A Minstrel’s Quest (The Trouble with Magic Book 4) (3 page)

The bar already had customers when Corlin and Otty walked in. Not wanting to put temptation in his new found friend’s way, Corlin pushed him gently towards the bench and sat down beside him with his old gimalin in between them.

Otty’s eyes strayed to the bar and Corlin shook his head. “Story first; ale after.”

The young fellow sighed. “All right. Well, Duke Tregwald has a gimalin at his castle.”

Corlin’s jaw dropped and his eyebrows climbed. “That’s it?”

Otty’s tongue clicked with impatience. “Of course not! Now listen. The Duke’s gimalin is very unusual. You see, no-one has been able to play it. The story goes that the Duke is obliged to grant a boon to anyone who can make the gimalin sing.” He looked askance at Corlin. “I was thinking that you might just be the one to do it.”

For a few moments neither of them spoke, letting the warmth and the hum of the bar wash around them. Customers had seated themselves on each side of them and Corlin was beginning to feel a bit squashed. He stood up, gathered up Otty’s old gimalin and signalled with a jerk of his head that he should follow him into the kitchen. Ned watched the pair from behind the bar, but despite the little frown that flickered across his brow, he said nothing.

Molly was standing at the stone sink, preparing vegetables. She turned, her eyes asking the question as they came in.

Corlin rested the gimalin in a corner and held up his hand. “We won’t be long Molly. It’s getting too noisy to talk in there.”

The landlady frowned. “Take yourselves off to the stables then. It’s nearly lunchtime and I don’t want you two under my feet.”

As they hurried into the close and richly pungent atmosphere of the stables, Megan whickered a welcome and Hobb called down from a beam. “Hello boys!” Corlin grinned at Otty’s startled expression, but didn’t say anything to enlighten him.

He leaned against the side of Megan’s stall. “So, why can’t anybody play this duke’s gimalin?”

Otty scratched his head. “It’s supposed to have some kind of enchantment on it. When the spell’s broken, if the Duke doesn’t grant the boon something terrible will happen to him, or his castle, or summat like that. Even the Duke’s own magician can’t get a sound from it.” He smirked. “I don’t think he’s a real magician anyway.”

Corlin rubbed at the itchy stubble on his chin. “Hmm. I don’t suppose you’ve any idea what this boon is?”

His companion shrugged. “I think it’s whatever the player wants.” He cocked his head. “Maybe if you do it you could ask for some kind of help with your quest.”

The minstrel gave him a long hard stare. “How did you know about that?”

To Corlin’s surprise, Otty gave him a broad wink. “I’m not always as drunk as people think I am. A couple of soldiers came into the stables last night, and they were talking about it. I thought they were after your horse, but they just looked her over, made some rude comments about me, and then left.” He chuckled. “All sorts of things come my way if they think I’m sleeping one off.”

Corlin found that he was beginning to revise his opinion of this apparently simple rustic, and although he’d never admit it, a grudging admiration was developing for the young fellow who seemed able to muddle through life without doing, or coming to, too much harm. His brain started working harder than it had been used to for quite a long time, as questions and possibilities tumbled over and over in his mind.

Trying to appear nonchalant, he looked across at Otty who was leaning against the rail of the opposite stable. “How far is it to Tregwald?”

For a moment, Otty appeared not to have understood the question, then he grinned. “About a day’s ride in good weather. You thinking of going for it then?”

Corlin frowned. “Maybe. Now, let’s get back inside.”

With Otty close behind him he limped through the stables and round to the inn’s front door. He didn’t want to upset Molly by going back through the kitchen. Leaving Otty at the bar with the promised tankard of ale, he made his way up to his room, removed his boots and lay down on the bed to think.

He was woken by Ned tapping on the door. “Corlin! D’you want a bite to eat before you start?”

The minstrel swung his feet off the bed, hobbled over to the door and opened it. “Thanks Ned. I’ll get my boots on and I’ll be right down.”

The landlord’s gaze drifted to Corlin’s misaligned left foot, with its bent ankle and inwardly angled toes. “Did your folks ever think of taking you to a Physician-Mage?”

Leaving the door open, Corlin plonked himself down on the narrow bed and began easing his foot into its special boot. “They’d heard of such healers, but being smallholders, and with two boys only a year apart, there wasn’t anything to spare for those kinds of services. They scraped together every penny they had once I’d stopped growing, to get this boot made for me.”

He fastened the last buckle, pulled on the other boot and gave Ned a wistful smile. “Perhaps when I make my fortune I might search one out and see if he can do anything, but as I’m well past twenty-one, it’s not likely.” He stood up and tugged at his jerkin. “Now, what’s for dinner?”

