The Haunted Wizard - Wiz in Rhym-6 (32 page)

"Dumb? He is not talkative, from all I hear, but he is scarcely mute," Jord protested.

"Less and less as we go along." Matt was revising his opinion of John by the second. "What does he have to do with your Chief Druid?"

Jord shrugged. "The friars and their fellow priests prevent the tax-gatherers from gouging all they may
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from the peasants. They stand between the common folk, and the barons and soldiers who have won the king's war for him."

"Stand between? How?"

"Why, whenever the baron looses his soldiers to loot and rape, as is their pay for war, a dratted priest appears to command them to withhold in the name of the Lord!"

"Literally stand between." Matt felt a chill. "And John doesn't like that?"

"What prince would? How will he bring soldiers to his banner without expectation of such rewards?"

"Certainly not by the sheer generosity of his spirit, or nobility of his brow," Matt agreed. "John isn't the kind to command personal loyalty. So your Chief Druid made him an offer?" Jord shrugged impatiently. "I know nothing of what passed between them, save that the Chief Druid disguised himself as a gardener, and thus found occasion to speak to the prince." Matt grinned in spite of himself. "And boy, wasn't he surprised when one of his gardeners told him he could get rid of this nuisance problem of interfering clergy!"

"I expect that he was," Jord admitted. "Nonetheless, the long and the short of it is that Prince John was quite willing to give his support to the Old Religion if the druids could woo the people away from the Church. He could only pledge such in secret at first, but has promised to become more open as he gains influence, and to make the Old Religion the faith of the land if he comes to power as king." Puzzle pieces fell together in Mart's mind. "So not only does he have a chance of actually becoming king someday— he has some help arranging it, and some definite plans!"

"With his brothers dead, it would seem so," Jord admitted.

"I know little of the druids," Friar Gode said, frowning, "but I cannot believe that any clergyman would so conspire to despoil his own flock!"

"I can't believe it, either," Matt said. "The real druids would never have approved of such behavior toward their own people. Enemies, maybe—conquered foemen are another matter—but not toward their own commoners."

"They did sacrifice people to their gods," Friar Gode reminded.

"Yes, but those were captured enemies, or volunteers from their own people, not kidnapped virgins!

Besides, that ceremony I watched last night was pure hokum, with no higher object in mind than luring people to join up. I don't know much about the ancient druids' worship, but I do know it wasn't like that!"

Friar Gode nodded. "There is little that is real about these so-called druids."

"They're a synthesis of power-mongering ideas from this century, together with all the most popular human vices disguised as ceremony, mixed in with bits and pieces of Druid lore that everybody already knows about, so that the people will recognize the symbols and think the men are genuine druids," Matt said.

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"Almost a mockery of them," Friar Gode said grimly.

Jord stared from one to another, more and more scandalized with every word he heard.

"Yes, a burlesque of the actual article," Matt agreed. "You might even say these synthodruids are a do-it-yourself religion. No matter what you call it, though, it's a great cover for a grassroots takeover by the forces of Evil. How can we fight them, friar?"

"By virtuous living, and thus setting a shining example before the people." Friar Gode spread his hands, at a loss. "How else, I cannot think."

"There is the possibility of telling the people what they're doing, by means of minstrels' songs," Matt said,

"but I hesitate to think what might happen to those minstrels, and I'm not sure the people would believe them anyway."

"There are men and women far more holy than I," Friar Gode assured him. "Perhaps they can see how to counter this threat to the Faith better than a humble friar like myself."

"Well, holiness doesn't usually result in knowing how to fight," Matt said, "but I suppose that in the spiritual realm, a near-saint might have inspirations worth the listening. I don't know your country all that well, friar. Who do you think might be a good consultant?"

"There is the Abbess of the Convent of St. Ursula," Friar Gode answered. "She is said to be very holy, yet a most redoubtable woman."

Well, Matt had his doubts as to how useful the abbess' holiness would be, but found her redoubts far more reassuring. "Best lead I've got, I guess, and asking her opinion can't do any harm. Thanks, friar—and thanks for the night's lodging, too."

