Secular Wizard

Chapter 9

Panegyra’s house was a moated grange-a large country house with low walls, a wide moat, and a drawbridge. So big a moat appeared rather extravagant to Matt, until he looked closely and saw that it had been made from an oxbow bend in the river, and that all the squire had needed to do was to dig another arc connecting the two prongs of the U. The house itself was fieldstone, and it was surrounded by a low wall, only four feet high-not enough to keep anyone out by itself, but enough to offer cover to archers trying to keep an enemy away. “Doesn’t look like they’re all that sure the peace will last,” Matt commented. “Her great-grandfather was not,” Pascal answered. “The land was still in strife then, between the forces of the kings and the counts.”

Matt pricked up his ears; that sounded like the medieval Italy he knew. “Did each noble family have a town it more or less owned?”

“Aye, or shared with another noble family.” Pascal looked at him quizzically. “I thought you knew nothing of Latruria, Sir Matthew.”

“Oh, I’ve heard bits and pieces-and hold off on the ‘Sir,’ okay? Around here, I’m just a minstrel.”

“As you wish,” Pascal said, “though I confess that without it, I begin to lose track of your station. Pardon me if I offend.”

“No need.” Matt was used to undergraduates trying to be too familiar with the professor. “If I can’t win your respect by my actions, the title isn’t going to do me much good.”

Pascal frowned. “I would have said that it was those who do not win respect who most need the title and station.”

“A point, but one I’d rather not admit. For myself, I’d just as soon not be left standing at the station.” He turned to the manticore. “Time to head for the tall timber, Manny.”

“Where?‘

The monster looked about at the wide plain, with nothing more than occasional outcrops of trees. “A point,” Matt admitted, “but I’m sure you can find someplace to hide. We paid that shepherd well to leave you two skinned sheep by the big rock in his meadow every night-so don’t ramble too far away, okay?”

“I shall not-but do not be gone overlong, I prithee. His flock is not overly large.”

“At the price I paid, he can buy sheep and still make a fat profit. In fact, he promised to do just that. Probably thinks I’m a bandit chief with a small army in hiding-so I don’t think he’ll try to cheat us.”

“He had best not,” Manny answered, and Matt wondered if it was his voice rumbling or his stomach. “All this talk of sheep makes me yearn for meat,” Pascal grumbled. “Come, friend Matthew! Let us knock on their gate!” But there was a hidden urgency about him; he was as taut as a hound on a leash. Matt gave him a glance, but only said, “Yeah, it has been a long hike. Off we go, eh?”

They crossed the drawbridge, and Matt counted it a healthy sign that there was no sentry stationed to watch. Come to that, the chains running up to the bridge tower were a bit rusty, as if they hadn’t been used in a year. Things must have been safe lately. They came through the tower-really just a stone arch, Matt discovered. He glanced back to see if Manny was watching them, but the manticore had already disappeared. “Good day! What do you here?”

Matt snapped around to see a man with a bucket and brush staring at them as if trying to decide whether or not to scowl-judging their class, most likely. He must have decided favorably, for he forced a smile and turned to Pascal. “I know you, do I not?”

“You do indeed,” Pascal told him. “We met at the family gathering last summer, though I fear I do not recall your name. Mine is Pascal de la Tour.”

“Ah! Young Master Pascal! You are welcome, sir, I am sure-though your coming is quite a surprise. I am only Anselmo, a footman-I doubt you would have heard my name, let alone remembered it. Come, let me conduct you to Squire dell Tour.”

He spoke with a heavy accent, but it was the same language-and Matt had grown accustomed to the dialect as they came south, after all. Anselmo set down his bucket and brush on the doorstep, then led the way into the house. He brought them to a small, spartan reception room where they waited for a few minutes before the door slammed open to admit a stocky, graying, bearded man in an open robe with open arms. “Cousin Pascal! What a happy chance!”

Pascal rose, just in time for the squire’s forward rash to carry the young man into his arms for a bear hug. Matt thought he heard Pascal’s ribs creak; then the older man held him back at arm’s length, looking him up and down with a grin. “Well, a bit of dust on you, but that’s to be expected in so long a journey. What happy chance brings you to my house?”

