A Minstrel’s Quest (The Trouble with Magic Book 4) (5 page)

With his own gimalin settled against his body, Corlin closed his eyes and began to finger an old melody his father had taught him. He needed to think and this was his favourite method of doing just that.

It was raining. Cold torrential rain that drummed on the mullioned window and obscured any view Corlin might have had. The room he had been given was small, plain and rather chilly, but to his surprise he slept well. It was the rain that had woken him. He availed himself of the chamber-pot, dressed and pulled on his boots then poked his head round the door to see if anyone was about. Sounds of hooves and voices drifted up the narrow spiral staircase, and he decided to go down and try to locate some breakfast and check on Megan. He doubted whether she would have been given any feed since their arrival. He had just closed the door behind him when he saw Jouan coming towards him along the corridor.

The soldier nodded a greeting. “Good morning master Corlin. My lord duke has asked me to take you through to breakfast.”

Corlin grinned. “Just what I need. Lead on, Jouan.”

As they clattered along the corridor and down winding flights of narrow stone stairs, a thought occurred to the minstrel.

He called ahead to the hurrying soldier. “Did you happen to leave a note for me when I was at ‘The Red Dog’?”

Jouan’s steps never faltered. “No, not me. When we left you we went straight through town and rode on until we got here. What was in the note?”

Corlin decided to economise with the truth, as he knew Jouan had done “Nothing of importance. I was just curious.”

Deep puddles lay on the cracked and tilted flagstones of the wide keep, and Corlin’s feet were soaked by the time he and Jouan reached the door to the staircase leading to the duke’s rooms. He could feel the leather tightening round his left ankle and he knew he’d have to remove the boot and readjust it before the leather dried.

Jouan pushed the door open and gave Corlin’s shoulder a friendly pat as the minstrel sidled past him. “We’ve heard what you’re going to do. Good luck.”

Before Corlin could reply, the soldier had pulled the door to and left him to make his own way up the dimly lit staircase. It gave him a minute or two to reflect on who might have sent the note with the unmentionable name. By the time he reached the duke’s door a dozen more questions had pushed themselves into his brain and he still had no answer to the mystery. He knocked, and waited for the door to be opened, not really surprised when Grumas beckoned him in. The old magician appeared to have had a bad night but said nothing as he led Corlin to the table then exited the room, leaving him alone with the duke. Hands clasped behind his back, Corlin waited, not wanting to disturb the old man who seemed to be unaware of his presence and stood gazing at the carved wooden panelling which covered the wall at the far end of the room. Eventually Corlin gave a discreet little cough. The duke turned and gave the minstrel a wistful smile. “I trust that
you
slept well, master Bentfoot?

Corlin nodded. “Yes, thank you sire.”

Ergwyn gestured to the simple fare set out on the table. “Then join me in breaking our fast, and afterwards we shall see what you make of my gimalin.” He sat down and tore a chunk off a newly baked loaf, as Corlin seated himself opposite. “Did I hear Grumas telling you the full story last night?”

The minstrel paused in his slicing of baked ham. “Yes. It took me a while to make sense of it, but I think that by the time he’d done, I’d figured it out.”

Duke Ergwyn nodded, reached out and stabbed a fork into the slice of ham Corlin had just cut.

While he was cutting another, Corlin ventured to ask a question that had been niggling at his brain. “Excuse me for asking sire, but...why are there so few people here?”

The answer he received was not the one he had been expecting. The duke chewed for a moment, twitched his eyebrows then gave Corlin a rueful smile. “Best reason in the world my young minstrel; the coffers are empty. Fortunately for the Tregwald estates there are no wars in the offing. The few soldiers and staff that I do have, stay with me because they either can’t be bothered to move on, or they’ve got nowhere to go. I make sure they and I have full stomachs; the rest is up to them.”

Corlin digested this along with his breakfast for a minute or two, then chuckled. “You should declare war on that tyrant Lord Treevers. I’m sure he has more wealth and power than he deserves.”

Ergwyn’s chuckle was heartier than Corlin’s. “I have six soldiers, a stable-man, a cook and a magician...oh, and a small flock of sheep, a shepherd and a cow or two. Indeed, we would make a fearsome foe! Now, cut me a piece of that spiced sausage and let us consider more serious matters.” He wagged his finger for Corlin to move the knife further along the sausage. “I was most impressed with your playing last night. I have a feeling that a talent such as yours may be just what’s needed. When we’ve broken our fast Grumas can introduce you to our problem.”