"You are welcome." Gode managed a smile. "Not that you seem to have made much use of the latter." Then he frowned, concerned. "You have had no sleep, though. How shall you fare through the day?"

"Oh, I think I can keep going for a spell."

The doors opened, letting in a bright shaft of morning sun. "Lord Wizard?" Sir Orizhan asked. "Are you well?"

Jord's head whipped about; he stared at Matt as though he'd been betrayed.

"Of course," Matt said briskly. "Just because I'm up before sunrise doesn't mean I'm sick." Then his attention went to Sergeant Brock, beside the knight and very pale as he stared at Jord. "What's the matter, Sergeant?"

Brock gave a start, as though realizing where he was. "Is not this the druid who hurled a fireball at the friar yesterday evening?"

"I was." Jord bowed his head, ashamed.

"A druid, in a church?" Brock sounded scandalized.

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"I have repented of my errors, goodman," Jord told him, "and confessed my sins." That unnerved Brock even more than seeing Jord in the first place. He turned away, obviously agitated. Sir Orizhan stepped close to confide, "I have seen this happen to soldiers before—discovering that their enemies are not always complete villains, and can even turn aside from their evil ways."

"It does give you a bad turn," Matt agreed, "having to revise your view of the world. I think he'll survive, though."

"I doubt it not," Sir Orizhan agreed. "Shall we break our fast, my lord?"

"I have meal and water, and can make a porridge quickly," Friar Gode offered. Matt exchanged glances with Sir Orizhan, then turned to the friar, nodding. "That ought to get us on the road fast enough. Thanks, friar—and maybe over a morning bowl we can talk about the route to the convent."

An hour later they started out, Matt with some misgivings. An abbess was an administrator, after all, and he was well aware that top administrators don't always rise to their positions because of virtue. Toward noon a fourth person fell in with the three companions, slouching along beside them with his hood pulled up and his arms folded, with his hands in his sleeves. The trio stiffened, recognizing the bauchan.

Matt tried to be offhand about it, though. "Good morning, Buckeye. Thought you'd be sleeping it off." The bauchan looked at him in puzzlement. "Sleeping what off, Lord Wizard?"

"Your night's fighting," Matt explained. "Mind you, I'm grateful, but I thought you'd need a rest." Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock looked up, staring in amazement.

"He fought off some evil spirits for me last night," Matt explained, "not to mention a dozen or so wolves." Knight and squire transferred their amazement to Buckeye.

The bauchan shrugged it off, uncomfortable with praise. "Remember that I'm a spirit more than an animal, wizard. I can manage without sleep quite well. But you have had none at all, and your mortal body must be dragging at you. What spell have you chanted to flush energy through your body?"

"I borrowed an hour of sleep from each of the next eight nights," Matt explained. "I'm probably better rested now than I'll be then."

Knight and sergeant swiveled their gazes back to him, staring harder.

"Your eyeballs are going to dry out if you don't blink now and then," Matt told them. Then, back to Buckeye, "So what brings you out to join us on the open road?"

"A beggar at the next crossroads," Buckeye told him. "I have gone ahead and seen that he will be of interest to you. Do not pass him by without a glance or a coin, wizard."
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Matt gazed at him, wondering whether it was a booby trap or a tip. "Trouble with you is, I never know when you're helping me or troubling me."

"I know." Buckeye grinned. "That's the delight of it. Take pleasure in your caution, mortal wizard" With a bound, he disappeared into the roadside brush.

"Surely we will not heed his words!" Brock protested.

"If it was good advice and we don't take it, he'll laugh his head off," Matt explained.

"The imp!" Sir Orizhan exclaimed. "He has us by the scruff, and he knows it! We dare not take his advice and dare not ignore it!"

"And he's chortling up his sleeve about it this very minute," Matt assured him. "Maybe that's why he wore clothes this time. Shall we see what's at the next crossroads, gentlemen?" They came to the intersection. Matt stopped abruptly and cursed softly to himself. Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock stared, too. The east-west road had been deliberately rerouted into an S-curve, so that it crossed the north-south road at a slant instead of a right angle.

