Song of the Gargoyle (14 page)

During the second song, the lively chansonette, there were excited gasps from the children, and when it was over the merchant gave generously as each of his children demanded a copper to personally place in front of Troff. One by one they crept forward and dropped their coin, each of them trying to place it closer to Troff’s feet, the younger ones then scurrying back shrieking with delighted fear.

Tymmon had just begun a second slow tune, and Troff was in the midst of his mournful lament, when a stern voice cried, “Stop. In the name of all that is holy, stop this unseemly howling immediately.”

The people fell silent as a dark-robed priest pushed his way among them. Seizing Tymmon by the collar, he had started to shake him, when a very different sound from Troff caused him to release his hold and retreat up the stairs so quickly that he tripped on the skirt of his vestments and almost fell.

“Stop at once,” he cried from a safer distance, and then, turning to the listeners, he began to berate them for wasting their time listening to worldly songs in such a sacred place on God’s holy day. And also for wasting their money on an ungodly exhibition instead of saving it to buy candles or for other righteous purposes. Before the priest had ceased to speak, Tymmon had gathered up his earnings and, squeezing through the crowd, made his way quickly out of the square.

They tried their songs next in a smaller square, which seemed to be used as an outdoor market. The listeners were again numerous and enthusiastic, particularly the children, but the people here were mostly peasants and laborers and money was obviously scarce. When Tymmon prepared to leave sometime later, he found on the cobblestones only a few coppers, two green apples, and a half a loaf of bread.

During the remainder of the day they performed in various places with varying success. They also stopped a number of times to buy food and eat, and in their stable room that night they ate again as Tymmon counted their collection of coins and made plans for the future.

“If we are going to stay much longer in Montreff we need to broaden our repertoire,” he told Troff. “Some new songs perhaps? What do you think?”

Troff, who was nibbling at a flea on his rear leg, rolled his eyes at Tymmon and sighed.

“I know,” Tymmon said. “You are tired of singing. You did not complain, but at the end of the day I could tell that you were loath to continue. And to sing so many times a day must indeed be hard on your throat. Perhaps we could add some other types of entertainment to our exhibition. When I was very young I often practiced tumbling and juggling with my father, and at one time I could play the rebec and the lyre as well as the flute. I stopped practicing some time ago but I think the skills would return quickly.”

He glanced at his small store of coins. “Perhaps,” he began, and then noticed that Troff was nearly asleep. “Well, I will think on it, and tomorrow we will speak of it some more.”

That very night Tymmon laid many plans, and in the days that followed most of his ideas were turned into realities. He was soon able to purchase a rebec, a fine instrument with a graceful pear-shaped body and well-mounted strings. And his fingers soon regained enough of their old skills for him to be able to play the accompaniment as he sang a number of songs—many old folk songs and ballads, as well as many of the songs composed by his father. His voice, not yet deepened by approaching manhood, was clear and true, and his singing often earned as much applause as did Troff’s, although much less laughter. Now and then he told one of his father’s stories, complete with dramatic pantomime, and it was not long before his juggling and tumbling had improved enough so that he was able to include a brief demonstration of physical dexterity during each exhibition.

And Troff’s role was expanding too. With only a few training sessions Tymmon had been able to teach him to perform a deep bow at the end of each presentation, and then to circulate through the crowd carrying a small pail in his mouth. Troff seemed to particularly enjoy that part of his performance, and he soon added his own special touches, stopping in front of listeners who had not yet contributed to regard them with an accusing stare—a tactic that always set the crowd to laughing and the penny-pincher to digging into his purse.

So Troff’s part in their daily exhibitions grew, and to Tymmon’s great relief, no one seemed to see him as anything magical or supernatural. Unlike the situation in the small villages where some people had certainly feared him as a monster, here in the city he seemed to be easily accepted as a dog. There had been, in fact, one man, an ancient pilgrim, who had spoken of seeing others of his breed in cities and castles in the low countries, where they were used in hunting as well as to pull small carts on the city streets.