Corlin worried his lip with his teeth. “What will you do if I
can
play it?”

The duke’s eyes opened wide. “I’ve absolutely no idea! If stories are to be believed, we shall certainly discover something.” He tapped the side of his aquiline nose. “I reckon old Grumas knows more than he’s letting on, but we shall see.”

Having said that, the elderly duke lapsed into deep thought, so Corlin set about cutting a rather shrivelled apple into pieces and eating it. A breath of cold air across his shoulders made him turn. Standing just inside the closed door, his arms folded inside the sleeves of his grubby robe, was Grumas. He looked extremely worried.

Duke Ergwyn downed a half tankard of beer, belched loudly and stood up from the table. “Well, Grumas, how long is it since the blasted thing last saw the light of day?”

There was a distinct lack of enthusiasm in the magician’s reply. “Getting on for ten years sire.”

The duke responded with a wry smile. “Well, I think that’s long enough, don’t you?”

Not offering anything further, Grumas crossed the room and stood in front of the panelled wall that the duke had been contemplating earlier. With one hand stretched forward, the magician whispered a word that Corlin couldn’t catch. At the bottom of the wall a large carved and decorated panel rippled and vanished, revealing a small dark alcove set in the stone behind it. As the duke gestured him towards it, Corlin’s optimism teetered when he caught sight of Grumas, still looking worried and now biting his nails. Corlin bent down and peered inside the alcove. Resting against the back was a dusty dark brown shape, draped with grey mats of cobwebs and surrounded by a layer of dry mortar crumbs which had parted company with the masonry. He reached forward, grasped the wretched looking object and pulled it, trailing webs and grit, out into the light. Loosely tied with a thick black cord which crumbled in dozens of pieces to the floor as he touched it, the old soft leather case could not disguise what it had served to protect. His heart pounding, Corlin slipped both hands under it and carried it to a small side table beneath one of the room’s two windows. Duke Ergwyn looked on with interest as the minstrel unfastened half a dozen small bronze buckles, flipped back the age-stiffened straps and peeled open the case.

Corlin stared. The gimalin was old; very old. Unlike his own, or even Otty’s ageing piece, the shape and depth of its body bore testament to its almost incredible age. It was only the unique twelve strings and the frets of the fingerboard which convinced Corlin that it was a gimalin at all. Despite its age and its weathered appearance, he immediately liked it, and could feel a growing respect and admiration for the artisan who had crafted such an instrument.

He looked up to see Duke Ergwyn peering intently at him. “Well, master Bentfoot. What do you think? Can you play it?”

Corlin smiled, picked up the gimalin, sat on the small table and rested the instrument across his knee. “That remains to be seen, my lord Duke. We shall have to get to know each other first. Her strings are slack, and her body needs to warm and breathe.”

Duke Ergwyn almost smirked. “She?”

Corlin raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Of course. I sense that this one is definitely female, and if I am to romance her, I must first discover what she likes.”

The duke scowled. “And how long with that take?”

The minstrel shrugged as he stroked a forefinger over the time-darkened fine-grained wood of the gimalin’s body. “I really couldn’t say, but I think we may sing together before night-fall.”

The duke gave a grunt of dissatisfaction, turned away and headed for the door. “I’ll leave you to it then, master Bentfoot. I have things to attend to.”

As the door slammed behind the duke, Grumas left his spot by the alcove where the gimalin had been hidden, and stood looking down at Corlin.

His face was ashen grey, his eyes troubled. “Should you be successful in giving the gimalin its voice, then I advise you to demand the boon, take the instrument and depart as soon as you can. I feel that your continued presence will be borne with poor grace.”

Before Corlin could collect his thoughts and respond, the old magician vanished in a puff of chilled air and a swirl of rapidly fading silvery motes. The minstrel took a deep breath and slowly released it. He found this overt use of magic quite disturbing, and he also suspected there was a deep underlying tension between Duke Ergwyn of Tregwald and the magician Grumas. He was more relieved than he would readily have admitted when he was left alone to familiarise himself with the old gimalin. Making himself comfortable on a chair, he began to study the instrument.