“Why, a wish to see something of the world, Cousin Giuseppe.” The answer was glib; Pascal had rehearsed it at least five times a day, all the way from Merovence. “I had thought it best to begin where I was not a complete stranger-and at the gathering last summer, you and my father did extend open invitations to each other’s families.”

“We did, we did indeed, and right glad am I of your company!” Squire Giuseppe turned to Matt. “And who is your companion?”

“Matthew, a wandering minstrel who has been good enough to let me accompany him. Even today, I have heard it is not wise to ‘ travel alone.”

“Indeed it is not-in fact, you are fortunate to have chosen a companion who did not try to cut your purse the first night.” The squire pumped Matt’s hand. “You are welcome, sir, welcome! I thank you for escorting my nephew! But come, gentlemen, come! You must see my house-then you must refresh yourselves, so that you may come to dinner!” And he swept them out the door and off on a whirlwind tour of his house, complete with names and dates of each ancestor who had built each wing or installed each convenience or had which picture painted or statue sculpted. He was indefatigable and never seemed to remember that his guests might not be-so when they had finally been deposited in a guest room, Matt sank down on a chair with a sigh. “Now I know what they mean by aggressive hospitality!” He eyed the great copper tub hungrily, but said, “You wash first, Pascal-I think you’ll take longer dressing. When do we get to meet this feminine paragon of a cousin of yours?”

“At dinner.” Pascal was already half out of his clothes, movements quick and nervous. “I can hardly wait, Matthew! A year and more, but at last I shall see her again!”

“Yes, at last.” Matt just hoped the boy decided it had all been worth the trip. “Your Majesty must not go!” The gray-bearded doctor trembled with agitation. “I have cast the runes, I have gazed within a pool tinted with a drop of your blood-and there can be no doubt! I have seen the babe that grows inside you! You are with child and must not risk the baby’s life by going on campaign!”

“I shall take no risks that I can avoid,” Alisande said with total determination, “but ride I must, or the child may have no father!”

The doctor’s face sank into a tragic mask. “At least ride in a litter,” he pleaded. “What! A warrior going forth to battle in a litter? Who would respect it?”

“I have heard of wounded kings who directed their battles from horse litters,” the doctor insisted. “I am not wounded!”

“No, but you will be if you do not take care. At the very least, Majesty, ride sidesaddle!”

Alisande tried to glare at the doctor, but she couldn’t keep it up with someone who was honestly concerned for her welfare. She dropped her gaze. “Very well, learned doctor-I shall ride sidesaddle. Until battle.”

“Do not ride in battle,” the old man pleaded. “What are generals for?”

Alisande looked up, eyes sparking. “Should not queens be generals, too?”

“Aye, Majesty-if they are not mothers.”

“I will not be a mother yet,” Alisande muttered, eyes downcast-but she put on her armor with a heavy heart. Then she took it off again. It no longer fit around the middle. When she was finally attired, her ladies sighed and ushered her out the door, shaking their heads but knowing it was useless to protest. As they came out into the courtyard, a shout went up and all the men stood straighter, all eyes locked on their queen, in her hood and coat of light mail, covered by the tabard with her arms emblazoned on it, and her battle coronet on her head. She stood a moment, looking out at them, feeling the old pride stir within her. Then she turned to the groom, who was holding the stirrup of her charger. She nodded and mounted, and her troops broke into another shout. She waved to them, acknowledging their tribute, and called out, “Men, the Lord Wizard may be in peril, for he rides south to learn what mischief brews in the kingdom of Latruria! We ride to be near if he learns tales of woe! It may be war, or it may be peace-but we dare not wait for the Latrurians to decide!”

Another mighty shout went up-then a grizzled sergeant began the surging chant of a war song. The queen smiled and joined in. But as the last chord sounded, the Lady Constance came riding up on a palfrey, herself clad in light mail, with a surcoat emblazoned with the arms of her family. Queen Alisande stared, astounded. “Milady! What means this?”

“If you are determined to ride when you should not, Majesty, then I must ride with you,” Lady Constance informed her. “Do not try to dissuade me! I shall ride with you, whether you will or no-for you must have at least one lady with you, to care for you at such a time!”

