The Curse of the Giant Hogweed (18 page)

T
HE STRONG ROOM LOOKED
impregnable enough. Its oaken door was even thicker, even more iron-bound than the one behind which Peter had found Lady Syglinde imprisoned back in Ruis’s tower. Instead of a mere bar, it had a keyhole big enough to stuff a weasel through. Old King Sfyn must need a wheelbarrow to tote the key, Peter was thinking, when Syglinde showed up alone, carrying not only a wrought-iron key the size and heft of a crowbar, but also an armload of slates.

“Here, Torchy,” she panted. “His Highness saith to take ye key and unlock ye door thyself. He be busy telling griffin stories to ye assistant archdruid. Ye end with all ye funny bumps on it be ye one that goeth into ye keyhole. Then ye turn until something clicketh, then ye open.”

Torchyld took the key rather gingerly and spent considerable time trying to fit the wards into the lock wrong side up. At last he snarled, “Here, Bard Pete. ’Tis work for a wizard, not a warrior.”

Peter accomplished the feat in a trice, thus earning their amazed reverence. In fact, the lock had been a cinch to open. It moved so easily despite its size that he decided it must have been oiled not long before. With eel grease, if his nose failed him not. The weighty door swung at a touch, without a sound. Oiled hinges, too. The castle maintenance man must have been on the job.

Torchyld entered first. Syglinde held high the rush light she was carrying, somehow, along with her other impedimenta, and motioned Peter inside with a sideways nod of her head.

His first reaction was, “Holy cats! That wyvern must have kept its mind on its job.”

For at least the past three centuries, from the look of things. The three oaken coffers that presumably held King Sfyn’s own treasure were outshone by a shoal of eel baskets, all of them heaped high with gold and silver, copper and bronze, and jewels of every shape and color.

“Looks as if you won’t be hurting for the price of a meal yet awhile,” Peter told the young knight with typical Yankee enthusiasm. “Not bad at all, for a young fellow just starting out. But how in Sam Hill are we supposed to find one measly little hawk bell among all these gold eyeball-gougers and diamond-studded maces? How do you know you’ve even got one?”

Syglinde shuffled among her pile of slates, and pulled out one of them.

“We have thus many.”

She pointed to the slate, on which she’d drawn—and even Torchyld would have had to admit drawing was not Syglinde’s outstanding talent—what was presumably meant to be a falcon. Beside the hieroglyphic were a dozen or so little scratches.

“I wot not of writing or numbers,” she confessed prettily, “so I scratched a mark for each bell, and scratched a bird to show whereof I scratched.”

Great Scott, cried Peter. Then all these slates mean you’ve taken inventory of the whole shebang?”

“Aye, gin ye mean we made a record. Torchy sorted into these eel baskets all ye armlets and necklets and plates and cups and different things, and I made scratches. See, here be an arm with a bracelet, and here be scratches, one for each bracelet. And here be a hand with a ring, and these be ye scratches for rings. Was this not ye right way to do, Bard Pete?”

“It’s an excellent way. Which of you thought of it?”

“We thought of it together. Torchy said how ye hell were we going to remember how much we had of what, and I said mayhap we could keep track as children do when playing a game. See, gin we give or spend a piece, I will scratch off ye scratch for that piece. Torchy made rich presents to King Sfyn and to all his aunts and uncles and cousins when he brought home ye wyvern’s hoard so we did not count those. And now we must pick out wedding gifts for our cousins. Dost think Immie would like this necklace of blue stones, Torchy dearest?” Syglinde wondered, picking up a few thousand dollars’ worth of rough-cut sapphires set in heavy gold.

“Er—could we get this little matter of the hawk bell settled before you go on to the wedding presents?” Peter suggested.

“Hawk bell. Where did we put ye hawk bells, Torchy? There were but a few pair. Oh, I know. In a little leathern bag here among ye coins. I will spill them out on this treasure chest. A pair for a peregrine, a pair for a merlin, a pair for a harrier, a pair for a—no, that be not a pair. Where be its mate?”

“I expect this may be the mate, right here,” said Peter, producing the one he hadn’t been able to match up at the hawkery.

“Unless there be still another here,” said Torchyld, fussing with the dainty bells.

“I don’t see how, if you started out with pairs. You’re one short, you know.”

Peter, who loved to count things, had already totted up the number of bells spread out on the chest against the number of scratches on Lady Syglinde’s slate. According to her tally, there should be sixteen. He saw only fifteen, not counting the one that had hit Prince Edmyr.