After he’d eaten, Corlin tuned the gimalin in the kitchen so that he was ready to play as soon as he went through to the bar. For a reason he couldn’t put a finger on he was feeling really good, and he played even better than he had done the previous night. Happily he accompanied a sprightly old man with an uncommon skill on the penny whistle, and a couple of customers who stepped up beside him wishing to sing, and by the end of the evening he had added three new songs to his repertoire. A steady stream, mostly of half-coppers but some pennies, was handed over the bar for him, even though he had to stop three or four times to tune the old gimalin, and once to help lift Otty back onto the bench after he slid with a resounding thump to the floor. He guessed that this time his new friend wasn’t faking.

Midnight drew nearer and Corlin changed the lively songs and tales of heroic deeds for slower and gentler more poetic ballads. He had just played the last chord of the last song when Molly bustled into the room, a long besom gripped in her meaty fist. The few hangers-on took the hint and Ned bid them good night as he held the door open for Molly to whisk the floor sweepings out into the street. After Corlin had helped Ned remove Otty to his customary bed of straw in the stables, the doors of ‘The Red Dog’ were closed, barred and bolted for another night.

Ned went back behind the bar, picked up a small wooden bowl, chipped and darkened with age and, almost with pride, handed it to Corlin. “There you are my fine young minstrel; that’s all yours.”

Corlin grinned wide-eyed at the collection of half-pennies, pennies and even a half-silver which met his gaze. “It would take me a month or more where I come from to collect that amount.” He tipped the coins on the bar-top and picked up the small silver. “Now I can pay my debts. How much do I owe you Ned?”

The landlord shook his head. “Consider your bill paid, but you can give me a couple of pennies for the ale that Otty’s poured down his throat. Keep the rest towards another gimalin. That half-silver should go a long way towards it.”

Corlin worried his bottom lip with his teeth as he scooped the generous handful of coins into the pocket of his jerkin. His hazel eyes twinkling, he looked at Ned. “If I’m lucky, I might be able to get one for nothing.”

Ned rested his elbows on the bar. “You’ve heard about it then?”

Corlin nodded. “Yes. Otty told me. I think it’s worth a try, don’t you?”

The landlord rubbed his long chin. “Certainly, with your talent. A few have tried over the years, and Duke Ergwyn is gettin’ on a bit, so things might change when he departs this life. So, you’ll ask for the gimalin as your boon?”

“Yes, unless there’s a rule that says any different.”

Ned frowned. “When will you go? There’s no travel allowed outside the town boundary on Sun Day unless it’s the King’s business.”

The contempt in Corlin’s voice was unmistakeable. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard in a long time. Whose crack-pot rule is that?”

Ned raised an eyebrow and placed a bony finger across his lips. “Be careful what you say, but I’ll give you three guesses.”

Corlin’s mouth twisted. “The same one that has the gimalin, I suppose.” As Ned gave him an affirmative nod, Corlin shrugged. “That means I’m stuck here for another day.” He waggled a hand. “No offence.”

Ned smiled. “None taken; but if you’re afeared of getting bored, I can think of a few ways for you to occupy your time.”

He chuckled like a drain as Corlin gave him a long flat look, then poured two tankards of ale and gestured towards the fire-place. “C’mon. Let’s get your day sorted, and perhaps a few other things as well.”

Two hours and another tankard of ale later, the minstrel tumbled into bed, warm with the heat from the fire and the prospect of not having to get up early in the morning. He fell asleep and dreamed of gimalins and games.

There was no sign of Otty when Corlin went into the stable to check on Megan. Knowing they would be on the road again the next day, he also gave his saddle and bridle a thorough inspection, and ran a pick round Megan’s hooves. Hobb was busy winkling out spiders and beetles from among the beams, so Corlin left the chopped apple he had brought, on a shelf and out of Megan’s reach.

Although the street which ran past ‘The Red Dog’ was almost deserted, he could hear the rising clamour of excited voices. The noise was coming from three streets away in Fore Street, a broad flat-cobbled thoroughfare, a good part of which accommodated the market three days a week, and ran from a hundred yards inside the town gate at the river end, almost to the gate which led out to the hills and scattered patches of woodland on the other side. Corlin was eager to be amongst the swelling crowd.

There had been events and festivals in the small town he had so recently left, but nothing like this one that Ned had told him about the night before. As they sat by the fire with their ale, Ned had filled a long-stemmed pipe with smoking leaf, lit it with a taper and sat puffing contentedly. After a few moments he leaned back in his chair, his thin face creased in a broad smile as he gestured towards Corlin with his pipe-stem. “I think what you’ll enjoy most is the Barrel-ball game, but you’ll have to get there by mid-morning to get a good view.”