Alisande nearly ordered her back into the castle, but she froze with the words of command on her tongue, remembering that receiving loyalty had its prices, and accepting service when it is offered was one of those. She intended to be a leader, not a tyrant, and if she inspired her people to work for her, she had to accept their devotion. So she swallowed the words and let the smile that was straining inside her grow out. “You should not endanger yourself, milady, nor expose yourself to such rigors.”

“If you will, Majesty, I will!”

“And right glad I shall be of your company,” Alisande said, her eyes shining. “Come, let us ride!”

So she rode out to battle with Lady Constance beside her: she rode out wearing a gown, which she had never done before, with only a light coat of mail over it, and only her battle coronet atop her golden hair. There was a habergeon of heavy ring mail tied behind her saddle, though, with her helmet atop it. She rode sidesaddle, which she had never done before-but she did ride, head lifted high and proud, blond hair blowing like a banner, and her knights and footmen shouted with joy at the sight, then broke into an old marching song as they followed her. Out beneath the portcullis they rode, over the drawbridge and down the winding road to the plain, the troops marching behind them. Off they went, with the soldiers chanting a marching song, out across the valley floor-but an hour later, as they came up to the crest of the hills that surrounded the plain, she saw a lone rider in full plate armor silhouetted against the sky, sitting his charger and waiting for them. Her heart quickened with hope, and as they came up level with him, the face became clear, but the armor stayed black, and she saw that it was indeed he! “Sir Guy de Toutarien! You are well met indeed!”

“As are you, Majesty.” Sir Guy inclined his head as a courtesy between equals, not any token of subjection. “But why have you not come to visit your spouse?”

“We have said our good-byes already.” Sir Guy fell in beside her, and the army shouted with joy. Sir Guy turned to grin and wave, acknowledging their acclaim, then turned back and went on. “I would not trouble her heart again when I must be gone in an hour’s time. What of your spouse, your Majesty?”

“Why else would I ride south?” Alisande said with irony. Then her face creased with anxiety. “But tell me, Sir Guy-the messenger brought some talk of the Witch Doctor, Saul…”

Sir Guy contrived a look of sympathy. “I found him, Majesty, and spoke with him. The Lady Angelique is well, and they have indeed married, but there is as yet no sign of children.”

Well, Alisande thought, at least she wasn’t coming in last. That is good news, Sir Guy-but will he come to aid us in search of Lord Matthew?“

Sir Guy sighed. “Alas, I fear he will not. He persists in his claim that he is not overly fond of other folk-”

“Which the Lady Angelique stands to deny, if not to ameliorate,” Alisande said crisply. “What does he, that he will not come?”

“What he terms ‘research,’ though why he should search again where he has presumably already searched, I cannot tell.”

“Indeed! And what is it he searches for?”

“Ah! That, at least, I can say,” Sir Guy replied. “He still pursues his old goal.”

“What! Still seeking a magic that may work without drawing on either Good or Evil, God or Satan?”

“As earnestly as ever,” Sir Guy said, rather embarrassed for his friend. “He is absorbed in his studies and says that he does not wish to interrupt them unless ‘tis a matter of dire emergency.”

“Why, this case is just such an emergency!”

“Matthew is not yet in peril of his life, Majesty.” Sir Guy drew something out of his armor, dangling at the end of a chain. It was a ball about an inch across, perforated with tiny holes. “However, the wizard Saul gave me this talisman.”

Alisande frowned, peering closely at the bauble. “It is singularly unremarkable, though its silver polish is pretty enough. What use is it?”

“It is a talisman he has made, that we may call upon him if Matthew is truly imperiled.”

Alisande eyed the little ball warily. “How will it do that? Surely it cannot ring-it is a dumb bell!”

“Aye, but if we say the right words, it shall become most truly outspoken,” Sir Guy told her. “If we speak the phrase, it will make its mate, which Saul wears on his belt, to ring-or, at least, to give off a beeping sound. Then, promises Saul, he will talk with us, and if Matthew is sufficiently imperiled, he will come with all the speed a wizard may summon.”