Tymmon had suppressed a smile. It did not seem likely that gargoyles were being used as beasts of burden in the low countries. But Tymmon had not contradicted the pilgrim, since he was old and weak of eye and mind. And also, of course, because it was necessary that everyone should continue to see Troff as a dog.

It was only when they were alone at night in their small room in the stable that Troff was free to be his real self. To transform himself into a mysterious and magical presence in the dim twilight, grinning his gargoyle grin, and sharing with Tymmon the thoughts of his gargoyle mind.

Before long their days had settled into a routine. Mornings at the cathedral square, except on Sundays and holy days, and then a round of shorter stops at several other squares and crossroads. By early afternoon a return to the inn for rest and rehearsals, and then another briefer visit to the central square between vespers and sundown.

Some audiences were more enthusiastic than others and more generous, and there were days when Tymmon’s hoard of coins grew but little. But there was always enough to eat, a secure—if a bit chilly and flea-ridden—place to spend the night, and even more important, that rush of strange and unexplainable delight when hands clapped and faces lit with laughter.

To Tymmon’s surprise, that mysterious joy did not fade away as time passed. Instead it seemed to grow as he became more sure of his ability to brighten dull eyes and set tired faces to smiling. Once or twice it occurred to him to wonder if his father had felt the same when he performed in King Austern’s court, and if he, too, had thrilled to the sudden joy in sorrowful eyes. If, for instance, there had been a time when Komus’s clowning had first brought a smile back to the face of the old king, after the terrible death of his only son, the brave and handsome Prince Mindor. Surely there had been such a time and now Tymmon knew how Komus had felt at that moment.

So Tymmon’s life as a jongleur and minstrel continued to flourish, and at the White Boar all seemed well also. Harcor and two or three of his many sons still seemed to show a deep and searching interest in Tymmon and his background, but no one had mentioned Austerneve or a reward offered for the capture of a fugitive. Nor had they tried to restrict his movements in any way.

One day, after Tymmon had greatly improved his appearance with a haircut and some new articles of clothing, the innkeeper asked him if he would like to trade a few songs for an evening meal. And from that day on when the sun had set and the common room of the inn was full of ale drinkers and travelers, Tymmon and Troff played and sang. And when the performance was over they sat before the hearth in the enormous kitchen and ate roasted meats, rich stews and soups, sweet pastries, and many other wonderful things.

It was, compared to the hard, cold, hungry days in the forest, a good life. Not, of course, anything like the wonderful existence, full of fame and honor and high adventure, of a young man born into a noble family, but better than... Better than life in the forest, where one was threatened daily by harpies and brigands and starvation.

And, it sometimes occurred to him, certainly better than that of villagers such as Char, the poor mistreated cowherd. And better than that of all the people of the village of Bondgard, taxed into starvation by their greedy lord.

And probably better than—but he tried not to think of that. Tried not to wonder where Komus was and what sort of life he was now living. But he did think of his father—over and over and over again until he grew angry at himself and, as he had often done in the past, at Komus also.

At Komus for so senselessly giving up his homeland and heritage to flee to Austerneve and become a court jester. And for something else too. For taking foolish risks that Tymmon had only started to understand since he had begun again to sing Komus’s songs and tell his stories.

For now that he was older and was once again learning and rehearsing the things that Komus had written, it was becoming clear to him that his father had included in his performances criticisms of powerful people and institutions—more or less subtly sarcastic comments on the behavior of the high and mighty of both church and castle. On crusaders who plundered farms and villages on their way to the Holy Land, and priests of the church who became wealthy selling pardons and relics. And of highborn lords who pretended friendship while plotting evilly against their friends and neighbors.

There were songs that Tymmon had once thought simply amusing, which he now saw as having a deeper meaning. He had watched some peasants laughing bitterly and a little uneasily as he sang a song about greedy landlords. And he had seen a group of students chuckling over the verses about the churchman who swore an oath of poverty every morning before he went out selling pardons to poor ignorant peasants. And as he sang Komus’s songs and told his stories, it occurred to Tymmon to wonder if Black Helmet could have been someone who felt he had been mocked.

