A Strange and Ancient Name (14 page)

“So he told me.”

“Yes. The good squire is easy with his words. My lord, Aimery has told me an intriguing tale.”

It almost caught Hauberin off-guard. “Has he?”

“The squire said you are under an oath not to reveal your true rank or native land. Nor, in fact, to reveal anything of yourself save your name and the fact that you are on a quest.” The brown eyes were cool, neither believing nor disbelieving, for all that there was a fierce little flickering of curiosity deep within them. It seemed that, just as Aimery had promised, the baron did enjoy a mystery. “But Aimery has sworn to me you are of high rank, indeed.”

“Yes.” Hauberin evasively let the one word answer all. “My lord baron, I would truly prefer not to discuss my reasons for being in this land. But those reasons have nothing of dishonor about them, nor of danger to you or your Realm, my word and will upon it.”

Did that sound convincing enough? Or should he try to back up his words a touch? The simple persuasion-spell had worked well enough so far (save, of course, on Raimond . . .). It was difficult for Hauberin to focus his will with all the countless janglings of human auras crowding in about him, so he tried nothing more than the gentlest enhancement of his words:
nothing of dishonor, nor of danger . . .
And, to his relief, there was no resistance; the baron smiled his formal little smile and relaxed in his canopied chair.

But . . . why had the baroness tensed suddenly? For an instant, Hauberin could almost have sworn she’d sensed—ridiculous. If ever he had met a human with no feel for magic, it was she.

Nerves,
the prince decided.

Now that the third and final course of marzipan and fruit had been served, it was time for an entertainer. Hauberin, who had been expecting the conjurer, watched a minstrel step forward instead, carrying a stringed instrument (after a moment, Hauberin put a name to it: a lute). The prince smiled, putting thoughts of magic from his mind for the moment, and leaned forward slightly in anticipation.

His pleasure faded after the first note. For one thing, the clamor from the people at the lower tables continued undiminished. For another, the minstrel’s voice was . . . adequate. Worst of all, his lute was ever so slightly mistuned. Maybe these humans couldn’t notice it, but the slight wrongness was exquisitely painful to Faerie ears.

“Doesn’t he hear?”
came Alliar’s plaintive cry.
“Doesn’t he realize?”

Hauberin grit his teeth, waiting.
“He’s only human. He has to finish eventually.”

Wonderful. The man was finally coming to the end of that seemingly interminable ballad. He . . . wasn’t going to sing again, was he?

No. Powers be praised, he was being dutifully rewarded by the emotionless baron, and returning to a place at the lower tables. Hauberin overheard Baron Gilbert mutter to his wife, “That was your idea, my dear,” and turned sharply to his host, determined to wipe out the insult to the name of music.

“My lord, my lady, now
I
will sing for you.”

It sounded, he thought wryly, more like a royal command than a courtesy. Aware of the humans staring, the prince shouldered his harp and strode boldly forward to the chair a serving man hastily brought, for him. With a quick, sharp glance at the offending minstrel, Hauberin tuned his harp with care, running his hands experimentally over the strings, picking out a few random chords, aware of the clamor slowly dying about him. While noble musicians, he knew, weren’t unknown, these castle folk plainly weren’t used to having someone of rank perform. Particularly someone with such an aura of mystery surrounding him.

So now,
he told them silently,
if you stir so much as a finger till I’m done, then I’ve been in this Realm too long.

He sang the tale of Thiuran and Elenfal, which his mother had translated into the human tongue one Faerie winter long past. And from the plaintive opening chords marking the first meeting of the tragic lovers, there was heavy silence within the Hall. Hauberin smiled faintly, glancing slyly at his audience, seeing noble and common alike held like so many wide-eyed children by the keen, alien, magical beauty of his song. Only the Baroness Matilde showed more than passive wonder. Her young face was so filled with joy and a desperate, aching hunger that it was nearly painful to watch.

The tale sang its way to the inevitable tragic end, to Elenfal’s bittersweet farewell to life and her collapse at the side of the treacherously magic-slain Thiuran. Hauberin looked up from the harp to silence and not a few tears from his audience. Ha, even surly Sir Raimond was suspiciously red of face! Wryly amused, the prince returned to his place, Alliar’s congratulations warm in his mind.

“Was that a tale from your native land, my lord?”

“Yes, my lord baron.” Hauberin saw the baroness lean forward ever so slightly at that, studying him with so wondering an eye that he almost raised a hand to be sure his hair still covered the telltale ears.

“Beautifully sung,” the baron said shortly. “Beautifully sung.”

