Song of the Gargoyle (2 page)

Even with his head down and cradled in his arms Tymmon could hear his father’s voice and knew that he was still acting. Pretending a friendly invitation to the intruders to share his amusement at the mistake someone had obviously made, or perhaps at the trick that was being played on some unsuspecting party.

“Good sirs, only stop and consider what you are doing. I am the court jester, gentlemen. Not a priest or surgeon whose services might indeed be needed at midnight in the event of illness or injury. But who could possibly require the presence of a fool at midnight—and in his nightshirt? By whose orders have you come for me, pray tell? Surely not by order of the king!”

“No, not on the old king’s orders.” Another was speaking now, a younger, higher voice than that of the black-helmeted leader. “But by command of—” There was a thud and the voice stopped with a grunt, as if someone had thumped him into silence.

“The boy.” The leader’s gonglike voice rang out again. “Where is he? Search for him, Nondum. And you, Wilfar. Find him. He must be here somewhere.”

There followed the clatter of furniture overturned and cupboards ransacked, but the one large room held few hiding places and the search did not take long. When silence fell, the black-helmeted one spoke again and his voice was threatening.

“All right, fool. Tell us at once. Where is he? Where is the boy?” And when Komus answered, it was in a halting, jerking voice, as if he were being shaken as he spoke.

“I was trying to tell you”—the words came out in strange bursts and pauses—“but your men were making such a great noise dismantling my home that I could not make myself heard. The boy has gone. He has left Austerneve. Gone forth to seek his fortune in foreign lands.”

There was a silent pause before Black Helmet answered. “I do not believe you. You are lying. He was seen in the courtyard only a day or so since, and he was not mentioned in the guard’s reports on arrivals and departures.”

“Aha,” Komus said. “But the guards would not have seen him go. As you may know, sir, the guards at the small postern gate often retire to the guardhouse during the late hours of the night. And because he wanted to leave without great notice, not wishing to distress his friends or spend valuable time on lengthy farewells, my son timed his departure for those lonely hours.” Komus’s voice suddenly grew louder and more distinct. “Indeed, it was on my advice that he timed his departure in such a way. It is better, I advised him, to leave for a new life in a discreet and humble way, and wait until one returns, having found fame and fortune, to pass through the great gate of the city triumphantly, in the fullness of...

There was a thud and a muffled moan, and then the black-snouted one’s deep voice saying “Enough, fool. Spare us your gibbering. We have you and we will find the boy soon enough. And if we find you have lied to us—if we find that he is still here in the castle—that blow will seem to have been no more than the pat of a child.”

The shuffle of feet and clanking of swords began again and then died away and a deep empty silence took its place. Only Tymmon remained in the northwest tower, lying facedown on the high ledge with his head wrapped in his trembling arms.

T
IME PASSED UNNOTED AND
uncounted—perhaps only a few endless minutes, but possibly much longer, before Tymmon so much as lifted his head. Lying stiff and still against the window bars, his bones and muscles no longer seemed to be under his control. Only his mind was in working order, or at least certainly in motion, racing frantically in all directions, returning again and again to the scene in the flame-lit room, with his father, barefoot and tousled, surrounded by the five armored men. Who were they? Where had they taken him? And why?

Why Komus? Why would armed men come for a harmless jester, as if he had done murder or committed treachery against his liege lord and country. And then there was the other
why
that kept returning even more insistently—why had the armed men wanted him, too? Wanted Tymmon, son of Komus, who was certainly blameless and not even grown to full manhood.

And then back to the scene in the torchlit room and Komus, playing the fool as always, chattering away to the huge armored men as if they had come on a friendly visit. Chattering about how they were making a mistake, which obviously wasn’t true, and how Tymmon had left Austerneve to seek his fortune, which wasn’t true either.

But then Tymmon suddenly realized that there had been a purpose behind that bit of chatter. Clearly Komus had said what he did in order to make the intruders think it was useless to search further for Tymmon. And then, at last, another bit of meaning behind Komus’s babbling became apparent. The story about how Tymmon had left the castle
by the postern gate in the early hours of the morning.

