The Bohemian Magician

Twelve-year-old Guilhem, the duke’s son, threaded his way through the dark castle corridors. The servants had been awake for some hours although the sun was barely peeping over the horizon. Cooking odors from the great kitchen wafted along after him. He ducked and wove his way past servitors bearing food to his father, who was ill abed this past fortnight—very much unlike him. Guilhem knew the duke, his face gone hollow and pale, would do no more than pick at the food. He worried about his father’s health, but this morning he had scant room in his mind for sorrow or concern.

The watchman’s pipes, three notes played from the donjon’s turret to greet the new morning, had awakened Guilhem. Usually, he would have squirmed deeper into the down coverlet for a bit more sleep, but today he was up and out of bed before he had time to notice the chill in the air. Yes, there was no mistaking that autumn was here. He dashed to the window, yanked back the drapes to see how the weather was. The riot of color staining the surrounding trees gladdened his heart because it heralded the coming of the holiday season, while simultaneously giving him a twinge of regret for the passing of summer. Satisfied that the day would be clear without a chance of rain, Guilhem splashed some water on his face from the washbasin on the table beside his bed. Yanking his nightshirt off over his head, he began pulling on his clothes: breeches and a long shirt with a tight-fitting leather pelisse over it, suitable for a chilly morning.

Outside in the drafty corridor, his closest friend, Henri Dufour, awaited him, wrapped in a cloak, pacing back and forth to keep warm.

“How long have you been out here?” Guilhem asked.

“Too long, too long,” Henri grumbled. He was a slight, olive-skinned boy with dark eyes set in a narrow face, Guilhem’s best friend since earliest childhood. “Come on, Guilhem; it’s just after primes, and we need to be back before tierces.” The boys fell into step, with the shorter Henri fairly skipping in his eagerness to be out of the castle.

But Guilhem refused to be hurried. He was only lately becoming aware of the need to maintain a certain dignity, because, as his father said, he was different from all the other boys. “So? That’s mid-morning, more than two hours from now. Plenty of time.”

“So you say,” said Henri with a scowl. “You’re not likely to get a buffet on the ear from Brother Gabriel if we’re late. He’ll take it out on me. On me!” Both boys were having trouble getting back into the rhythm of daily lessons, only recently begun again after the languid summer. Along with other youths of noble blood, they were obliged to report to the small schoolroom off the chapel, there to labor at Latin, geography, and history under the watchful eye of old Brother Gabriel, who had no compunctions about smacking anyone, even Guilhem the duke-to-be, for being tardy or lax in his studies.

“No, he won’t,” Guilhem said. “Not if we bring the fat old rascal a coney for his pot. He’ll go easy enough on us for that, I warrant.”

Henri grunted but couldn’t argue the point. Brother Gabriel’s fondness for food and drink was well known. There wasn’t a one of their schoolmates who hadn’t brought the monk a rabbit or a partridge at some point in his academic career in the hope of receiving lenient treatment in the classroom. Brother Gabriel accepted all such gifts, referring to them as “remembrances,” but they seemed to have no effect on his propensity for meting out punishment.

Guilhem partook enthusiastically in horsemanship and arms training, but they were a relatively minor part of his learning. He rode well, despite being a bit small for his age, and was dexterous with the sword, mace, and knife, and better than average with bow and arrow. When he attained his full growth, he knew he’d be a formidable fighter. To that end, he and Henri often sparred with blunt practice swords, perfecting their thrusts and parries. In the practice yard, Henri’s innate skills with weapons gave him an edge on Guilhem, who was determined not to let himself be bested. More than once, they had come out of their contests bleeding, but with no ire for each other.

As far as the rest of his education was concerned, Guilhem enjoyed music and poetry, but otherwise had little use for reading despite Brother Gabriel’s best efforts. Guilhem’s father, himself a learned man, owned a small library of which he was inordinately proud, and Guilhem knew it was his responsibility to be fully literate, so he applied himself to his Latin, assisted by a flair for languages that had already given him fluency not only in his native French, as spoken in his father’s court, but also the regional Occitane tongue used by the commoners.

