“Aye, and what to expect. I’ll lay a silver penny on the one with the moustache!”
Matt turned to him, appalled. “A couple of men are ready to carve each other to bits, and you’re going to bet on them?”
“Why not?” Pascal shrugged. “Everyone else does. Besides, they will fight whether we bet or not-so why not wager?”
“We might be able to stop them instead!”
“Peasants, interfere with knights? They would both turn on us, and sliver us with their swords!”
Matt turned back to watch, numbed, trying to think of a way to stop them-short of using magic, of course. In passing, he noticed that both knights were wearing wedding rings, but it didn’t particularly surprise him. “Do not be so concerned, Sir-I mean, Minstrel Matthew. Be-like their honor will be satisfied with first blood, and none shall be slain.”
“You’re laying odds again,” Matt groaned. The fight was brief, and made up in verve what it lacked in skill. The knight who had lost out on the lady’s favors had a lot of unused testosterone to get rid of, but his rival was riding a high of having already won. Swords clattered and clashed as the two men fenced their way back and forth across the floor-and they did not settle for first blood. The spectators cheered when one knight’s point scored the other’s ribs-but the wounded knight only howled with anger and pressed the fight harder. A loud groan went up from the audience-the people who had bet mat first blood would end it, no doubt, and for a moment the clash of steel was drowned out by the clink of coins as the losers paid their bets, then turned right around and set a new stake. Matt noticed two portly peasants working their way through the crowd, collecting coins and putting them into their hats-primitive bookies, no doubt. Meanwhile, the knight with the bloody chest managed to tear through his rival’s doublet, where scarlet stained the cloth, spreading, making its owner spit with anger and redouble his efforts. Finally, one blade stabbed through the opponent’s arm, and the sword dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers as its owner howled with pain. The winner yanked his sword free, triumph lighting his eyes, as the man who had been the woman’s first choice sank back onto the nearest bench, clutching at his wound. The victor wiped his blade, sheathed it, and turned to offer his arm to the lady. Without the slightest hesitation, she took it-indeed, pressed up close to him with a look that would have melted a beehive-and up the stairs they went, both totally oblivious to the loser. Blood was welling up out of his forearm, and the innkeeper was shouting for a surgeon, but most of the crowd was making too much noise grumbling about losing or crowing about winning, for any to hear him. Certainly nobody seemed to have the slightest concern for the knight who sat staring at the blood dripping onto the floor. Matt felt a stab of pity for him, then remembered that he had been fighting for the chance to cheat on his wife, and felt only a grim regret that he was himself human. He went over to the man nonetheless and examined his wound. “The blood’s flowing evenly,” he said. “I don’t think he cut a vein or artery, by some miracle.”
“Be still!” the knight gasped. “Am I not in enough hazard, that you must speak of forbidden things?”
Matt looked up in surprise. “Forbidden things?” Oh-yes. Miracles. “Okay, you won on a real long shot.”
“Nay! I lost the lady’s favors!”
“But kept your life.” Matt looked up at the innkeeper. “Two measures of brandywine!”
The innkeeper stared, at a loss, but one of the serving wenches had a bit more presence of mind, and brought two small glasses of amber fluid. Matt handed one to the knight. “Drink it. You’ll need it.”
The man took the glass and drank greedily-and Matt poured the other over the wound. The knight howled and hurled the glass away, but Matt blocked the blow and said, “Just hold on, Sir Knight. That brandywine will do you more good where I’ve poured it than where you have.”
“It burns!” the knight cried. “Oh! The pain!”
“I thought knights never showed their hurts,” Matt jibed. The man went still and gave him a very cold stare. Matt didn’t pay attention-he was busy winding the nearest napkin around the wound. “The brandywine should stop the worst of the flow of blood, and it will make your arm a lot cleaner than you did. I’d tell you to find a doctor fast, but for some reason, I think you might have more luck with a poultice from the innkeeper’s wife.” He glanced up. “Or from your own.”
The knight reddened. “Mind your manners, peasant!”
Interesting, Matt thought-manners mattered, but morals didn’t. “As you wish, Sir Knight.” He stood up. “I’m afraid that’s all I can do for you, though, except for maybe telling you a story to take your mind off the pain.”
The man looked up at him with suspicion. “That might be welcome. What is its subject?”
Matt glanced around quickly and noticed the eyes turning toward him at the mention of a story. “Of the Lord Orlando,” he told the knight, “nephew of the emperor Charlemagne.”
“I have never heard of him.”
“Small wonder-he’s only a figment in a romance,” Matt sighed, “at least, in this world. Still, it’s a great story, and it never claimed to be historically accurate. Would you hear it?”
“Aye!” chorused all the customers, and Matt decided to get to work. One hour and two flagons of ale later, Matt and Pascal were two ducats richer. “Well, we have paid for our night’s lodging, and perhaps tomorrow’s as well.” Pascal didn’t seem to notice Matt’s part in the earning. “We could hire a chamber for the night!”
Remembering the couple who had gone upstairs, Matt was somehow not as eager for the idea as he might have been. He also remembered the bedbugs at the last inn. “No, let’s just wait them out and sleep by the fire.” He took his blanket from his pack. “They’ve started stacking the tables already. Any minute now, the innkeeper should be chasing out the ones who aren’t staying the night.”
“Well, we shall have to guard our money carefully,” Pascal sighed, “but when have we not had to? We should reach my cousin’s house tomorrow evening, at least. We can expect proper beds then.”
Privately, Matt thought they were much more likely to wind up in the barn-but maybe Pascal was right, maybe the fact that he was planning to run off with his host’s daughter wouldn’t make any difference. At least, if they didn’t tell the squire what Pascal was intending to do, he might not kick Matt out until after the young man had eloped. Or been immensely disappointed. Personally, Matt thought that was the much more likely option. When the daytimers had been chased out, and the all-night visitors were all wrapped up and arranged as near the fire as they could manage, Matt noticed that Pascal was still awake, with a brooding frown on his face as he gazed off into space at some un- seen horror. Matt told himself it was none of his business, but the assurances didn’t work. With a sigh, he sat up and moved closer to his traveling companion. “What’s keeping you awake?”
Pascal flushed. ‘Too much wine, belike.“