That was high praise from that unemotional man. Hauberin laughed lightly, bowing from the waist. “Thank you, my lord. And since my song has pleased you, I shall ask for my reward. Oh no, my lord, he added hastily, seeing the baron’s eyebrows shoot up in astonishment, “I didn’t mean in coin! You see,” the prince continued, picking his words with care, “I know little of the tales of this land. Since I’ve given you one from mine, I think a fitting exchange would be a tale from yours.”

That actually struck a small spark of humor in those sober eyes. “To select only one . . .”

“I’ve heard an intriguing hint of one.” Hauberin’s casual tone sounded incredibly forced to him. “I would like to learn the whole of it, if possible. It concerns a witch woman. A noble woman.”

The baron tensed, almost imperceptibly. “Her name?”

“Melusine.”

Oh, he wasn’t at all prepared for the reaction: the wave of shock, almost terror, from the baroness, the swirling of hatred and disgust from the baron, the sudden rigid wall of denial. As Hauberin stared, feeling Alliar’s mind touch his in bewilderment, Baron Gilbert said, “I fear I must disappoint you.”

“I—I don’t understand. Have I somehow offended—”

“No, no, nothing like that.” The man smiled faintly, but his eyes were chill. “It’s only that—we know of no such tale. I’m sorry, my lord, we know of no such woman.”

XI

REVELATIONS

Baron Gilbert, as was his wont, had retired early, soon after sunset and an evening prayer, and now slept soundly in the baronial featherbed. Beside him, forgotten, lay his young wife, wide awake and painfully alone.

After a fruitless time of trying to compose her mind to sleep, Matilde glanced at her husband. He was sleeping on his back, face perfectly composed even in slumber, arms perfectly straight at his sides. And for a moment she battled a wicked urge to slap him, scream at him, do anything that would break that cool perfection. God help her, the man didn’t even snore!

Matilde sighed silently and turned away. What right had she to complain? Secure in her husband’s castle, she never lacked for food or drink or any of the comforts of life. And what if that husband was nearly twice her age? Everyone knew a girl must be wed to an older man to steady her.

Steady me. As though I was nothing more than a mare, or maybe a hawk being broken to slavery
—

No. That wasn’t fair. Baron Gilbert might not be the hero from a minstrel’s romance, but he had always been kind to her in his own remote way. He had never once beat her, never even raised a hand to her, never condemned her openly for having failed after these four years of marriage to give him an heir. (Was that it all her fault, though? Most men the baron’s age had sired a bastard or two, yet he had more. Surely a son could only be made from passion, not some impassive sense of duty.) But then, he had Raimond for an heir.

Poor, spoiled, frustrated Raimond. Raimond who, Matilde didn’t doubt, must thoroughly hate his precise, unforgiving brother by now.

It was difficult living up to perfection.

Matilde stirred restlessly. Dear God, what was wrong with her tonight? Why couldn’t she be content? Why must she feel this secret aching for . . . Ah, she didn’t even know what she wanted.

Freedom?

Nonsense. She was a woman of nearly three-and-twenty, not some callow little girl; as her husband was always lecturing her, life couldn’t be all song and light and laughter. Besides, what was freedom to a noblewoman? If she ran away to live her own life, she would end up dying of starvation, exposure, or worse. Matilde was only too aware her training was limited to what a woman of her rank might need to oversee a castle’s affairs: she couldn’t do anything truly practical in the outside world, not cook, nor clean, nor (God help her) play the strumpet. And for all her husband’s riches she had no wealth of her own; the king and his court, so far away in Paris, had ruled that a noblewoman legally owned nothing, not even the clothes she wore.

Enough of this,
Matilde scolded herself. The good lord knew many a poor woman would envy her position. This ridiculous discontent she felt could only have been roused by their so-exotic guest, with his hint of mystery, his foreign face and ways, his music—

His music. Remembering, Matilde frantically stifled an unexpected sob. Oh, dear God! The achingly pure beauty of that music had cut like a sword, joy so sharp it was very close to pain. She had almost called out to him to stop. And yet every note had fallen like rain on a parched plain, feeding a deep inner hunger she’d never known was there. Listening, she could have wept, knowing that soon the music would be gone, but the desert remain.

Matilde shivered suddenly, and pulled the bedclothes more closely about herself. Who was he, this . . . Hauberin? There was an air of wildness to him, of careless, perilous power, enticing and terrifying, almost reminding her of—

No!
Wide-eyed, heart pounding, Matilde struggled with the forbidden, terrible memories that all at once were fighting to surface. She would not remember! She must not!

Why did you come here?
Matilde cried out to the stranger in silent despair.
Curse you, oh curse you, why have you upset my life?

###

“But I don’t need a body-servant!” Hauberin was in no mood for diplomacy. “I don’t
want
a body-servant!”

