And that their leader seemed not to want us to know the object of their search. Did you notice how he stopped the one who would have told us?”

“So he did.”

There was another pause, and then Topad said, “Ah, well, it is not for the likes of us to try to understand the behavior of noble men-at-arms.”

Then the gate’s hinges groaned again and silence fell. And in the small cave beneath the bent tree Tymmon crouched low over his bundle and prayed for the strength and courage to continue his journey.

I
T COULD NOT HAVE
been long that Tymmon waited in the temporary safety of the tiny cave before he made ready to continue his journey. Only long enough for his heartbeat to slow slightly and for his shaking hands to become steady enough to lift his bundle and tie it back across his shoulders. But by then it was already too late.

He was just beginning the dangerous climb up to the pathway when he stopped suddenly and scrambled back into the hollow behind the hanging roots. The sound of voices was drifting up the steep hillside from somewhere far below.

Safely back in his hiding place, he inched forward and peered down. On a stretch of path several turnings below the cave a half dozen workmen were trudging upward, laden with the heavy tools of their trade. Clearly there had been some truth in Topad’s excuse for the unbarred postern gate. The stonemasons of Qweasle were indeed arriving early for work in the castle grounds.

The workmen, dressed in homespun smocks and tattered leggings, wound their way slowly up the zigzag path, chatting and laughing as they came. The sound grew louder as they crossed above Tymmon’s hiding place and then faded as they reached the gateway and rang the bell for entrance.

But the stonemasons’ voices had scarcely died away when others took their place and three old women, village seamstresses on their way to work in the castle’s sewing rooms, began the long climb. They were moving even more slowly, and before they finally reached their destination, the sun was well up and, at the foot of Austerneve Tor, the village of Qweasle was up and stirring.

There was little chance now that Tymmon could make his way through the scattering of shops and homes, past the central square with its fountain where there was a constant throng of water carriers and washerwomen, and across the church courtyard with its usual gatherings of old men, without being seen by someone he knew.

If Black Helmet and his men had already visited the village offering rewards for his capture he would possibly be stopped and held prisoner. And even if the villagers let him pass he could not stop their tongues from wagging. When Komus’s captors did arrive they would soon learn, not only that Tymmon, son of Komus the jester, had passed that way, but also exactly when. And then Black Helmet would punish Komus for lying about when his son had left Austerneve.

They would punish Komus. How would they punish him? Horrible possibilities pushed their way into Tymmon’s mind. He had himself witnessed punishments meted out to commoners by angry nobles. Even under the rule of kindly old King Austern there had been public beatings, imprisonment in tiny cages, and once, long ago, a beheading. And he had heard of even more terrible tortures in other kingdoms.

No, he could
not
be seen today in Qweasle. It was a risk that, for Komus’s sake, could not be taken. And there was only one way to avoid it. Arranging his lumpy bundle into a makeshift pillow, Tymmon prepared to stay where he was, in the cold, damp hollow beneath the twisted tree, until the day ended and darkness returned.

The weather continued cold and gray, and the wind, sweeping up the face of the cliff, curled in and out of the shallow cave like a current of icy water. Wrapped in his long cape and blanket, Tymmon tried to still his chattering teeth and keep his mind on other things.

He thought first and longest about what had happened and what it could all mean. There were so many unanswered questions: Who was the man in the helmet that looked like the grotesque face of some shiny black beast? And who had sent him? And why?

Of one thing he was certain. Black Helmet and his men, although they wore the armor and carried the arms of noblemen, were not members of King Austern’s court. In a castle community as small as Austerneve, every permanent resident knew every other at least by sight. And Tymmon, to whom men-at-arms were objects of passionate interest, knew the armor and bearings of all of Austerneve’s noble knights. He would quickly recognize, for instance, Lonfar’s father, Sir Hildar, by the azure orle and eagle fess point emblazoned on his shield and breastplate. And even if his armorial bearings were not visible, Tymmon would certainly recognize him by his old flat-topped helmet.

The noble knight, Sir Hildar. Tymmon’s thoughts were tinged with bitterness as his mind drifted back to Lonfar, his onetime friend. And to the days when he and Lonfar had first studied together under Komus’s tutelage. When they had daily helped each other to learn, not only reading and writing, but also all the ancient lore that Lonfar, as a future knight, was expected to master.

Actually, it had been Tymmon who had done most of the helping since it was he, the son of a lowly court jester, who had been much quicker to memorize every fess and bar and dexter, every lion guardant and dragon rampant, on the armorial bearings of scores of noble families. Lonfar had often said that it was a shame that, because of his lowly birth, Tymmon could not hope to someday be a noble knight. Sometimes it had been said in a kindly and regretful way. But at other times, when Tymmon had been slow to do his bidding, it was said sharply, as a means of reminding Tymmon of his duty to be humble and obedient when in noble company.

Tymmon sighed, and shivered, and brought his thoughts back to the problems at hand. To the cold, damp cave, and to the question of the armed men. That their armor was not familiar was most strange. And stranger still, he could not remember seeing any heraldic markings on their breastplates. Of course the light had been dim and flickering, and he had been looking down from high above, but still he would surely have noted such bearings had they been visible. It was possible, of course, for men-at-arms to cover their breastplates with unmarked tunics in order to keep their identity secret.

For a while Tymmon toyed with the idea that the intruders might have been brigands, one of the bands of cutthroat highwaymen who lived in forests and other deserted places and came out to rob and murder highborn travelers and lowly country folk alike.

The kingdom of Austerneve had good reason to fear such outlaws, since it was such a band that, three years before, had kidnapped and killed Prince Mindor, King Austern’s only son and heir. That terrible day would never fade from Tymmon’s memory. He and Lonfar had been playing in the central courtyard near the great gate when a messenger arrived with the news that plunged the whole kingdom into mourning.

The people had mourned not only for the sorrow of their beloved old king, but for themselves as well. For a people ruled by an aging king whose only heir was a little granddaughter, who was then a child scarcely out of infancy.

Tymmon had grieved in particular for poor little Princess Arnica, a slight, pale child whom he had often seen at play in the inner courtyard. She seemed to him a lonely child, and knowing that she, like Tymmon himself, had been motherless since infancy, he had always felt for her a special sympathy. And with her father’s death she had become a royal orphan. It had seemed strange and terrible to Tymmon that God could have allowed such sorrow to come to a child of such noble birth. And it seemed even more tragic that her father had died at the hands of a scurvy band of brigands, instead of in glorious battle as would seem right and proper for a royal personage such as Prince Mindor of Austerneve.

Brigands had indeed been a terrible scourge in all of the North Countries. But on further thought it seemed unlikely to Tymmon that the five intruders had been brigands, since their arms and armor had been that of noblemen and the brigand bands were said to be made up of commoners—renegade peasants and deserters from the ranks of ordinary foot soldiers.

The five knights could, of course, have been recent arrivals or even simply visitors to Austerneve. Noble visitors to the castle came and went constantly, and many of them were unfamiliar to Tymmon. But that possibility made the taking of Komus even more senseless. Why would some outsider, someone who knew little of Austerneve and its people, capture and carry away a court jester—a person of no rank or importance although a great favorite of the old king? That was a question that returned again and again. Why would anyone abduct a simple court jester? Why Komus? And then—why my father?