"Prince John's taking the synthodruids a little too seriously," Matt said. "He's changed the intersection to avoid the form of a Christian cross."

"Could he really have so transformed every crossroads in the kingdom?" Sir Orizhan asked, staring.

"You can do amazing things with magic, if you have enough of it," Matt said grimly. "Come on—let's see who that beggar is, leaning against the signpost."

The beggar was a bit better outfitted than most—his clothes were dirty, but not yet reduced to rags; he hadn't been begging long. Matt stepped up, fishing in the wallet behind his belt for a silver penny. His shadow fell across the beggar, and the man looked up, holding out his bowl in listless routine. Matt froze. The eyes were dull, the face bleak, but he recognized it, and the last time he had seen the man, those eyes had been bloodshot from too much ale.

"Lord Wizard?" Sir Orizhan said behind him. "What troubles you?"

"I've seen him before," Matt told him. "So have you. We shared a table at an inn a week ago."

"It cannot be!"

But Sergeant Brock pushed past and knelt in front of the man, then rose with his face hard. "It is. When the soldiers were done with him, they cast him out to wander the roads and beg." The dull eyes began to focus on them. The beggar frowned, trying to remember.

"Dolan!" Matt cried. "That was his name!"

The man stared up at him.

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"What have they done to him?" Sir Orizhan whispered.

"Part of it is not so hard to guess." Brock gestured at a crutch lying beside the beggar. "He didn't need that when they took him away."

"They lamed him?" the knight exclaimed in horror. "For nothing but drunken mutterings?"

"Drunken mutterings against Prince John," Matt reminded him. Brock knelt and looked into Dolan's eyes. "How did they lame you, fellow? You still have both your legs."

Dolan pointed to a large, dirty bandage on his ankle.

"His hamstring," Brock said, his face grim. "One or both?" Dolan held up a single finger.

Sir Orizhan began to look apprehensive. "Why doesn't he speak?" For answer, Dolan opened his mouth and made a sort of cawing. His lips writhed, trying to mold the sound into words and failing.

"He spoke against the prince, after all," Matt said quietly. "They gave him the punishment they thought fitted the crime."

"His tongue?" Sir Orizhan turned green.

Even Sergeant Brock rose and turned away. "It would have been kinder to kill him outright!"

"Yes, it would," Matt said, "but he wouldn't have been able to go hobbling through the land as a walking warning to anyone who might be thinking of criticizing Prince John." At a sudden thought, he looked up, then relaxed. "For a minute there I was afraid I might find a raven listening."

"No fear," Sir Orizhan told him. "All the carrion eaters are in royal castles now." Matt tossed the silver penny into the begging bowl even as he said, "We can't just leave him here."

"We surely cannot take him with us!" Sir Orizhan protested. "We'd scarcely make a mile a day!"

"Oh, I think we can move a bit faster than that." Matt knelt and clasped the beggar's shoulder. "Dolan, I hereby adopt you! Sir Orizhan, Goodman Brock, you're my witnesses— from this day forth, this man is my cousin!"

"A mere beggar?" Sir Orizhan stared. "Have you taken leave of your senses, my lord?"

"Not a bit." Sergeant Brock grinned. "After all, the poor lad is in need of help, if ever a man was. Surely he is in no condition to suffer pranks."

"No, he's not," Matt agreed, and stood up to call, "Oh, Buckeye! There's somebody I'd like you to meet!"

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The bauchan came out of the trees, looking very surly indeed. "I heard, wizard! It's a foul trick to play upon me!"

"Hey, you were the one who told me to take notice of him," Matt reminded. "Buckeye, I'd like you to meet my cousin Dolan. Dolan, meet the family curse."

"This is beneath you, wizard," the bauchan complained. "He is not of your blood and bone!"

"All people are ultimately related," Matt said smugly, "and for the time being, he's a legal relation, too." He turned to his companions. "Shall we go, gentlemen?"