His interest immediately roused, Corlin leaned forward. “What’s that all about then?”

The inn-keeper took another puff of his pipe, placed it aside on the fender and folded his hands comfortably across his thin chest. “There be two teams of nine men, each team defending the barrel at their own end of the street. A man called ‘the pitcher’ is chosen out of the crowd at the last minute, and ‘e throws the ball as far down the street as ‘e can. Each team will try to get the ball past the opposing team and into their barrel at the end. It can get quite violent, but so far no one has been killed.” He gave a hoarse little chuckle. “Cuts, bumps and bruises mainly.”

Corlin was intrigued. “How long does this game last?”

Ned chuckled again. “Until one team has dropped the ball into their opponents’ barrel three times. The best part is, it’s played every weekend in winter, unless of course the weather is too bad.”

The young minstrel frowned. “Suppose it gets dark first?”

Ned retrieved his pipe from the fender and relit it before replying. “Then they plays by torchlight.” He grinned. “That’s when it gets
really
interesting. Somebody hid the ball during the last game last year, and it ended up in a free-for-all.”

Now, with a good breakfast inside him and his mount cared for, Corlin set out to join the crowds which, only a few hours ago, had pushed and jostled in the market but now were gathered in chattering good-natured groups along both sides of the main street. In anticipation of being on his feet longer than usual, he had borrowed a strong ash-wood staff which Ned normally kept behind the bar for cracking over the shoulders of rough-necks and trouble-makers. The landlord wouldn’t be needing it until the evening. The market and all the town’s inns and taverns were closed for the day. The morning was blessed with bright sunshine, a clear blue sky and a chill but gentle breeze. As Corlin edged his way to the front he could see the barrels standing about a hundred paces apart, and a thick layer of straw laid over the cobbles between them. He also noticed that for some of the time, one team would have the sun in their eyes, a distinct early advantage for their opponents. Someone tapped his shoulder and he turned just as a great roar went up from the crowds lining the street. It was Ned.

The inn-keeper raised his voice to be heard above the excited clamour. “Glad you found a good spot, and just in time. The teams are coming out.”

Corlin grinned and nodded, then gave a gasp of surprise as he caught sight of Otty, a blue kerchief round his neck, like the eight other men who stood beside him, all trying to look ferocious and blocking the other team’s view of their barrel. From the other end of the pitch a man wearing a red neckerchief stepped forward. Under one arm he held a ball, reasonably round in shape, made of strips and patches of leather, and about the size of his head.

He raised his other arm and called out. “Bring forth the pitcher!”

There was a brief lull as everyone looked around to see who was going to be pushed forward, then a storm of applause rose into the air as a man who Corlin recognised as being one who had been singing with gusto beside him the night before, was bundled out into the street. Making the most of the moment, he made a theatrical bow in every direction, before the ball was placed in his hands and, to Corlin’s surprise, a blindfold tied over his eyes. A player from each team ran down to stand beside him, a call was made and a coin was tossed. The blindfolded man was then marched down to one end of the pitch, and turned to face the opposite end.

After the two players had rejoined their teams, the shout went out “Ball in play!”

The blindfolded man hurled the ball, and was pulled out of the way just in time to prevent him being mowed down by players charging for the ball which had landed with a heavy thud two-thirds the way down the pitch.

Corlin had to shout at Ned above the noise as the game got under way. “Is the ball heavy?”

Ned shook his head and yelled back. “Not on a day like this. It’s stuffed with feathers and horse-hair. It’s a bugger if it gets wet though! It’ll be a fast game today.”

Corlin grinned and leaned on his staff to watch the game which he was already finding totally fascinating. The ball was kicked, thrown, picked up and run with, clothing grabbed and players wrestled to the ground in every effort to gain possession. Simply because it was Otty’s team and he didn’t know anyone else, Corlin cheered for the blues.

After about an hour, play was stopped, the players left the pitch and two men with rakes began to level out the churned up straw.

Puzzled, Corlin turned to Ned. “Is that it? Who won?”

Ned chuckled. “No, they’re just taking a break for a pee and a tankard of ale. So far the blues have scored two and the reds have scored one. It’s a wonder that nobody’s been taken off injured so far. When they come back they’ll change ends, so nobody has an unfair advantage.”

Very soon the game recommenced, and an hour later it was all over, brought to a decisive conclusion by Otty’s lobbing the ball cleanly over the opposing team’s heads and into their barrel after a blistering run from one end of the pitch to the other. Impressed, Corlin cheered as loudly as anybody and vowed to treat his deceptively chubby friend to a shot of spirits later that evening.

