The Curse of the Giant Hogweed (17 page)

“Fool, dost not know ye law of Sfynfford? Any spoils of war won in ye king’s service belong to ye king, to be divided among his lieges as he seeth fit. Wouldst rob an old man?”

“Wouldst let ye old man reign, woman?” barked King Sfyn. “I be none so feeble that I need my daughter-in-law to rewrite ye laws of ye kingdom according to her own convenience. Since when doth a wyvern’s hoard count as spoils of war? When my son Edwy slew yon dragon that held ye prisoner, did I insist he share ye amongst my liegemen, forsooth? Torchyld hath made rich gifts to his kin, as a hero should. The rest of his wealth be his own, to spend as he chooseth. Yea, great-nephew, ye shall wed our beloved Syglinde. Ye shall choose land where ye wist, so it be not too far from me. There build ye a lordly manor house and live as befits ye rank and dignity of a king’s great-nephew, and beget strong sons to serve ye chiefs of our line as valiantly as ye have served me. Doth mine answer please ye, Lady Syglinde?”

“Aye, dearest liege. And Torchy and I shall invite ye over for a weekend as soon as we have a roof to put over ye, and then our great-great-grandchildren will be able to boast, ‘King Sfyn slept here.’ ”

“Ah, dear fosterling, dost think future generations will ken or care who old King Sfyn was? E’en poor Ffyffnyr will be forgotten,” he added mournfully, rubbing his hand over the graying muzzle.

“Not Ffyffnyr,” said Peter Shandy.

In his mind’s eye, he could see the souvenir shop outside his hotel: griffins on coffee mugs, griffins on neckties, on plastic notebook covers, on souvenir maps, on teacups, on aprons, on God knew what. Even the cardboard coaster on the pint he’d never got to drink in that misbegotten pub would have had a scarlet griffin printed on it.

“I predict,” he said, “the day will come when it will hardly be possible for anybody to travel a mile throughout the length and breadth of this land without coming upon at least one likeness of Ffyffnyr.”

“Can such a thing be possible?”

“Ask Assistant Archdruid Stott. He’s the animal expert.”

“My colleague does not err, Your Majesty,” Stott assured the king. “Ffyffnyr’s semblance will appear on flags and coats of arms. The red griffin will be honored as the symbol of an entire nation.”

King Sfyn beamed. Ffyffnyr burped a few royal blue and purple flames, then went back to sleep.

“He be such a sweetie,” sighed Syglinde. “Would we could but have a little Ffyff of our own in our new home. Torchy darling, dost suppose there might somewhere fly a nice red lady griffin whom Ffyffnyr would like to meet? E’en mayhap a pretty pink-and-white one?”

“Grandpa,” cried Gelert. “I crave a boon. As soon as we get our sisters married and Uncle Edmyr buried, can Gaheris and I go on a geste to find a wife for Ffyff?”

“Perchance, lad. Ye decision must await our royal pleasure until more urgent affairs have been transacted. Let ye chapel be made ready for the lying-in-state of Prince Edmyr’s body, then bedeck ye banqueting hall with flowers and rich hangings for the wedding. ’Tis indeed a confusing state of affairs. Let us be thankful ye archdruid be here to perform ye ceremonies in all good order.”

“Huh?”

Timothy Ames, who had been refreshing himself in a light doze, jumped awake as if he’d been zapped with a bean-blower. “Who, me? Don’t you have a resident friar of orders gray, or a chaplain of the regiment, or somebody? I can’t go muscling in on the local man’s territory.”

“We have only a smelly old hermit who liveth in a hut and maketh offensive suggestions to any woman who passeth by,” Syglinde protested. “I will not be wed by ye likes of him.”

“Nor I,” cried Imogene, Gwendolyn, Guinevere, Gwladys, Aloisa, and Blodeuwedd in order of precedence. Tim realized he was in for it.

“Cripes, I better hold a conference with my boys. Excuse us, folks.”

He beckoned Dan and Peter over to a neutral corner. “What the bloody flaming hell do we do now? I can’t go around marrying and burying all this goddamn royalty. I wouldn’t even know what to say. Hell, if I could have heard what the minister was getting at when he asked me to say ‘I do’ to when I married Jemima, do you think I’d have been fool enough to say it?”

Daniel Stott cleared his throat. “As it happens, I am well acquainted with the marriage ceremony, having gone through it with both Elizabeth and Iduna, not to mention my eight children’s weddings. Furthermore, I have personally united twenty-seven couples in lawful wedlock.”

