“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.”