Remembering how Komus had raised his voice to almost a shout as he spoke those particular words, it suddenly became quite clear. Komus had been speaking to him, giving him advice about what to do, and how and when. Which meant, of course, that he had known about the window ledge and Tymmon’s use of it. And having guessed that he was there, was warning him to leave Austerneve.

But how could he leave? Where would he go? Although Tymmon had often planned to leave the castle and go forth to seek a new life for himself, he had seen himself going as a strong young man, equipped with horse and armor, and all the other necessities for travel in the great outside world.

But to go now? Into the forests inhabited by wild animals and bands of cutthroat robbers and other dangers too horrible to name? Tales told by Mistress Mim, his old nurse, raced through his mind. Tales of horrible creatures, hideous demons, small but deadly imps, and great fire-breathing monsters. Things that, beyond the protecting walls of church and castle, forever haunted the dark mysteries of night. Shuddering, he crossed himself several times over, and then shook his head and went on shaking it. No. No, it was impossible for him to go out now into that haunted darkness.

But to stay? Where could he hide in Austerneve and stay hidden perhaps for many days or weeks? He thought of the hiding places that he and Lonfar had discovered within the castle grounds. Cubbyholes in crooked corners of stables and granaries, nooks and crannies in attics and cellars.

He could indeed hide in such a place. And at one time he could have counted on Lonfar to help him, bringing him food and warning him of impending danger. But not anymore. He could no longer count on Lonfar for anything, and without a source of food he could not stay hidden for long. And when he came out to seek it he would be caught, and then... What was it Black Helmet had said he would do to Komus if he found that he was lying about Tymmon’s whereabouts? No. He must go. For Komus’s sake, as much as for his own.

Suddenly, without even arriving at a decision to do so, he found himself sliding over the edge of the window ledge and making his way slowly down to the floor.

The descent was not easy, complicated by trembling fingers and quivering knees, and once he missed a foothold and almost fell. But at last he reached the floor and groped his way to the hearth, stubbing his toes against overturned chairs and tripping over other fallen and scattered objects. When he reached the fireplace he took a candle from the mantel, held its wick to the embers, and when it finally flamed, turned to see a scene of ruin and destruction.

In the dim light of the candle the entire room was a confused chaos. Open trunks spilled their contents upon the floor, overturned cupboards lay in the midst of broken crockery and spilled flagons. Even the wine barrel had been upended, so that much of the floor was covered by a dark red flood.

Somehow it was the wine barrel that was the most frightening—the shallow red sea more heart-stopping than all the rest of the destruction. For a moment Tymmon didn’t know why, but then he understood. The trunks and cupboards might only have been raided in the search for Tymmon, but the intruders could not have expected to find a boy in a barrel of wine. So the spilling of the wine had been an act of needless violence, without cause or reason. Which made all of it, the armed men, the search, and the taking of Komus, seem an act of meaningless cruelty. Not a joke or a mistake or a misunderstanding, but something brutal and savage beyond reason or purpose.

It was an understanding that shook Tymmon like a deep chill and made his hands tremble so that it was hard for him even to settle the candle into a holder and place it on the mantel. He whispered a prayer to the Blessed Mother and then forced himself to stop and gather his wits and prepare to follow his father’s advice—to leave Austerneve Castle before the light of morning.

He dressed hastily, pulling on breeches, boots, doublet, jerkin, and his warm winter cloak. A sheet of heavy linen spilling out of an overturned trunk caught his eye and he spread it out on his bed and then began to search through the debris for provisions for his journey. Wading through the wine he located a loaf of bread, a small chunk of salted beef, and a round of cheese.

What else? It was of the greatest importance that he choose wisely. He must not carry so much that he would be unable to move swiftly, and yet he must not forget those things that would be necessary to survival alone in the fields and forests.

Choose wisely. But how, when his mind jittered and jumped with fear and continually interrupted his attempts to think clearly by imagining sounds—the scuff of heavy footsteps on the stairs and the clink and rattle of armor.

But even in his haste and fear he managed to remember a tinderbox, a knife, and a small ax. A few more articles of clothing, chosen almost at random, a blanket, a length of rope—all good useful choices.

