Song of the Gargoyle (15 page)

For a long moment there was no answer as the old man only sat staring searchingly into Tymmon’s face, but then he began to speak. “It has been some years since I left Nordencor to make my living as a traveling jongleur. But before that time I lived most of my life in that city, entertaining in the lord’s court and in the homes of the nobility, and instructing those who wished to learn the art of singing and playing music.”

He stopped suddenly, and taking Tymmon’s chin in his hand, he turned his face from one side to another. “Yes, yes,” he murmured. “It is remarkable. But according to our host you are the son of a huntsman. It is, indeed, remarkable.” He then seemed to fall into a deep reverie from which he did not arouse himself until Tymmon reached out and touched his arm.

“Sir. What is it? What is remarkable?”

“Yes. Yes. It is the resemblance. The resemblance is remarkable. You see, I had, during those years, one student who came to me to learn the art of song as well as that of playing on various musical instruments. He was, when the lessons began, only a child. No more than seven or eight years of age. He was a comely child and greatly gifted in many ways, and he loved music dearly. He continued to study with me and to practice even after he began his training for the knighthood.”

Tymmon, who had already guessed who this gifted student must have been, caught his breath. It was true, then. His father had come from a noble family and had even trained for the knighthood. He had never really doubted—since he had never known Komus to lie to him—but it was so hard to believe that anyone could choose to throw away such a birthright.

“What was he called?” he demanded. “What was the name of your student?”

“He was called Lucan. Lucan, son of the lord Tymmoor.” Jarn paused and looked sharply at Tymmon. “Have you then heard of such a person?”

Tymmon shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not by that name. What did he look like, this Lucan?”

Jarn smiled wryly. “Much as you do, lad. That is why I asked the landlord about your background. Oh, he was of a lighter complexion, with hair of a light golden brown, but in all other aspects he looked very much as you do. But it was not just appearance that led me to wonder about your parentage. It is your gift also. One does not forget easily a voice so sweet and true. And with such similar tricks of tone and voicing, it was just so that Lucan, son of Tymmoor, sang for me when he was a boy of your age.”

Tymmon found his hands were trembling and he gripped them together and pressed them between his knees. Taking a deep, wavering breath, he asked, “And what happened to him—your student? Why did he leave Nordencor?”

Jarn’s eyes narrowed. “Aha,” he said. “You know then that he left the city? What else do you know concerning Lucan, son of Tymmoor?”

Tymmon shook his head wildly. “Nothing. Nothing of anyone by that name. But I think...

He paused and Jarn nodded. “I see. But by another name perhaps? Yes. Yes, I see why that would be.”

“Why? Tell me why. Why did he leave Nordencor and change his name and...

It was some time before Jarn spoke again. “I see that you do not know. And I am, indeed, loath to be the one to tell you. But having gone this far ... There was another pause and then he continued. “It was soon after his knighting that Lucan was married. His bride was a lovely maiden, Lianne she was called, the daughter of Lord Aylion, the ruler of a small neighboring fiefdom. They had been married only a few years and I believe there had been a child. Yes, there was. A boy it was. A child who would now be... perhaps... He stared at Tymmon with narrowed eyes. “Of perhaps a dozen years of age.”

“Thirteen,” Tymmon said briefly.

“Yes, thirteen.” Jam smiled. “It was when this child was still little more than a babe in arms that Lucan was ordered by Lord Cyllo of Nordencor and the lord bishop to take part in a crusade against an uprising of heretics. And it was while he was gone that his young wife... died.”

Tymmon nodded. “Of a fever?”

Jam paused again, this time for so long and meanwhile staring in such a strange fashion that Tymmon became more and more uneasy. “No,” the old minstrel said at last. “Not of a fever. You see, your mother—that is, the bride of Lucan—was accused of witchcraft, and while he was in the south with the lord’s army she was—executed as a witch.”

Executed as a witch. Burned at the stake. His mother. The words seemed at first to have no meaning—or none that Tymmon could grasp. And when his mind did begin to function, some of its shock and horror must have reached Troff, who suddenly rose from where he had been, sprawled at Tymmon’s feet and, staring at the old man, began to growl softly.