“I’ll be switched! How come?”

“My beloved father was, in addition to being a prominent pig farmer, our community’s only justice of the peace. During one especially busy week in June, he contracted laryngitis. Rather than disappoint the large number of would-be brides and grooms, many of them also expectant parents, who had scheduled their nuptials for that auspicious time, he swore me in as assistant justice and had me perform the rites for him.”

Peter Shandy rubbed his chin. “Er—Dan, how long ago did this swearing-in take place?”

“You raise a nice legal point, my friend. It would seem to me, however, that since we are now in the kingdom of Sfynfford, we are subject only to the local ordinances. Therefore, if we can obtain the king’s formal permission, we may venture to perform a civil, though of course not a religious ceremony. As to the funeral, I submit that our qualifications, or lack of them, will probably make little difference to Prince Edmyr at this juncture. Therefore, we have but to manage the affair in such a way as to offer comfort and reassurance to the bereaved.”

“And it would seem to me Dan’s hit the nail on the head,” said Tim with immense relief. “Okay, boys, let’s tackle His Highness.”

King Sfyn was somewhat puzzled at being asked to repeat, “By virtue of the power vested in me as high king of Sfynfford, I hereby grant Daniel Augustus Stott official permission to perform marriage and funeral ceremonies at my court,” but the formality made the three visitors feel easier. As for the young people, they were delighted that the stately assistant archdruid instead of his no doubt more distinguished but physically less impressive superior would get to officiate.

Thus was one rubicon temporarily bridged, if not yet crossed. Shandy left Tim and Dan to hoist a flagon with the old king in honor of the swearing-in, and beckoned Torchyld out of the hall. Syglinde came, too, since neither was willing to let the other out of sight.

“What be thy pleasure, honored bard?”

“I want you to show me the hawk house.”

“The hawk house? Mean ye ye mews?”

“I suppose so. Why the mews?”

“ ’Tis where we mew them up, in sooth.”

“Ah, yes. It had slipped my mind that the word mews can mean something other than the noise cats make.”

“In Sfynfford, cats say ‘miaow.’ ” Syglinde made a delightful cat. She was in wild spirits now, laughing up at Torchyld and down at Peter, looking more ravishing than ever.

Peter didn’t feel much like laughing back. He was finding the mews a daunting sort of place. He admired hawks, both for themselves and for their efficiency as unpaid hired hands on farms. However, he preferred to watch them soaring above the turnip fields, adjusting their marvelously engineered wings to the updrafts while they watched for field mice among the leaves. Sitting here silent on their perches with those leather hoods covering their heads, they looked too much like a row of executioners. He supposed that was what they were, from the mice’s point of view.

Each bird had its own wooden stall, with a block to perch on and a screen of rough homespun to hang down over the opening to keep it warm and quiet, he supposed. The hawks’ accommodations were probably superior to the resident hermit’s, and a good deal cleaner. Dan would be relieved to hear how well they were looked after.

He walked around, trying to take inventory without getting too close to those ominous talons. Each buteo and falcon appeared to have its two silver bells firmly attached to the leather strips around its legs. Some birds were tied to their perches by their jesses. Others were allowed to move about freely, although at the moment none of these was taking advantage of its privilege.

“They know they risk being struck gin they fly too close to another whilst hooded,” Torchyld explained. “It be safer to stay in their own stalls, so they mostly do.”

“Smart birds,” said Peter. “Which is Hebog, the one Prince Edmyr was working with?”

“This be she, ye great gyrfalcon. Go not anigh. She striketh like a wyvern. Hebog be commander of ye mews. All ye rest be sore afeared of her.”

“M’yes, I can see why.”

Peter thought he himself might experience a mild perturbation of spirit if that damned great mass of feathers and fury swooped at him with her claws hooked out. Even tied and hooded, Hebog looked hardly more amiable than a wolverine with a sore paw.

“She’s a good deal larger than any of the others, isn’t she?” he remarked. “Don’t you have any male gyrfalcons?”

“Aye, here be one.” Torchyld pointed to a falcon that looked much like Hebog but was only about two thirds her size. “Wist ye not ye females be much bigger than ye tiercels?”

“Certainly I wist,” Peter replied testily, although in fact he hadn’t even known a tiercel was a male hawk until just now. “The light isn’t too good in here, that’s all. What I’m mainly interested in finding out is whether any of these birds has lost a bell. Help me double-check them, will you?”