Remembering his rosary, a gift from his old nurse, he was lifting it down from a peg above his bed, when his fingers touched another object that hung there. His old flute. And although he had not played in many months, his fingers curled longingly around the familiar shape and held on until it, too, was added to the pack. Then he tied the ends of the sheet together with a stout cord and slung it over his back.

At the door he turned and looked back. The candle was still burning on the mantel. He was on his way back to blow it out when something round and hard rolled beneath his foot, and looking down, he saw that it was a bell. One of three bells attached to the three horns that adorned the cap of a court jester. And without plan or purpose he picked up the belled cap and shoved it, too, into his pack. Then he snuffed out the candle and left the room that had been his home since before his earliest memory, and started down the twisting staircase into a darkness that seemed deeper than any he had ever known.

Groping his way on the worn stones of the tower staircase, he came at last to ground level, and the broad oaken door that gave onto the alley. It was unbarred. Of course, it must have been or the armed men could not have entered. But how had it come to be so? Komus always slid the heavy bolts home before darkness fell. Could he have forgotten on this one fateful night?

But the mystery was soon solved when, as Tymmon pushed against the door, it gave way, but not by swinging outward. Instead it quivered and then fell out into the alley with a thunderous crash. The intruders had gained entry by removing it from its hinges. While the shattering din still echoed back from the castle’s stone walls, Tymmon, his heart thudding in his throat, dashed out the door and away.

Running almost blindly in the near darkness, and burdened by his heavy bundle, Tymmon staggered down the alley between workshops and stables, turned the corner at the northern tower, and went on running. Only his familiarity with this passageway, where he had played since earliest childhood, and where every cobblestone was known to him, made it possible for him to keep from falling or dashing headlong into walls or doorposts.

Nearing the church, he remembered a crevice behind a flying buttress and darted into it. He crouched low, listening. Had the intruders heard the crash of the falling door? Minutes passed as he huddled in the hiding place, straining his ears for the sound of approaching footsteps over the thunder of his own heart.

“Go,” an inner voice seemed to be telling him. “Go-forward. There is no time to waste. Go now.”

But his legs refused to obey him, and precious moments passed. Peering out from his hiding place, he suddenly realized that what had seemed only a dark tunnel a few minutes before was now taking on form and substance. Doorways appeared out of the shadows; a bench took shape, and above it a high window. Dawn was approaching. Tymmon glanced upward toward the sky—and suddenly dropped to his knees, cowering in terror.

Lit by the dim light of early day, a face was peering down at him from directly above his head. A terrible face with bulging eyes, a grinning mouth from which protruded a lolling tongue, and ears like small twisted wings. Tymmon had sprung up and begun to run before he suddenly knew what it was that he had seen.

It was only a gargoyle. Only one of the stone monsters that served as drainpipes, tunneling water out and away from the church’s walls. He had seen the grotesque grinning faces a thousand times—but not in this strange half-light and on so terrible a night.

His pace slowed, but now that he had been jarred loose from his hiding place he continued on, crossing the church’s dooryard and then, by a narrow passageway, on to the edge of the inner courtyard. There he paused again, overtaken once more by panic.

Until now he had been in narrow alleys between the walls of stables and storehouses, but now it was necessary to cross an open space, a small courtyard bordered by wings of the palace, elegant buildings used to house King Austern’s guests. And it was now the hour that early-rising servants might well be up and about, fetching water from the well, or sweeping the steps and entryways. Crossing the courtyard would be dangerous, but every moment that he paused would make it even more so. Biting his lip to keep his teeth from chattering, Tymmon went out into the square.

He forced himself to walk, for a running figure would be more apt to arouse interest and suspicion. Bowing his back under the burden of his bundle, he tried to look like a peasant delivering fresh produce—although today was not market day and country folk were not normally allowed in this particular courtyard on any day of the week. But he went on slowly, although at every step the imagined sound of a voice that would command him to stop became louder and clearer in his mind’s ear. So loud and clear that when he finally reached the other side, he stopped for a moment in confusion, uncertain what to do next.