* * *

With the fire well made up with logs, and crackling merrily, Ned crossed the room and unfastened the door, ready for the evening trade.

He turned and looked at Corlin. “Will you play tonight?”

The young minstrel smiled and nodded. “Yes, I might as well, but I’m not staying up late. I’ve got a full day’s ride ahead of me and hopefully I can be there before dark.”

Ned’s brow furrowed. “Are you going alone?”

Just as Corlin was about to answer, the latch clattered and the innkeeper’s attention turned of necessity to his first three customers of the evening. Even when Corlin took a break, Ned was kept too busy to say more than a few casual words, although he did echo the minstrel’s thoughts when he commented on Otty’s conspicuous absence. Corlin hoped he hadn’t come to any harm during the barrel-ball match.

Towards the end of the evening the crowd in the bar began thinning out and Corlin was thinking of making the next song his last. As he was deciding what to play, an elderly white-haired man holding a cloth-wrapped bundle under his arm opened the door, looked around as if searching for someone, then shuffled up to the bar. Corlin took a few moments to retune, watching the man as he bought a tankard of ale, slowly crossed the room and sat down near him.

Resting the bundle across his knees, the man began to unwrap it, and Corlin couldn’t help noticing that the top joint on two of his fingers was missing. The cloth fell away, revealing an old-style but skilfully crafted gimalin, its smooth flat top finished with rolled edges, and the gently curved body of rich golden fine-grained wood shining softly in the light of the lamps. Now yellowed with age, the bone tuning pegs were set beneath the neck rather than on either side, and the fret-board and tailpiece were fashioned of a very dark wood inlaid with fine decorative scrollwork in what appeared to be silver.

His eyes glistening, the old man stroked the fingers of his undamaged hand over the instrument’s golden sheen as he looked askance at Corlin. “Perhaps ye’d care to humour an auld man by making this sing again?”

The young minstrel’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Really? I’d love to!”

He rested Otty’s old and battered gimalin against the back of the bench, and let the man place the exquisite instrument in his outstretched hands.

The old man smiled. “It is tuned.”

Corlin slipped the soft leather strap over his shoulder, settled the gimalin against his body and ran through a series of chords which would demonstrate its range and resonance. Amazed and overwhelmed by the instrument’s responses, his eyes shone with sheer pleasure as he segued into a complex instrumental piece, while the old man beside him sat with eyes closed, his white-haired head nodding to the gentle rhythm of the music. A generous ripple of applause filled the room as Corlin finished playing and began to lift the gimalin’s strap over his head. The old man placed a thin and brown-spotted hand on the minstrel’s arm.

His voice hoarse and tight with emotion, he spoke with a thick accent which Corlin couldn’t immediately place. “She’s yours tae keep, if ya wish. Ye’ve restored her life, and I can tell she’ll be in guid hands.”

Corlin stared at the old man, then at the splendid instrument, then back at the old man. “That’s very kind, but I couldn’t possibly...I mean...let me pay...”

The old man stood up and gripped Corlin’s shoulder. “Nae lad. Ye and she belong taegether. She’s served me well, an’ it’ll no be long before she does the same fer you.” He held up his mutilated hand. “I cannae make her sing for me the mair. She and I have tae move on.”

Before Corlin could think of anything even remotely sensible to say, the old man had shuffled, with remarkable alacrity it seemed, across the room and was on his way out the door. All conversation ceased as Ned and the few remaining in the bar watched open-mouthed as the door closed behind him.

After a moment or two, as Corlin was caressing his new gimalin and not believing his luck, Ned spoke up, to no-one in particular. “I’d not have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

Corlin called across the room. “Do you know who he was then, Ned?”

The innkeeper rested his elbows on the bar and exchanged knowing glances with his four remaining customers. “Haven’t you heard of Old Tam?”

Corlin grinned. “Of course I have, but he’s supposed to come during the Winter Festival. It’s said he brings a gift to anyone who really deserves it.” He gestured towards the door. “It’s quite clear to me that he was a minstrel once, but because of his damaged fingers, he couldn’t play anymore and he wanted to give his gimalin a good home. He must have heard me playing at some time and knew I’d take good care of it...” A frown briefly creased his broad brow. “...although I don’t recall seeing him in here when I was playing.”

Ned shook his head as his long chin jutted. “That’s ‘cos he wasn’t, but you believe what you want.” He turned to his lingering customers. “Now drink up gentlemen. Some of us have work to do and beds to go to.”

Carefully wrapping his gift in the large soft blue cloth, Corlin bade Ned goodnight, and with the gimalin under his arm, limped upstairs to his little room. It had been a busy and eventful day, but he knew as he eased off his boots, that sleep would be a long time coming.