“Of course, m’lord.” The human was neither young nor old, short nor tall, ugly nor—Ach, Hugh was a perfect cipher of a man, and quite unflappable. “Here we are, m’lord.”

The room was small and chill, and Hauberin thought it would definitely have benefited from a fireplace. But it looked comfortable enough in all else, even if the one window was—as usual—nothing more than an arrow-slit. The newly white-washed walls were prettily painted with flowers and leaves, and the large canopied bed was rich with furs and heavily embroidered curtains. There wasn’t space for much else: a three-legged chair, a clothes chest of heavy wood, a little table in one corner with a small painting upon it (some manner of shrine?) and an unlit candle before the painting . . .
 

“So!” Hauberin snapped. “And just where were you proposing to sleep?”

The servant looked at him in surprise, flinching a little from those angry, alien eyes. “Why, right here, m’lord. On this pallet right at the foot of the bed. So as if you need anything in the night, you can wake me.”

“There’s no stopping you, is there?”

“M’lord?” Hugh paused. “Is it
me
you don’t want? Would you prefer some other servant?”

“What? Oh, no, no. Look you, it’s nothing personal, but—you’re here on the baron’s orders, aren’t you?”

“Why, yes, m’lord. Of course. Said it wasn’t proper, a gentle like you being without a man-servant.”

All this was being said while the human was neatly and efficiently unpacking the contents of Hauberin’s pack. The prince sighed in surrender. Whether Baron Gilbert really was only being polite, or whether—more likely—he wanted someone to keep a watchful eye on this stranger with the awkward questions, there was no way to be rid of Hugh. Short of magic.

Hauberin told himself he should feel flattered; he
could
be sleeping on a pallet down in the Great Hall like almost everybody else, obnoxious thought! Fortunate that the baron wanted to show off to his visitors, offering Hauberin and Alliar each one of these precious new guest chambers.

“Alliar?”

“Ach, my prince, I can’t stay here!”
The panic trembling in the thought was all unchecked by the intervening walls.
“This
—
this is like the prison cell, the sorcerer’s cellar, the—”

“Softly,”
Hauberin soothed.
“You need endure it for only a little, little while, only till the night-blind humans sleep. Then you may wander as you will.”

There was a pause. Then:
“Ah. Of course.”
Relief mingled with embarrassment.
“I should have realized
—
Thank you.”

“Ah . . . m’lord?”

Hauberin started. “What is it, Hugh?”

“Will you be wanting anything else, m’lord?”

“No. Yes. Just tie those bed-curtains back all the way.”

“But—m’lord, it isn’t safe! Night air is dangerous!”

“Oh, come now. You’re planning to sleep without being encased.”

“But I’m—I mean, you’re—”

“Enough!” Hauberin’s frustrated anger flared up anew. “No, I do not need help in undressing. Yes, you’ve put everything away. Now, good night!”

He lay in darkness for a while, trying to forget the nagging intrusion of the human presence, trying to plot his next course of action for all that he was truly weary now. And despite the fact that some thoughtful servant—Hugh?—had warmed the bed in advance with a hot brick wrapped in cloth, he was shivering with an inner chill.

Although Hauberin had never encountered deliberate falsehood before, there wasn’t the slightest doubt that the baron had been lying.

But why? What harm could Mother possibly have done to make him deny her very existence?

What if it hadn’t been her fault? What if the memory of who and what her father had been was so very terrible—

No! This was as bad as his old childhood fears—and just about as useless.

Hauberin sighed. As soon as the castle was safely asleep, the prince would pay Baron Gilbert a visit. And no matter how difficult it might be to work true magic in this Realm, he would find a way to persuade the man’s sleeping mind to tell him the truth.

But he couldn’t do anything till Hugh slept. And, judging from the tension radiating from the man, that wasn’t going to be for some time. Hauberin sighed again.

“Hugh.”

“M’lord?”

“Look you, I . . . know you mean well.”

“Please, m’lord.” Hugh’s tone was embarrassed. There was a long silence, then he added softly, “Heard you sing in the Hall.”

“Ah?”

“It . . . isn’t my place, and all, but I just wanted to say . . . it was beautiful, m’lord. Made me think of . . . oh, I don’t know. Springtime, maybe. Moonlight.”

“Did it?” Hauberin smiled into the darkness. “Good night, Hugh.”

“M’lord?” The quelled tension swirled up anew.

“What now, Hugh?”

“Heard you talking to m’lord baron. M’lord, I . . . know something of the Lady Melusine.”

“What!” Hauberin sat bolt upright.

“Ah . . . yes, m’lord. Please, you’ll not be telling anyone, they don’t like folk talking about her—”

“No, no, I won’t tell anyone! Come, out with it!”