“Fair enough,” said Alisande. “What is this magical phrase?”

“It is a set of numbers.” Sir Guy frowned; obviously it made no sense to him, either. “Nine one one.”

“Nine, one, and one?” Alisande stared. “What mystical significance has that?”

The hall was bright with the sunset, but there were four-branched candelabra waiting to be lit, all down the center of the long table. The dozen members of the family swirled about the room, chatting with one another, as Squire Giuseppe led Matthew and Pascal in. “Sons and daughters! Cousins! Hearken!”

Everyone stilled, turning to them expectantly, all gazes probing Matt and Pascal. Matt suspected they had been the hottest item of conversation in the house all afternoon. One young lady managed to step in front of the two men who had threatened to obscure her view-a blond vision in silk and taffeta, with a long braid curling down over one creamy shoulder, huge blue eyes seeking out Pascal. He saw her and went stiff as a hound on point. Matt took a closer look-this must be Panegyra. In beauty, at least, she certainly seemed worth all the fuss. He reserved judgment on her personality. When the introductions were done and they were sitting at the table, Pascal muttered, “I must be alone with her!”

“Easy, boy, easy,” Matt muttered out of the corner of his mouth, managing to smile about at his table companions. “Push it too fast, and you may get us kicked out of here. Take your time, fit in, and wait for your chance.”

‘There is no time!“ Pascal whispered. ”For all we know, she may be married within the week. Can you not contrive a chance?“

“That doesn’t strike me as very likely,” Matt said to his neighbor on the other side. “Not likely to have an alliance between Merovence and Latruria?” The lady stared at him. “But why not?”

“It’s a question of trust,” Matt explained. “When you’ve been enemies for so long, a few years isn’t exactly time enough to start believing your neighbor has nothing but good intentions.”

“Will you not answer?” Pascal hissed. “Hm?” Matt looked up as if the young man had said something surprising, then whispered, “Calm down and be polite, or you’ll be out of here before dessert!”

“Surely you can at least hold the company’s interest while I step aside with her!”

“Oh, all right,” Matt grumbled, “but if you try to elope, don’t expect me to hold the ladder.”

“Ladder?” His neighbor on the other side stared. “A ladder of diplomacy.” Matt turned back to her. “Each rung is another advancement in trust, then in treaties-cultural exchanges, trade agreements, and so forth. When you get to the top, you can develop a full-scale alliance.”

“Perhaps even a dynastic marriage?” His middle-aged neighbor dimpled prettily. Matt forced a laugh. “Yes, but that might have to wait until King Boncorro has married, and both royal couples have children.”

‘Surely Queen Alisande can rid herself of this lowborn trickster she has wed.“

Matt just stared for a second. “At least last till dessert,” Pascal muttered out of the corner of us mouth. Matt forced another laugh. “No, I don’t think there’s much chance of that She seems thoroughly enamored of him.”

“Besotted,” the woman sniffed. Matt decided he was going to have to watch his step-very carefully. When the last course had been devoured, the squire leaned back in his chair and said, “Minstrel Matthew! Will you not give us a song?”

“Why, I’d be glad to,” Matt said slowly, “but perhaps a little dancing first might settle the stomach.”

Whatever the squire thought of this bit of lunacy was drowned out by the joyful shriek from the younger generation. They were on their feet and clearing the tables back on the instant. “Not so fast, not so fast!” the woman next to Matt protested. “At least let me stand up and step back first.”

“Oh, all right, but hurry!” the young man near her growled. “The dishes!” the squire’s wife cried. “Have a care for the… oh!” The last accompanied by the sound of crockery breaking. “If you must clear the tables, take the dishes out first!” the squire bellowed. “Well, if we must, we must,” one of the girls snapped, “though there are servants for that sort of thing.”

“Then give them time to do their tasks!”

“No, we would rather do it ourselves,” another girl said. Matt stepped back, dazed. “Sorry,” he said to the squire. “Didn’t know I was going to stir up such a hornet’s nest.”

“You did not, I suppose,” the man grumped. “They are always like this nowadays.”

The tables cleared away, the young folk assembled in the center of the floor, one calling, “Give us a reel!”