Even so, he had more than once wished he had been gifted with Henri’s precise memory. The swarthy boy never forgot a thing.

Most important, though, was their shared passion for falconry and hunting. Having received their own birds to care for in the past year, they spent as much time as possible training their charges to hunt.

And sometimes that meant braving the chill of an early morning.

The boys stopped briefly in the kitchen where the day’s loaves were already baking, and wolfed a quick breakfast of oranges, yesterday’s bread, and a cup of wine. Then they ran down to the kennels. Some of the dogs lounged around in the piles of straw that were changed daily, scratching themselves and yawning; but others, seeing Guilhem and Henri arrive, scrambled to their feet and sat expectantly by the gate with tails wagging. They knew the boys’ presence at this hour meant only one thing: a hunt.

If it were a boar hunt with his men-at-arms as companions, Guilhem would have taken most if not all the hounds with him, but today it was just him and Henri. He whistled through his teeth, and one dog, older and shaggier than the rest, shouldered its way to the front and stood there grinning at the boys.

“There, Brusque, good old fellow,” Guilhem crooned, undoing the leather hasp on the gate and letting the dog slip through. “The forest grouse are flocking, boy. We heard them yesterday while we were at lessons.”

Henri knelt and tousled the dog’s ears. A lock of dark hair fell across his eyes, and he yanked it back. “And we thought, ‘Brusque needs some exercise for his fat frame.’” Indifferent to the slight, Brusque closed his eyes in delight at the boy’s touch. His tongue lolled out.

The trio left the castle by one of the arched doorways and headed across the inner courtyard for the mews, where the hunting birds were housed.

“Which falcon for you today? Which one?” Henri asked. “I will have Sharpclaw.” This was his own bird, a four-year-old peregrine he had raised from the egg.

“I will take Stripe I think,” Guilhem said. The falcon, named for the prominent bars on his wings, would be sleeping now on his perch with the other birds. The astringer, Amis, lived in the mews as well, a wry little man who flew and trained the duke’s hunting birds. Most were short-winged hawks, like goshawks, but there was also a merlin as well as a couple of falcons. Stripe was Guilhem’s personal favorite. He had by now worked with the falcon for three years and felt he knew the bird well.

With the dog at their heels the boys entered the mews. The familiar scents of guano and urine-filled straw filled Guilhem’s nostrils. The birds, awakened by the footsteps, shuffled about on the long pole running the length of the enclosed room. They were tethered to it by their jesses for the night and still hooded for sleep. Amis crept yawning out of the little room, scarcely more than a closet, at the rear where he slept. “Oh aye, young lords,” he said. “Good mornin.’ What be ye after?”

“I’ll have Stripe out for a hunt this morning,” Guilhem said, smiling. He liked Amis, a gnarly man of some thirty-five summers, almost toothless but good-humored and patient with his pupils, even the impetuous Guilhem.

Presently, with Stripe still hooded but gripping with murderous talons the thick leather gauntlet protecting his wrist, Guilhem plowed through the knee-high grass of the meadow adjacent to the keep. Henri was at his side, likewise gauntleted and bearing Sharpclaw. Broom thrust its bright yellow blossoms up among the shrubbery. To the west, a crescent moon tiptoed away over the dark hills beyond the meadows. Guilhem’s heart beat with excitement, his eyes wide and bright.. He was out on an errand of his own, accompanied by his friend, his dog, and his bird, feeling most adult and proud.

It was a splendid morning—cool, with mist on the ground around their feet. Walking through it felt like wading in a river of cloud-stuff. They exchanged few words in the quietude of the morning. Behind them, the castle built by Guilhem’s father, Gui-Geoffroi, eighth duke of Poictiers, Comté du Poitou in this the Year of Our Lord 1083, receded into a screen of blackthorn and aubepine. It was not a large castle, housing no more than fifty people and surrounded by meadows and cultivated fields, with a marsh nearby forming a natural bulwark against incursion from the east.

