Chapter 8
It was nice to know how it felt to be a star. Everywhere Matt went, everyplace he stopped long enough for Pascal to toss down his hat, people came running to jostle each other as they tried to get closer, to see and hear the minstrel. Somehow, it never occurred to Pascal that they might be attracting more attention than he wanted-but it occurred to Matt, sure enough. For himself, Matt didn’t mind-he was the bait in his own trap, so to speak. But for Pascal, it was another matter. “I am likely to draw some unpleasant attention from an evil sorcerer or two,” he reminded Pascal as the young man poured him another stoup of ale from the inn’s pitcher. “I’d really rather you not get thrown into prison for my sake.”
Pascal shrugged. “It is worth the risk. Your glory reflects on me, and any ounce of fame is more likely to sway the fair Panegyra to my suit.”
Matt just hoped that suit wasn’t spades. That first village turned out to be typical; Matt had learned a lot there, but he didn’t find out too much more about conditions in Latruria, no matter how many towns and roadside inns heard his “songs.” The people were well fed and well cared for. The country looked very prosperous, and though the serfs and yeomen were deferential when a lord passed by, they didn’t cringe, nor did the lords treat them cruelly. The girls in the villages didn’t have to turn their faces to the wall as the gentlemen passed by. People gathered around, winced at any mention of Heaven or blessing, but looked similarly nervous at mention of the Devil. If ever there was a country that believed in the golden mean, this was it. They had been punished too often for having spoken of holy matters, and punished too often by those who were dedicated to Evil. Matt began to realize all over again that witches and sorcerers who had sold their souls to the Devil had done it in more ways than one. They were now completely devoted to evil and wickedness, to selfishness, hatred, and doing harm to others wherever they could. The only difference between the mighty sorcerers and the low seemed to be their capacity for hatred, and the magnitude of their sins-as Kipling said of the little devils, “They weep that they’d been too small to sin to the height of their desire.” The sorcerers devoted themselves to their work of misery-making with the single-mindedness of the fanatic, whether it was out of despair, a wish for revenge on their fellow humans, or the feeling that once having turned away from Heaven, they were doomed irrevocably. If “sold my soul to rock ‘n’ roll” meant that the person in question was so totally dedicated to his favorite form of music that there was little room for anything else in his life, so selling one’s soul to the Devil implied that the seller was totally dedicated to evil and the harming of his fellow beings. Small wonder that the mere mention of them still made the Latrurians start looking over their shoulders-or that, six years after King Boncorro’s coronation, there was still a feeling of jubilance, of release, like that of children let out to play on the first day of spring. But when grown-ups are turned loose to play, they do it with a bit more dedication than children, and some of their games are not nice at all-especially when they have been raised with no mention of morality. Matt leaned across the table in the common room of the inn and murmured, “Every girl I’ve seen seems to make flirting a major hobby.”
Pascal looked up at him in surprise. “Do not all girls?” So it had spread to Pascal’s home in southern Merovence, too. Matt wondered what had happened to the demure young miss who sat modestly by and waited for the boys to come to her. Gone and scarcely remembered, apparently-along with the mammoth and the saber-tooth. Didn’t any of them have enough confidence in their own beauty and attractiveness to be sure they were male bait? Not in this inn, at least. He looked around him, figuring percentages. The common room was long and wide, but low-ceilinged, filled with trestle tables, benches, and smoke rejected by a chimney that was almost drawing properly-not enough to make anybody choke or wheeze, but enough to drift up along the ceiling beams, where a century or so of such vapors had turned the wood black. Laughter and chatter filled the air, along with the clink of mug against pitcher and the sound of pouring. The air was pungent with the aroma of ale and roasting pork. The serving maids giggled at the pinches they drew, or turned on their tormentors with mock severity-or, if the men were handsome enough or looked prosperous enough, batted their eyelashes and exchanged a few double entendres before they hurried away about their errands. “Your fingers are too hard, sir! Belike from wielding the hoe!”
“Nay, lass, ‘tis from counting coins all the day.”
“Coins, is it? Your master’s they must be-for I see naught but coppers before you!”
“Oh, but there is more in my purse.” The man patted his pouch with a grin. “There now, weigh it and see for yourself!”
The girl leaned over to cup her hand under the merchant’s purse and judge its weight. “A man of substance, are you?”
The merchant shrugged. “Discover for yourself, if you wish-when you are done with your day’s chores.”
“And if I find none more appealing than yourself,” the girl retorted, “which should not be hard.”
“Should it not?” The man grinned. “When should I come to ask again?”
“When the moon is high, if you are not! Enjoy the savories while you may!” She went off with a swirl of her skirts, and the man turned with a grin to the pastries she had left. “Harmless enough,” Pascal judged. “Why do you frown so?”
“Mostly because the man was wearing a wedding ring. Doesn’t he even think about his wife?”
“Why?” Pascal shrugged. “He is far from home, and she is not likely to learn of what he does. Besides, do you think she will be any more chaste than he, while he is away on his travels?”
“Well, uh…” Matt turned back, feeling very naive. “I kinda had some notion like that, yeah.”
Pascal stared. “Is this the fashion in the queen’s capital?”
“It will be if she has anything to say about it,” Matt said grimly. “She also might start enforcing some of the rules of chivalry.” He nodded toward another amorous tableau. “They could use it.”
Here, it was no serving maid, but a lady in her traveling clothes who was sipping her wine and laughing at the remarks a knight was making as he stood beside her, leaning over to look down at her face and her décolletage. Another knight leaned close behind her, looking down over her shoulder, and murmured something in her ear that made her face redden. Then she blushed again at something the first knight said and lowered her eyes, but made no move to cover her décolletage-nor to edge away when the knight in front stepped so close that his thigh pressed against her, leaning close to murmur something, or when the knight behind sat down and slid up tight against her side, leaning around in front to add a comment of his own. She looked up sharply, a glint in her eye, then turned to the first knight and nodded as if accepting a challenge. She rose to take his hand and turn away toward the stairs. “‘Tis only sport.” Pascal frowned. “Why are you so pale?”
“Because those two going up the stairs are both wearing wedding rings-and I have the sneaking suspicion that whoever they’re married to, it’s not each other.” Matt turned back to the younger man. “Where I come from, that’s counted a deed unworthy of a knight-and as to it being only sport, I have a notion that it’s going to become a very strenuous sport indeed.”
Pascal shrugged. “Exercise is good for the body-and in any case, ‘tis no concern of ours.”
‘True,“ Matt said reluctantly. He had to remind himself that though they might be close to Merovence, they were nonetheless not in it Nor all that close anymore by medieval standards. They had been moving steadily for at least a week and were almost a hundred miles into Latruria by now. He certainly had no jurisdiction here. The lady turned back to give the seated knight a saucy, dismissive glance, saying something that apparently wounded him, for he leaped up and drew his sword. The lady fell back with a shriek, and the first knight whirled, his sword whipping out. ”Sir knights, no!“ the innkeeper wailed, but his cry was drowned in the clatter of overturned benches and the thunder of feet as the other patrons jumped up and leaped back, pulling their tables with them, leaving a wide clear space around the two rivals-then jostling one another for front-row seats. ”They’ve done this before.“ Matt frowned. ”Everybody knows what to do.“