About mid-day and cursing his insistent bladder for forcing him to stumble awkwardly down the dark narrow stairs, he was on his way back across the keep when Jouan stepped from the shadow of a doorway.

The trooper gave a respectful nod. “Master Corlin. Was there anything you were wanting, seeing as himself and the magician are away for a while?”

Corlin scratched his head. “Well, if you can find me a flint and tinder, I can get the fire going and the lamps lit.”

Jouan’s mouth gave a wry twist. “Good luck with that. The castle ran out of lamp-oil weeks ago. I’ll bring some fresh torches up directly.”

He fumbled in one of the many pockets in his tunic and pulled out a tinder-box. With a smile, he handed it to Corlin. “I doubt you’re a stranger to lighting fires.”

The minstrel took the box with a grin and a nod, and made his slow way back to the upstairs room and the mysterious gimalin.

* * *

For hours he had sat, holding the instrument in his arms, running his hands over its body and getting the feel of it; nothing more. Now, with the fire lit and the room warming, it was time to venture a little further in his courtship of this lady. He had noticed earlier on that the strings were slack, so he studied the unusual arrangement of the tuning pegs in the large and intricately carved head. Familiarised, he slowly tensioned each string just a little, gently stroking them one by one after each adjustment, but there was no response, not even in the lower registers.

He was sitting by firelight, the gimalin resting on the small side table when Jouan came in with a bundle of fresh torches. “Any joy, master Bentfoot?”

Corlin smiled. “Not in the way you mean. I have had some pleasure though, from being able to work with such a rare instrument.”

Jouan made no comment until he had touched a taper to the last torch. “I think I know what you mean. I’m the same with horses.” He paused and looked round the room. “Right; I expect himself will be back soon, so I’ll be off back to quarters.”

He had just reached the door when a deep resonant note hummed through the air. Jouan turned and stared at Corlin. The minstrel stared at the gimalin. The two men stared at each other.

The trooper took a pace forward into the room. His voice was breathy with excitement and anticipation “Go on minstrel. What else could it be?”

Hardly daring to breathe, Corlin crept over, lifted the gimalin and sat on the table. It had no shoulder strap so he settled the instrument against his body and brushed his fingers over the open strings. Not a single note sounded, but Corlin thrilled at the gentle vibration which rippled through the gimalin and across his stomach, as though some creature long asleep was waking. His face alive with expectation, Jouan crossed the room and crouched beside Corlin.

The soldier’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “Try again minstrel.”

With the side of his thumb, Corlin riffled the open strings. A muffled chord, flat and tuneless hung for a second then faded. Gently he adjusted the tuning pegs before softly plucking each string in turn. His eyes and his grin widened as the twelve notes, in almost perfect tune, sang round the room. He made a couple more tiny adjustments. Holding her close, his fingers caressing the responsive strings like a lover, he played the gimalin.

The opening and slamming of the door shattered his rapture. Instantly on edge, he fingered the final notes of the tune he was playing, and stilled the singing strings.

Duke Ergwyn of Tregwald glowered at Corlin as Grumas shimmered into view to one side of the fireplace. Before the duke could speak, the magician’s voice whispered inside Corlin’s head. “Demand the boon. His memory has been awoken.”

In complete contrast to the night before, the duke’s voice was hoarse and had that quavering unsteadiness which often manifests with age. Despite that, it was fraught with menace. “So, minstrel, you would claim your boon, eh?”

Corlin stood, trembling inside as he placed the ancient gimalin gently down on the table behind him. “Yes, my lord duke. I would ask for your aid in locating the magical clock which is the object of my quest.”

The duke bared his teeth in an evil grin. “Then go into the Whispering Forest, Corlin Bentfoot, for it is at the forest’s heart that you will find the first part of what you seek.”

Jouan grasped Corlin’s arm and whispered in his ear. “Make your apologies and leave his presence. I think the waking of the gimalin will soon drive him mad.”

His heart pounding, Corlin nodded in agreement, turned slowly and lifted the old gimalin off the table.

He tensed as the duke’s rasping voice mocked him from across the room. “You think yourself victorious, Corlin Bentfoot? Enjoy your moment. None have returned from that dark place, and nor will you, and I shall remain free of Malchevolus’s curse.”