“Looks to me as if somebody’s been dipping into the till, Torchyld. Why don’t we try another batch? These jeweled necklaces, for instance. Chances are if somebody was looking for a few easily portable souvenirs, he’d pick these because they’re probably the most valuable.”

As it turned out, Peter was right. After they’d spent half an hour or so checking against the slates, Torchyld found he was the poorer by three necklaces, one of which Syglinde remembered well and was none too happy about because it had stones like dewdrops sparkling in the morning sun and she’d been planning to knock everybody’s eyes out with it at her wedding. They’d also lost three rings, two massive bracelets, and seven loose stones as big as hens’ eggs. Syglinde thought they might have been green ones but couldn’t be sure as she hadn’t yet figured out how to draw colors. In any event, it had been a tidy haul for somebody. Peter could readily understand why Torchyld and Syglinde were deciding to take a strong line about the theft.

“ ’Tis not ye done thing to rifle a king’s treasure room,” said Torchyld severely. “Great-uncle Sfyn will go up in smoke when he heareth of this fell deed. ’Tis noble to give, but wicked to take without leave. So hath it aye been in Sfynfford, and so shall it be or I’ll have ye guts of him that robbed me.”

“An ’twas not a him, Torchy dearest?” Lady Syglinde suggested. “Bethink ye who hath caused us so much grief.”

“Dwydd, by all ye powers of darkness! Accursed hag, where be she now? I will tear her foul carcass to shreds and feed ye bits to Hebog.”

“And Hebog will get pains in her belly and Murfynn will be furious, silly.”

“Then I will—Syggie, what be I to do?”

“I think ye should be guided by Bard Pete, whose wisdom surpasseth mine in e’en so great a measure as my beauty surpasseth his, darling ox-brain. Bard Pete, how shall we punish Dwydd and get my dewdrop necklace back?”

“Good question,” said Peter. “I’d say our first step is to make sure it was in fact Dwydd who swiped the swag. Where do you suppose we’re most likely to find her right now?”

“Skulking in her turret, belike,” said Torchyld, “thinking up greater evils.”

“Which way is the turret?”

“Bard Pete,” gasped Lady Syglinde, “we cannot go there. She hath ye place guarded by ugly basilisks and foul demons.”

“And old King Ruis with his head tucked underneath his arm, no doubt. I’m not impressed by Dwydd’s bogles. Lead the way, Torchyld. You needn’t come with us if you’d rather not, Lady Syglinde.”

“Nay, whither Torchy goeth, I go. Shall I leave ye slates here?”

“No, it may be the part of prudence to keep them with you. Does anybody other than ourselves know you’re keeping this tally?”

“Nobody. They would laugh and call it silly. And snatch away ye slates to scale from ye battlements, belike.”

“I shouldn’t be a bit surprised. You stick to those slates like glue, young woman, until you and Torchyld get that treasure safely into a strong room of your own. Let’s have that key again. I want to make sure we leave this room locked up as tight as we can make it. Doesn’t King Sfyn usually keep a guard posted here?”

“Nay, who would steal from ye king?”

“Good question. Does he sleep with that blasted great lump of iron every night? It must be hellish hard under his pillow.”

Syglinde managed a nervous giggle. “Nay, Bard Pete, he hangeth ye key on ye same hook as his crown. With Ffyffnyr guarding ye door, none dare go in to take it away lest they be rent in twain.”

“Except that Ffyffnyr’s been off the job those past couple of nights. I wonder whether that’s why he got poofed in the first place, or if somebody merely took advantage of the fact that the griffin wasn’t around. It must have been somebody with plenty of gall, though, to stroll into the king’s bedroom, collect the key and rob the strong room, then sneak the key back without being detected. Old people like him don’t sleep all that soundly, as a rule. Could somebody have slipped a Mickey into his metheglin?”

“Be that a spell to make one sleep?” Torchyld asked.

“I expect you might call it that,” Shandy conceded. “No doubt a similar effect could be obtained with a—er—posset of herbs. Do you grow any chamomile around these parts?”

“Herbs be women’s work. Syggie, what be chamomile?”

“Nay, I wot not. But we do have herbs to calm and soothe. Like poppy, to rub on ye gums of sweet babes when their tiny teeth be trying to come out. We must plant abundance of poppy, Torchy darling.”

“Drat it, Torchyld,” said Shandy, “get your lecherous paws off that wench and attend to the business at hand. Lady Syglinde, I’ll thank you to quit seducing a man while he’s on the king’s errand.”

“Be ye on ye king’s errand, sweetest one?” murmured that Cymric Delilah, running her fingertips across her lover’s lips with predictable results.