“Well, I don’t know too much. But it seems she’s an ancestor of the family, some three, four generations back. She’s supposed to have been a witch.” A rustling of the pallet indicated Hugh had probably just crossed himself. “And they say one night she was carried off by a d-devil in the shape of a tall, fair man.”

My father!
“Go on, Hugh! What else?”

“I’m sorry, m’lord. That’s all I know.” He added apologetically, “I told you, they don’t like to talk about her.”

“So you did. Thank you.” Hauberin slid wearily back down onto the bed. An ancestor of the family. Powers above, that made Baron Gilbert his kinsman. All the more reason to pay the man a visit!

But he still couldn’t act until Hugh was asleep. With the tension eased, that shouldn’t take too long . . .
 

Not long at all . . .

All he had to do was wait . . .
 

###

Once again he was walking down a chill, all-too-familiar corridor, further now than he had ever been. Once again he was forced to go on and on, sick with horror and his own helplessness. And soon he would have to see
—

“No! Ae, no!”

“Wh-what? M’lord?”

Hauberin blinked, dazed, suddenly aware that he was clinging to the room’s narrow window—though how he’d gotten there, he didn’t know—as though he had been clawing for fresh air, shuddering with cold but drenched with perspiration.

“M’lord?” Hugh was sitting up on his pallet, staring. “Are you all right?”

The prince couldn’t answer, the darkness still held him, he could feel nothing . . .
 

After an uneasy moment, Hugh got to his feet, fumbling with flint and steel till he had gotten the oil lamp burning. “There, now. That’s better. M’lord?”

“Yes,” Hauberin gasped. “Yes, I’m here.”

“It was only a dream, m’lord.” The human shook his head. “Must have been one hell of one, begging your pardon.”

“Ah, yes.”

“Uh . . . m’lord? It’s cold out here. Don’t you think you’d better get back to bed before you take a chill?”

Hauberin agreed, glad to huddle under the warmth of the fur coverings. Hugh eyed him warily.

“Shall I . . . uh . . . leave the lamp burning, m’lord?”

“No. I’m well enough now. Truly. It was, as you say, only a dream. Go back to your own bed.”

Still shivering, Hauberin waited in silence for the man to settle down, thinking, two nights of peace and now this! Oh, fool, to dare believe he was free!

But at last the dream’s grue was forced away by anger at this stolid, nearly magickless Realm and the weariness it gave him, anger at Himself for having yielded to it. Hauberin turned his head, listening. Hugh’s breathing had slowed to a gentle snoring. Asleep again, no doubt of it.

The night, by the feel of it, was very late, somewhere near the dawn. At least, Hauberin thought darkly, Serein’s timing had been off, allowing him a fair amount of sleep before the dream. And there was still some time in which to act.

Softly the prince got to his feet and dressed, making a good job of it since he doubted he would return to bed this night, softly stepped over Hugh, who never stirred, and left. He found himself standing on the edge of a narrow, curved stairway in darkness deep enough to tax even Faerie sight, but he was reluctant to start a light lest it attract suspicious guards.

Now to locate the baron’s chambers. Thanks to Hugh’s solicitations, Hauberin hadn’t been able to watch which way the man had gone after leaving his guests. He was fairly certain the baronial rooms weren’t in this quarter, but to be positive, touched a cautious hand to the chill stones of the wall, relaxing his senses, and received scattered and confusing hints of practically everyone who had recently passed this way. There wasn’t much trace of baron or baroness. Silently Hauberin descended, planning to return to the Great Hall and track his quarry from there.

Wait . . . the light up ahead might be muffled and uncertain, but it was Deacon-bright to his darkness-adjusted eyes. Guards? No . . . surely someone who didn’t want to be seen. A thief, perhaps. Or thieves, from the sound of their careful whispers, two of them.

They were blocking his way. Hauberin stole carefully forward, wondering if he could slip past the two cloak-shrouded humans . . . No. The hallway was too narrow. The prince frowned. Could one of them be the baron?

It couldn’t. The voice belonged to a younger man, and the wisps of dark blond hair escaping the cloak’s hood were untouched by gray. Raimond, then. And his partner was surely that little human sorcerer! Now, what mischief might be here?

“. . . but he mustn’t be slain!” That was Raimond’s fierce hiss. “I don’t want his blood on me.”

“It won’t be, my lord.” The other voice was calm.

“But will it work?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Are you
sure?
If you fail, and he learns I’m behind this—can I trust you?”

“Well, that’s for you to decide, my lord, isn’t it?”

“Damn you, don’t get bold with me! I’m paying you good gold, and you’ll not trick me or I’ll turn you over to the Church!”