Duke Gui-Geoffroi’s charge was to oversee and protect Poitou for King Philip. Philip had annexed the verdant farmlands of the Vexin, to the north in Normandy, only the year before. According to Guilhem’s father, even though the move was wise from His Majesty’s viewpoint because of the county’s rich yields, it would provoke dissent among Philip’s already contentious vassals because of the Vexin’s proximity to Paris.

“We must be ever wary of our borders,” Gui-Geoffroi said less than a fortnight before, in consultation with his men. He’d been most forceful about it, glaring around the table with a map of the region spread out before him.

Guilhem, seated to one side but knowing enough to remain silent, always did his best to follow his father’s reasoning on such topics, and in any event had a fascination for maps. Although as his father’s heir it was his duty to understand strategy and tactics, the subjects had always intrigued him. As a child, he and Henri spent endless hours playing with a set of bronze and pewter toy soldiers, moving them about on the floor of Guilhem’s room in mock battles, carefully removing “wounded” or “dead” warriors from the field, trying to see how their lack would affect the conflict’s outcome. Soon enough now, he would be commanding men in his own name: Duke Guilhem IX.

But the future held no interest for either boy this morning. Today, they were simply twelve years old, out with a dog and haughty, dangerous birds of prey.

“Oh, I can’t wait any longer!” Guilhem halted in the middle of the field and removed his falcon’s hood.

“It looks to me as if Stripe would be happy enough to delay a bit, though,” Henri said, grinning. “Just a bit.”

Stripe gazed around with his sharp yellow eyes, his curved beak half open as if he were panting. He ruffled his plumage, rousing, getting ready to hunt. He was a magnificent creature, and Guilhem spared a moment to admire him, gently ruffling the soft feathers of Stripe’s breast.

“You better be careful,” Henri said. “The last time I tried that with him, he nearly took off one of my fingers.”

“Oh, he likes it,” Guilhem said softly. Stripe sat with eyes half-closed now, seeming to ignore his touch.

Henri scoffed. “If you say so.”

But Guilhem understood the bird well, and knew when he could take liberties and when he couldn’t. For now, though, the boy’s thoughts were solely on his intention to bag a brace of grouse for the evening meal. “Come on, let’s go further,” he said. He walked on, with Henri at his side. They crossed the meadow at a steady pace, so as not to disturb Stripe. Sharpclaw, on Henri’s arm, was in no bad temper, and looked around, his eyes seemingly missing nothing. Brusque galumphed along beside them, grunting in pleasure and sniffing at the air. As Guilhem walked, ignoring the moisture seeping through his leather breeches, he removed the leash from Stripe’s tresses so the falcon would be ready for flight. Henri did likewise with Sharpclaw.

“Do you think we’ll see one of those young dragons people have claimed lurk in the forest?” Henri asked.

“I doubt it. As long as they don’t come near the castle, they don’t worry me. I can deal with small worms. Nothing over a spear’s length is anywhere around here for miles and miles, anyway, not these days; anything larger was hunted down long ago.”

“Probably true.” Everyone had seen the dragon’s head gracing the wall of the dining chamber. It was a fanged horror, as big as a washtub, killed by the duke himself some years before Guilhem’s birth.

While the boys were still a hundred or so paces from the border of the forest, a pair of grouse erupted from the tall grass off to their left. One was a cock and the other a hen; Guilhem saw at once from the birds’ distinctive black markings, red wattles, and the cock’s lyre-shaped tail, now appearing forked in flight. One of the birds let loose a loud, bubbling cry.

Without thinking, Guilhem cried “Ho hi!” and flung his arm up to launch Stripe. At the same time, Henri tossed Sharpclaw aloft. The falcons fluttered in the air for a moment as if confused, then made for the much slower grouse. There was no dispute about the targets; Sharpclaw went for the female and Stripe for the male.

Then, to Guilhem’s surprise, Stripe veered off to the left, ignoring his prey. He yelled at Stripe, but the hunter, oblivious to his master’s commands, dropped down into the long grass.

“Ah! Ah!” Henri cried as Sharpclaw seized the hen, wobbling to earth with it.