“Of course he is, damn it,” Peter snapped. “It’s King Sfyn’s strong room that’s been robbed, even if it was your treasure that got stolen.”

“Right,” said Torchyld, reluctantly loosing his grasp on his bride-to-be. “Cease toying with my fealty, Syggie, lest I clap ye into ye guardhouse.”

“With all they drunken soldiers?”

“Sir Torchyld, I command you in the king’s name to stop tickling that young woman,” Peter ordered sharply.

Enough was enough. He glared at them balefully until at last he managed to get their natural urges under control and start them climbing the turret stairs.

This was another of those narrow, twisty ones. Drat it, why did Dwydd always have to conduct her perfidious operations from the higher levels? And how did that old hag manage to mount these confounded stairs without fracturing her rheumatics? Flapped up on a broomstick, maybe. It would have to be a short one, there wasn’t much flapping room here. It was a good deal like crawling up a vertical drainpipe. He just hoped she was in. He’d hate to have sprung his achilles tendons in vain.

Dwydd was at home. Her door was shut, but when they tried pounding on it, they could hear mutterings and scufflings within.

Syglinde risked Shandy’s renewed displeasure by cowering close to Torchyld. “Be that a basilisk?” she whispered fearfully.

“It’s just the old woman trying to unhook her corsets,” Shandy replied firmly. This was no time for hysterics, unless he decided to throw a fit himself, which was not outside the bounds of possibility.

This door was all of wood, he noticed; the first one he’d come to in the castle that wasn’t bound with iron. Even the hinges were of leather. Peter remembered the billet of wood that had been used to fasten the door of Syglinde’s prison when there was a perfectly usable iron bar already available, recalled something he’d run across in a fairy tale at the age of nine, and nodded to himself.

“Open up in the king’s name,” he yelled.

After some more yelling and pounding, he got a reply. “Who braveth ye wrath of mine guardian ghouls?”

“Shove it, Dwydd,” he howled back rudely. “Your guardian ghouls are dead ducks. Open this door or we’ll break it down.”

Sullenly, the resident hag at last obeyed. “What seek ye with Dwydd?”

“We seek ye gold and jewels ye stole from my treasure trove,” Torchyld roared.

That appeared to surprise her. “Nay, I stole naught. Think ye I durst enter ye king’s strong room?”

“Think ye ye durst lie to me, hag? Confess!”

“Wait a moment,” said Peter. “I think we can establish the truth on more—er—scientific lines. Here, Dwydd, this is for you.”

He held out the huge iron key. She shrank away, shrieking.

“Arrgh! Take it away. Touch me not with that thing, else I die.”

“M’yes, I thought so.”

Peter let the key dangle from his hand. “You see, boys and girls, iron in any form is an effective charm against witches. Dwydd might not scruple to rob the king’s strong room if opportunity presented itself, but what in fact she would not dare do is steal the key to unlock the door. She’s more afraid of the key than she is of the king. Right, Dwydd?”

He raised the heavy iron instrument again. The evil crone scuttled back inside her fantastically cluttered den, picked up a dried bat, and began fanning herself frantically with its wings.

“I beg ye, sir bard, torture me no longer. I be old and frail and not ye witch I used to be.”

“Then tell us all you know about the? robbery.”

“ ’Tis easily told. I know nothing.”

“Who talked you into kidnapping Lady Syglinde and Ffyffnyr?”

“ ’Twas mine own idea,” Dwydd answered sulkily.

“It’s risky business lying to me, old woman. Why did you try to murder Sir Torchyld, first by blunting the edge of his sword before he went to kill the wyvern, and then by forcing him by means of your alleged enchantments and your galloping hogweed to face Gwrach unwarned and unarmed?”

“Nay, sire, I meant not to kill him, only to prove his mettle. I perceived what valor was in him, and wanted only to bring it out. And what happened? He be now famous throughout ye land, wealthy beyond compare, and about to wed ye most beautiful woman in ye kingdom. And all this he oweth to me. Had I not done as I did, he would still be marching up and down ye battlements cursing our monarch for not letting him marry his mistress or go on a geste to seek his fortune. And what thanks do I get? Threats and revilings. Pah!”

“Frankly, that’s one aspect of the situation that hadn’t occurred to me,” Peter replied. “I’m sure it hasn’t occurred to Sir Torchyld either, much less to Lady Syglinde, whom you sought to destroy by shutting her up in that so-called haunted tower. Nor do I believe any of us is ready to buy it now. Shall I repeat my question? Have you been running your own dirty tricks campaign, or has someone else been putting you up to it?”