“No, Troff. It’s all right,” Tymmon said at last. But the gargoyle was not easily convinced, and it was some time before he backed away. And even then he remained sitting with his eyes rolling anxiously between Tymmon’s face and that of the old man.

“Why?” Tymmon at last managed to ask. “Why was she accused of witchcraft?”

The jongleur shook his head and went on shaking it for so long that Tymmon began to fear that he did not intend to answer. But at last he said, “Why? It is hard to say why such things happen. There had been bad times in Nordencor. Drought and famine and much illness, and there were those who felt the need to lay the blame for all the misfortune on some evil force. A great fear of witches had grown up throughout the countryside. I am not sure why Lucan’s lady was singled out except that she was—had always been—different. Beautiful and intelligent and gifted in all the arts—she too was one of my students for a time—but unlike the other maidens in many ways.”

He paused again and his eyes went dim and blurred with old memories. “There had always been rumors. She was the only child of parents who were in their middle years when she was born—and her hair and eyes were dark while her parents were of fair complexion. Some whispered that she had gypsy blood, although her parents swore that she was born to them and was their true and only heir. And she had lived much of her childhood at her father’s manor in the hill country, where some said she had been allowed to roam through the woods and fields like a wild thing, playing with birds and animals, and...

“And talking to them. It was she who talked to animals.”

“What did you say, lad?”

Tymmon had not known that he had spoken aloud, but it seemed that Jarn had heard him. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “And my fath—and the knight Lucan? Was he too accused of witchcraft?”

“No. No, I do not think so. But soon after he returned to Nordencor and learned of his wife’s death, he disappeared, and the child with him. No one knew what had become of them. But there were some who said that he had been behaving wildly. Threatening people in high places and making accusations. Against his wife’s cousin, who had friends in court and church, and who, after the Lady Lianne, was next in line to inherit Lord Aylion’s lands and castle. It seemed that Sir Lucan believed that this cousin’s highborn friends had spread rumors and told lies to arouse suspicion against Lianne, so that she might die and her cousin gain her inheritance. And that the lord bishop, who was also related to this cousin, had helped to incite the people against Lucan’s lady. Sir Lucan spoke so openly of his suspicions that when he disappeared some said he had been done away with by the powerful people whom he had accused. And others thought he had ended his own life and that of the child.”

Suddenly Tymmon could bear no more. Without plan or intention he jumped to his feet, one hand held up palm outward before his face, as if to ward off an attack. Seizing Troff’s collar with one shaking hand, he hurried across the common room of the inn, stumbling and bumping into people and furniture in his haste. At the door he turned to look back briefly to where the stranger from Nordencor still sat alone in the darkened alcove. Then he burst out into the cold night air. Starting toward the stable, he suddenly turned again and, almost at a run, crossed the courtyard to where the stone gateposts marked the entrance to the street.

For a long time he continued to walk, with Troff trotting beside him through the dark streets of Montreff. Except for here and there where a torch burned before the doorway of an inn or the home of a nobleman, the light was so dim he could barely see the ground before him. But he stumbled on almost unaware of where he was or in what direction his feet were carrying him.

Once when he found himself before the great gates of the city he stopped, and then hurrying forward, he threw himself against the smaller inner gate. It was barred and padlocked, and when a watchman looked down from the guard tower he called up to him, “Sir, I must leave Montreff. Now. Tonight.”

A second guardsman joined the first. One of them held a wineskin in his hand, and they both seemed to be in a festive mood. “Why must you leave now, lad?” one called. “It is bad luck to start a journey after nightfall. Only dead souls travel the highroad at this hour. Ghosts and demons and...

The second interrupted, “What is your haste, you young rascal? Are the sheriff’s men after you that you must leave the city in the dead of night? Stay where you are. We will be down to question you further.”

But the steps of the guardsmen were slow and unsteady on the winding stairs that led down from the tower, and long before they reached the ground Tymmon and Troff had faded back into the darkness and disappeared in the maze of crooked streets.