Peter was hoping he’d overlooked an unbelled leg, but he hadn’t. The master of the hawks, a likable cuss named Murfynn, came in with some fresh meat for the birds’ suppers while they were searching. He assured them none was missing, and then showed them the box in which spare bells were kept.

“Behold, honored bard, all be in their places. We keep one pair for each class of bird. Some be larger, some be smaller, but in no case have we here a single bell.”

Peter nodded. “I see. Very neat. I don’t suppose there’s any chance somebody could have—er—stolen a pair without your knowing?”

Murfynn drew himself up to his full height, which Peter estimated at four feet, six and a half inches. “Steal from King Sfyn? Nay, sire. It be not ye done thing.”

“Urrgh,” Torchyld agreed. “All ye bells we own be either on ye birds or in yon box. Gin more be needed, they must be cast by ye silversmith. Thus hath aye been ye custom.”

“I see. So that would mean they always follow the same pattern.”

“Aye, we have but ye one set of molds.”

Peter took the silver bell he’d found in Prince Edmyr’s hood out of his sleeve, where he’d had it tied up, and passed it to the master of hawks. “Then would you have any idea at all where this bell might have come from?”

Murfynn examined the trinket with keen professional interest, then shook his head. “Nay, sire, I wot not. This be none of ours.”

He reached into his box and took out a bell of comparable size. “See, ours be more squat in shape, and hath a groove around ye middle. Wilt please ye to step outside into ye sunlight for a better look?”

“Thank you,” said Peter, and stepped.

Now that he could make out the details, Peter had to agree with Murfynn. There could be no mistaking this bell for one of King Sfyn’s. As a final check, he went around again, comparing it with the bells on the birds’ legs and the ones from Murfynn’s box. All the ones that should be identical were, allowing for the differences in their sizes to correspond with the varying weights of their wearers. None was at all like the one he’d brought with him.

“You’re absolutely right, sir,” he told Murfynn at last. “It doesn’t even come close. So that still leaves us stuck with the question of how it got into Prince Edmyr’s hood. Do you think it might have come off a hawk that escaped from some other owner and strayed into King Sfyn’s territory?”

“Indeed, sire, I doubt it. That would be far to stray. And were a belled hawk to appear in ye forests of Sfynfford, our woodmen would hear its chime and set nets to take it alive, supposing ye bird to be one of our liege’s. And I should know gin they caught it, or heads would roll. Also, noble bard, ye may note this bell be not discolored from lying out of door, but simply darkened with time and lack of rubbing. Ours be bright as stars.”

“So they be,” Peter agreed. “You maintain a taut mews, sir. My compliments, and thank you for your time.”

Murfynn saluted smartly. Shandy gave him a pleasant nod and went outside, where Syglinde and Torchyld had decided to wait.

“Good man,” he remarked.

“Aye,” said Torchyld. “Murfynn wotteth well his hawks. Where hie we next, Bard Pete?”

“You tell me,” Peter groaned. “Does either of you have the faintest glimmering of a notion where in blazes this bell might have come from?”

Lady Syglinde nodded her exquisite head. “Perchance I can find ye a mate to it, gin it please ye. Torchy darling, prithee take Bard Pete to ye treasure room. I will meet ye there anon.”

“Ye leave me, love?” cried Torchyld. “Whither goest?”

“To ask King Sfyn to bring ye key, dearest oakenhead, so we can get in. I shall tell His Highness my betrothed be desirous of choosing me a wedding present.”

Laughing, she ran off. Torchyld stood gazing at her, so utterly besotted that Peter had to give him a few pokes in the ribs to remind him of the business at hand.

“Which way to the treasure room?”

“Ungh? Oh, past ye portcullis and turn right at ye donjon keep. Ye can’t miss it.”

“Aren’t you coming, too? Lady Syglinde told us to meet her there, in case you’d forgotten.”

“Lady Syglinde.” Torchyld reached down casually and grabbed Peter by the throat. “Dost admit my lady to be beyond compare, bard, or do I feed ye to ye eels in ye moat?”

“I admit it freely,” Peter managed to gurgle. “In fact, I’ll be glad to spit in the eye of anybody who says she isn’t, if you’ll kindly ease up on my windpipe long enough to let me catch my breath. Furthermore, Lady Syglinde is not only beautiful, but intelligent.”

“She be what?”

“She thinketh, my boy. She hath great store of brains packed into that gorgeous noggin of hers. You’re a lucky ex-bard, in case you don’t know it. Now get that blasted paw away from my gullet, and let’s go see what she’s hatching up in the family vault.”