“Nay, a jig!” cried another. “A hornpipe!” cried a third. “A hornpipe is only for sailors, lout!” snapped a girl. “And jigs are only for peasants,” he retorted, “though what difference it could make to one so clumsy as yourself, I could never-”

“Speak not so to her!” Another young man stepped in front of the girl. “People, people!” Matt held up his hands placatingly. “How about I just play it, and you figure out what it is?”

The suggestion met with unanimous protest, but it was too late-Matt had already started playing. “Hail to the Chief sounded a little odd when played on a lute, but nobody knew the lyrics, so they couldn’t very well protest about the sentiments. They did gripe about the rhythm, loudly and vociferously, but when Matt kept on playing in spite of the griping, they simmered down and started dancing to it. At a guess, Matt decided, it was a reel-some kind of line dance, anyway. He plucked the final chord, and instantly a boy was calling, ‘Too sedate! More spirit, minstrel!”

“Why?‘ Matt returned. ”Is the castle haunted?“

Wrong line-everybody immediately glanced over their shoulders. “Of course it is,” the squire said, scowling, “and our ghosts are not the sort of which we wish to be reminded. Play something jolly, minstrel, or I’ll see you given the haunted chamber this night!”

Matt wondered if the spectral company could be any more disagreeable than the live, but he said, “As you will, your Honor,” and began to play a tune that had recently been popular in Bordestang-ever since Matt paid a minstrel to start singing it around the streets. The young people looked up, startled, then began to nod in time, smiles growing, and turned to one another to begin a dance that Matt decided was well on its way to developing into a minuet. As they finished, one girl cried out, “How pretty! Are there words to it?”

“Yes, and they’re even out of copyright,” Matt answered, then rode over the confused looks as he began one of Shakespeare’s hits: “Tell me, where is fancy bred? Or in the heart, or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply! It is engendered in the eye, With gazing bought, and sighing fed. Let us all sing Fancy’s knell! I’ll begin it-‘Ding, dong, bell!’ ”

“Sing it with me!” he cried, then repeated the line. A slight murmur answered him, and he called out, “I can’t hear you!” then played it again, with a little more verve from his impromptu chorus, but not enough, so he called out, “What did you say?”

“Ding, dong, bell!” everybody called back, looking angry. Sheesh, Matt thought, what a bunch of sourpusses! One fat and surly squire in a rich but gravy-spotted brocade surcoat under a velvet robe, scowled and said, “Have you nothing more fitting?”

“Squire Naughtworthy is to marry my daughter,” Matt’s host explained. “Surely he would not wish to hear of the death of true love.”

Marry his daughter? Matt took a closer look at Squire Naughtworthy. He was graying-fifty, at least, with little piggy eyes, a blotch of nose, and a ruff of beard. The mere thought of an old satyr like that with pretty young Panegyra made Matt’s blood run cold-but he noticed that Pascal was drawing the young lady aside for some private conversation, so he went on to the next verse. The audience sang the chorus line with a bit more verve this time, and Matt, emboldened, switched over to the version from The Tempest.

And everybody joined in, with relish: “Ding, dong, bell!”

Everybody, that is, except Squire Naughtworthy, who turned purple and bellowed, “Would you rush us to our graves?”

The whole room fell silent, the whole family staring at him, taken aback. “My pardon, your Honor,” Matt said slowly. “I did not know you had a son.”

“I have not! But you clearly spoke of a man my age!”

Matt smiled with feigned relief. “No, good squire. I did not tell you how old the son was.” And before Naughtworthy could blast another objection, Matt struck the strings again, calling out, “Ding, dong, bell!”

“Ding, dong, bell!” The young folks grinned and sang it all the harder for Naughtworthy’s grousing. He turned magenta and swelled up for another blast-but his host very obviously disagreed with his complaint. He looked pleasantly surprised, and Matt guessed that it was the first time he had ever heard all the young folk agree on something-rather quarrelsome household, this. But Pascal and Panegyra were edging away toward the screened passage, so he decided to give his hosts a lesson.