They went on wandering until, little by little, Tymmon’s wild thoughts calmed and his mind became somewhat clearer. At last he paused and pulled Troff to a stop beside him. “Tomorrow, then,” he whispered. “We will wait and go tomorrow. And now we will go home and prepare.” He looked around. In the darkness the street was unfamiliar.

“Where are we, Troff? Where is the White Boar? Take us home, Troff.” Without hesitation the gargoyle turned, sniffed the air, and trotted off confidently. And it was not long before they saw ahead of them the torchlit courtyard of the inn.

Inside the familiar walls of the harness room Tymmon sank down onto his pallet and crouched forward, his arms hugging his chest as if to confine and quiet his pounding heart. For a while Troff stood beside him breathing heavily on the back of his neck and trying to lick his hidden face. At last Tymmon straightened and, taking Troff’s collar in both his hands, pulled him close.

“That’s why he would not tell me,” he said. “It explains everything. Why he renounced his knighthood, and left Nordencor. And why he would never tell me the reason. Even after that day when he let slip that he had been born to the nobility, and even after I began to reproach him so angrily for what he had done.”

Tymmon leaned forward and, putting his arms around Troff’s neck, laid his head on the gargoyle’s back and thought for a long time. He thought of how blind he had been to blame Komus for cruelty and even cowardice. How blind to think, as he had sometimes done, that his father had given up his knighthood because he had no stomach for bloody battle. When all the time he had acted out of the greatest bravery. The bravery to oppose, all alone, even the most powerful evil forces, as he had done in Nordencor when he accused the high lords of the court and church. And as he had probably done in Austerneve with his songs and stories and advice to the old king.

When at last Tymmon lifted his head from the gargoyle’s back, he wiped his face fiercely, swallowed hard, and said, “We are going tomorrow. We are going back to Austerneve. I don’t know if he is still alive, but if he is we will find him. And if he is not I will find those who took him and kill them. I will kill them, Troff. I will...

Rising suddenly, he went to where his pack sat in the corner of the room and took out the Spanish dagger. Holding the gleaming weapon by its blade so that its hilt formed a cross, he knelt down below the window and held the weapon up before his face, in the manner that knights-to-be held their swords during the vigil on the night before the oath-taking. Looking up at the cross and beyond it to the dim and misty sky, he swore a solemn oath. An oath that he would not rest until he had discovered his father’s fate. And that if he were no longer alive, he—Tymmon, son of Sir Lucan of Nordencor—would revenge his father’s death, or die in the attempt.

He remained kneeling until his knees ached fiercely—just as a candidate for knighthood’s knees were said to ache during the night of his vigil—and then he painfully regained his feet. Before he climbed into bed he turned to Troff, who had been watching his oath-taking with close attention, and reminded him to sleep well and deeply as they would be leaving Montreff in the morning.

But Troff, who usually responded to any mentioning of travel with enthusiasm, seemed troubled. Pushing his great ugly head into Tymmon’s lap, he moaned softly, begging him not to be angry. And when Tymmon explained that his anger was not against him it seemed to comfort him but little. It was a long time that night before either of them slept.

Tymmon rose early the next morning. There was much to be done. After uncovering his hoard of coins from where he had hidden them under Troff’s bed of rags and straw, he went first to settle his account with Harcor, the landlord.

“Well, lad,” Harcor said. “I will miss you and so will my guests. But I do not fear for your future. You have a gift that will sustain you if you use it wisely.”

“I know,” Tymmon said, putting his hand on Troff’s head.

Harcor laughed. “That gift also. But I spoke of your own talents. Farewell, then. And Godspeed.”

Tymmon started away and then turned back. “Sir. The old man in the checkered coat? Has he arisen?”

The innkeeper scratched his head. “The old minstrel? He did not spend the night with us. I do not know where he has gone.”

Tymmon nodded. “Well, if you see him, sir, will you tell him—tell him that Hylas of Nordencor bids him goodbye. And thanks him for—and thanks him for his message.”

Later, when the shops had opened their doors, Tymmon visited the market and made several purchases. Among them were a water gourd, a supply of foodstuffs, and two new leather packs, one designed to be carried by a small donkey. Back in the stable he divided his old belongings and new purchases between the two packs. Then he called Troff to him.