Black Helmet. He still could not even guess who the great thick-bodied knight in the strange dark armor could have been. But it was beginning to be apparent that Komus, whom Tymmon had once thought to be naught but a harmless clown, might have had dangerous enemies.

Komus must have known that to ridicule such things and people could be hazardous. Why did he continue to take the risk—to his own life and safety, and that of his son also? It was a question that Tymmon asked himself many times, but only during the dark and silent hours before dawn. At other times, in the rush and press of life in the great walled city of Montreff, it was not too difficult to keep his mind on other things.

Days passed. Spring was warming into summer and berries and fine fresh vegetables were appearing on the peddlers’ tables in the market square. At the White Boar Inn business was good as more citizens took advantage of the better weather to travel on business or pilgrimage. And every night Tymmon and Troff performed to larger and larger crowds.

It was on one night in early May, when the audience had been particularly large and enthusiastic, that an old man approached Tymmon as the performance ended. He was curiously dressed in a shabby velvet tunic patterned in red and black, and on his long thin legs were dirty purple gaiters with elaborate tasseled lacings. His stringy hair and pointed beard were almost white, but his eyes, under shaggy brows, were a sharp, keen blue.

“You are greatly gifted, lad,” he said, with a gap-toothed grin. “And your dog is a priceless treasure.”

“Thank you, sir.” Tymmon slung his rebec over his shoulder and picked up the flute. “My dog and I both thank you for your kind remarks.”

The man smiled and nodded and went on standing where he blocked the passageway from the crowded room. Putting his hand on Tymmon’s shoulder he leaned forward and, in a harsh whisper, said, “Would you join me yonder where the crowd is less pressing? I would like to speak further with you.”

Tymmon hesitated. Food was waiting in the kitchen, and besides there was something in the intensity of the old man’s stare that made him uneasy. “You are most kind, sir,” and then, as he bent to pick up Troff’s leash, “but at the moment...

The grip on Tymmon’s shoulder tightened. “I, too, have been a minstrel,” the old man said. And then as Tymmon straightened he bent closer, and staring with searching, narrowed eyes, he added, “And I, too, am from Nordencor.”

A
S THE MAN FROM
Nordencor led the way across the crowded common room, other guests smiled and nodded at Tymmon, and a fat-faced merchant in a long surcoat trimmed with fur reached out to press a coin into his hand. But he barely acknowledged their smiles or even their coins. His mind was too busy elsewhere, asking frightening questions. Questions that might well have even more frightening answers.

“Who... he began once, and again, “How did you know... but the stranger only shook his head and said, “Wait. Wait.”

It was not until they were seated on a bench in a dark alcove that he leaned forward, grasped Tymmon’s hand, and with his scraggly beard quivering, said, “Let me introduce myself. I am called Jarn. I am a traveling jongleur now, but I was once a minstrel and a tutor of music in the court of Lord Cyllo of Nordencor. And you, I understand, are called Hylas—from the same city. Is that correct?”

“How did you know?” Tymmon asked. “Who told you that I was from Nordencor?”

“Why, Master Harcor, our red-haired host, told me.”

“I see,” Tymmon said. And he did see—but only in part. What he saw was that the old man had learned that Tymmon—or Hylas, the son of Lindor—claimed to be a native of his own city. And since he obviously had not heard of any such person, nor of a huntsman named Lindor who had recently died a tragic death, he possibly knew that Tymmon had lied about his parentage. But what Tymmon did not understand was why he had bothered to inquire in the first place. Unless... unless he knew of the reward offered by Black Helmet and suspected that Tymmon was, in reality, from Austerneve and the fugitive son of Komus, the court jester.

“Why did you want to know my birthplace?” he asked, and even before the old minstrel began to answer he felt a strange premonition that the answer would be something of deep and lasting importance. As he waited he was suddenly chilled by a wave of fear, and felt an almost irresistible urge to cover his ears with his hands and run away.