Matt had them spellbound, but the greedy looks on their faces weren’t quite what he had hoped to evoke. Still, he was started now and couldn’t very well change songs in mid-verse-and Pascal had disappeared with Panegyra in tow, so Matt figured he had better hold the company’s attention awhile longer. Accordingly, he finished up the whole feud, managed to wipe out both families more thoroughly than the original feud had, then treated them to a brief scene in Hell where “old Devil Anse” met the real thing. The last part had them shuddering and looking over their shoulders again as he finished, and the squire frowned. “Has Pascal told you the history of our house, then?”

“Nay, cousin.” Panegyra had led Pascal back in during the last verse, looking flushed and very pleased with herself-but Pascal had a hangdog look that made Matt’s heart sink. He obviously needed a jolt, so Matt said, “You didn’t tell me you had resident haunts here.”

Pascal looked up, but didn’t quite focus. “Haunts?… Aye. What house of any age has them not?”

Matt was possessed of a sudden overwhelming curiosity at just what the girl had told his young friend, but he couldn’t very well come right out and ask. Instead, he said, “That’s true, but most of the ghosts I’ve heard of haven’t been malicious-just misunderstood.”

Pascal came out of his mood with a shudder. “Not this ghost, I assure you! Or the worst of them, I should say.”

“True,” the squire said judiciously, “and you have not even seen him, only heard tell of him.” He turned to Matt “We think him to be the ghost of my ancestor Spiro, who built this house-and seems to think himself still entitled to hold it.”

“He’s not willing to share?” Matt said carefully. “He would not if he could prevent it,” the squire said, “but he cannot-he is bound to the chamber in which he died.”

Matt grinned. “And that’s the room you were going to put me in if I was a bad boy, eh?”

“Oh, I would not truly have done so,” the squire protested-but Matt didn’t believe him. Still and all, when finally he retired, he had no complaint with the room they did give him-obviously a guest room, since it seemed to have been dusted in a hurry, though not too successfully, and the soot on the hearth looked to be ready for carbon 14 dating. The wall hangings were old enough to be brittle, but they were heavily embroidered and very attractive, and there was a very nice painting on the wall, though Matt really preferred his nudes to be somewhat less Neolithic in build. He did wonder why he had been moved out of Pascal’s room, then realized it might have been by Panegyra’s request. Well, getting away from the young man’s snoring wouldn’t be all that tough. He was just starting to unbutton his doublet when there was a knock at the door. He froze with a button halfway through the hole and called, “Who is it?”

“Pascal,” came the muffled voice. “Let me in, I pray!”

Well, so much for getting away from him. Matt stepped over to the door, drew the bolt and let the young man in. “Thought you were planning to sleep someplace else tonight.”

“Matthew!” Pascal stared at him, genuinely shocked. “Surely you do not think the fair Panegyra would-”

“No, but I figured you might.” Matt raised a hand to forestall the youth’s hot rejoinder. “I see I was wrong, though. No, you wouldn’t do a thing like that, would you? Not to her, anyway. So what did the two of you talk about?”

“Alas!” Pascal sank down on the bed, head in his hands. “She owns that she does not find me detestable, even finds me comely-but she will not bend from her father’s rule!”

“She won’t run away with you, eh?”

“Aye, and she owns that it is because she shudders at the life of poverty and hardship such a course of action would mean, even for the few years it would take before I built a good living for us.”

Matt thought it would take a bit longer than a few years, at least for the kind of living Panegyra had in mind. “She likes the soft life, huh?”

Pascal nodded heavily. “Not so much that she has a love of luxury, as that she fears poverty-and she fears what my fate would be if her father should catch us.”

Well, at least the girl was honest, though she added a bit of embroidery. Still, if it spared Pascal’s feelings, what harm was there? “And she doesn’t shudder at the sight of Squire Naughtworthy?”

Pascal shivered. “She claims to think him handsome, though I cannot see why!”