Grumas gasped, Corlin winced and Jouan cringed with his arms over his head. The dancing flames of the fire dwindled swiftly to embers and the torches dimmed to a sputtering glow. As light and warmth were sucked out of the room Grumas gestured towards Corlin and Jouan. The minstrel’s teeth chattered in the sudden cold as the sound of rushing wind whistled in his ears. Everything went quiet and Corlin cautiously opened his eyes. The light was too dim for him to make out details or to see clearly where he was, but he could see enough to know that he was no longer in the castle. A sideways glance showed Jouan still with his arms folded over his head, and Grumas standing a couple of paces away.

Tightening his grip on the ancient gimalin, Corlin limped towards Grumas. “Wherever are we?”

Jouan, who had recovered sufficiently to look around, echoed the question, adding “I don’t recognise it.”

A flicker of impatience crossed the magician’s face as he wagged a finger. “We are in a cave in the hillside about half a mile from the castle.” He frowned. “The best thing you can do master Bentfoot is to make your way to the stables, collect your horse and get away from here.” He gestured towards the gimalin. “And take that with you. The further away from here it is, the better.”

Corlin had no chance to say anything before Jouan was tugging at his sleeve. “C’mon minstrel. I’ll help you back to the stables.”

Feeling confused, disoriented and deflated, Corlin spared the magician one more troubled glance before following the trooper to the cave’s narrow entrance and out into the night. With the aid of a strong staff, he could walk two or three miles, a distance he was used to when helping his father round up sheep and cattle. Now, he had no staff, and by the time the drunken gates of the castle came into view he was leaning heavily on Jouan and wondering about the wisdom of hanging on to the gimalin. Deliberately avoiding looking up to the upper storey of the castle he stumbled beside the trooper across the keep into the stables, and dropped onto a bale of straw, smiling wearily up at Megan as she blew at him over the rail of her stall.

Jouan sat down beside him. “I expect after all this, Corporal Rowan will give you a billet in the troops’ quarters tonight. We wake before first light, so you can break your fast and get on your way before Duke Ergwyn is about.”

Corlin stretched out his aching leg and began to unfasten the buckles and laces of his boot. “D’you think he’s gone mad?”

The trooper sounded dejected. “Almost certainly. Once he uttered that name, he left himself open for that one to control him.” His eyes glinted with pity. “It would be a mercy if the madness killed him.”

The pair sat in thoughtful silence for a few moments, then Corlin gave him a sideways glance. “You didn’t like me when we first met, did you?”

Embarrassed, his companion gave a little cough. “It wasn’t that. It’s just that Duke Ergwyn was always going on at us to be suspicious of strangers, and to be honest you did look like trouble...for a while, anyway.”

Corlin grinned as he massaged his ankle and eased his boot back on. As he fastened the straps something occurred to him. “I don’t suppose you know who sent me that note?”

Jouan looked straight at him. “Well, as you haven’t told me what was in it, I couldn’t say.”

Corlin returned the look. “It was one word, a name, which I won’t say.”

The trooper blinked. “Oh!” He said nothing more. A couple of minutes later he nudged Corlin’s arm. C’mon, let’s get some supper from the kitchen, and then I’ll find you a bed.”

Reluctant to leave the uniquely warm and peaceful atmosphere of the stable, Corlin nevertheless pushed himself to his feet. He pointed at the gimalin leaning against the end of the straw-bale. “I think I’ll leave that here. Pity I left its case behind.”

Jouan nodded. “It’ll be safe enough. I reckon it’s cursed now anyway.”

The minstrel was feeling too tired to care, and followed Jouan across the keep to the kitchens, to find what they could for supper.

The troops’ quarters were chilly, basic, and the beds little more than a thin horsehair mattress on a board, but despite the lack of comforts, Corlin slept well. It was almost daylight when he woke, and there was no sign of any of the soldiers. He had saddled Megan and was leading her out into the keep before he realised he had left the old gimalin. He went back and gave the stables a thorough search, but could find no trace of it. Deciding it was probably for the best, although he felt some regret at losing such a rare and beautiful instrument, he rode out of the castle gates and without looking back headed for the city of Tregwald. On the other side of the city lay the infamous Whispering Forest, but that was at least two days’ ride away, and he’d worry about that when he got there.