“Some women are attracted to older men,” Matt said slowly, even to men old enough to be their fathers-and they find strength and, urn, prosperity, attractive. Signs that the man would be a good provider. It’s possible, Pascal.“ But in Panegyra’s case, be didn’t think it was likely. The youth moaned and dropped his head back into his hands. ”She is sure he shall be a veritable kitten in her hands, that she will even persuade him to take her to King Boncorro’s court!“

“Men will do a lot for a pretty bride,” Matt sighed, “but I don’t think this one can get her into court-he’s just a squire, after all. She might change her mind, Pascal.”

“What could change it?” the young man said bitterly. “A knighthood,” Matt said slowly. He had to give the boy something to work for, something to hope for. “Or even becoming a squire with a definite chance of graduating to knight.”

“Aye!” Pascal’s head snapped up, his eye catching fire. “Women ever do dote upon men of arms-and a knight’s rank is surely better than that of an elderly squire with no prospect of rising higher!”

Matt wouldn’t have called Naughtworthy “elderly,” but he wasn’t about to slacken the head of steam he’d been trying to build. “That’s the spirit. A uniform always gets ‘em, even if it’s made of iron.” Privately, though, he doubted that Pascal had much of a chance of climbing the social ladder, or that Panegyra would really care much if he did. From the sound of her, she would definitely choose the older, wealthy squire over the younger but penniless knight. No, all in all, Matt didn’t think Panegyra was worth all the devotion Pascal was heaping on her. Love never did have much to do with the head, though. A cold gust suddenly struck, and the candle went out. In the sudden darkness, Matt froze, then asked carefully, “Pascal?”

“Aye.” The younger man’s voice trembled. “Did I leave the window open?”

“This chamber has no window!”

Matt was just beginning to realize that his host might have a peculiarly nasty sense of humor, when a faint moan began, swelling in a second to surround them, battering at their eardrums, and a pale, misty, glowing figure seemed to rise out of the bed to tower over them, grinning and drooling into its beard. It was a man, wearing a robe over a belted, knee-length tunic, with a medallion hanging from a chain about his neck. His eyes were holes, and his mouth split into a grin of malice and gloating pleasure, then split farther to reveal pointed teeth as he raised his hands, showing fingernails that stretched into claws, poised to stab and pierce. Pascal shrieked and dove under the bed. An eldritch howling filled the night, and he came bolting back out, shrieking even louder, pursued by a ghostly hound the size of a German Shepherd.

“Get behind me,” Matt snapped, and stepped between the dog and Pascal just in case the young man was already too far gone to be able to understand. “Fool!” the ghost chortled, winding up to pounce, and the hound howled and sank its teeth into Matt’s leg. Fear clamored through him, but he reminded himself that ectoplasm can’t interact with protoplasm, and felt only piercing cold in his leg. He ignored it and recited,

It didn’t rhyme, but boy, did that old formula work! The dog gave a howl that sounded as if its tail had been twisted in five places, then sank out of sight even as the ghost of the man screamed in frustration and fear, and winked out. The darkness was awfully quiet for a minute. Then Pascal asked, in a quavering voice, “Friend Matthew?”

“Here.” Matt tried to sound reassuring. “Just stay put, Pascal, while I kindle the candle.”

“Do not!” the ghost’s voice snapped out of the darkness. “Begone from my chamber! Or even your L - your appeal will not save you from my wrath!”

“Oh, come off it!” Matt snapped “If you could have resisted the Lord-”

The ghost gasped in pain. “-you wouldn’t have run at the mention of the word,” Matt finished. “And it’s a pretty general word, at that! I didn’t even specify Whom it referred to! Can you imagine what it would have done to you if I’d used a Name?”

“And what I would have done to you!” But the ghost’s protest sounded feeble. So feeble that Matt ignored it. “What are you getting so huffy about, anyway? You’ve got to know that we’re just guests…”

“That man who is with you is of my blood!”

“Nonsense-you don’t have any left.” But Matt wondered how the ghost could tell. Ectoplasmic genetic imprints? Could ghosts read DNA code? “Even so, you know he’s not a regular part of the household, and that we had no choice about which room we were given. What makes you so territorial, anyway?”

“I built this house!”

“And left it to your son,” Matt finished. “What’s the matter? Was he too eager to inherit?”

The room was ghastly quiet for a moment. Then the ghost’s tone was bloodcurdling. “How did you know?”