“Stripe, blast you!” Guilhem clenched his fists.

“He saw something else, looks like.”

“I thought he was better trained than that,” Guilhem said darkly.

The male grouse, meanwhile, fluttered to safety in the branches of a larch just inside the forest. Guilhem spat out a few words he had heard his father use and hurried with Brusque to the place where Stripe had pounced, while Henri went to Sharpclaw.

Guilhem found his falcon with its talons sunk into the neck of a stoat, not yet begun its transformation from brown to its winter coat of white. The animal was dead, and the bird glared fiercely up at the boy as he bent over it, clearly unwilling to relinquish its prey. When Brusque poked his nose closer to sniff at the stoat, Stripe hissed in fury and the dog hurriedly backed off.

“Good hunting, Stripe,” said Guilhem, but he was disappointed not to have got the grouse. He sighed. There was time for another throw or two, but any game bird nearby would probably have been scared off by now.

He extended his arm to the bird, which stared at it for a moment before reluctantly climbing aboard. “Hey ho, Stripe, hey ho,” he cooed. The bird made as if to rouse again, and Guilhem smoothed its plumage, still murmuring gently. Slowly, the mad light faded from Stripe’s eyes, and he began grooming himself, wrapping his left wing around his head and pulling out a feather that apparently failed to meet his standards.

Guilhem picked up the dead stoat and popped into the leather game bag at his side. Brusque gave the bag a sniff, then snorted at it as if in dismissal.

Henri came up with Sharpclaw on his wrist, his own game bag weighted down by the female grouse. “What do you think; shall we try for more? I didn’t see any others fly up, so we might be fortunate.”

“Maybe.” They walked around the meadow for a while but had no luck. At last, with mid-morning drawing near, they decided to head back for the castle.

With their birds once more perched on their arms, the boys walked across the meadow at an angle over a section of they had not earlier traversed. An arm of the forest jutted out into the grass here, a line of three or four larches that had somehow gained a foothold.

“Well, at least the morning wasn’t a complete waste,” Guilhem said. “But I wish—”

Without warning, a pheasant sprang into the air a dozen or so yards ahead of them. It was a larger bird than Stripe, but Guilhem didn’t hesitate. He flung the falcon up and quickly reached back to his quiver for an arrow, nocking it in case Stripe should miss the quarry.

Henri kept Sharpclaw on his arm, the understanding being that Guilhem, as the son of the ruling duke, would always have the first attempt at game in such situations.

Stripe did not miss. With a harsh cry, the falcon dove down on the fleeing pheasant, and the two birds, entangled, fell to earth in an untidy heap. Even before they hit the ground, Guilhem and Henri were running toward them. As they passed the closest tree, Guilhem saw something at its foot and halted, mouth open in amazement, the birds forgotten. Henri forged ahead to where they had fallen, not noticing that Guilhem was no longer at his side.

“Well, this makes up for the stoat,” he said. “Uh, Guilhem? Where...?”

Guilhem stared down at what could only be a fairy lying unconscious, perhaps dead, beside the tree.

This was no delicate little gossamer-winged creature out of a children’s story. It was a typical fairy: a frog-mouthed, catfish-whiskered, hooded, claw-handed thing about the size of the dead weasel in his bag, with patches of sparse, spiky white fur. He bent over the being but recoiled. It smelled terrible. With his hand shielding his nose, Guilhem leaned in again.

He had never seen a real fairy. They were rare and secretive, but he had heard that they sometimes held their midnight revels inside the forest. Once or twice while exploring, he had come upon circles of mushrooms growing in clearings: fairy rings.

He didn’t doubt that a fairy lay at his feet. Though most of the Wee Folk were said have only vestigial wings, this one possessed filmy pinions bigger than its body. Guilhem would have bet that it was fully capable of flight. What was it doing here? He leaned closer despite the smell, and then saw a small cup, no bigger than a thimble and carved from a gemstone, lying beside the fairy. He picked it up carefully and sniffed at it.

Wine.

He glanced up at the tree. Perhaps the fairy had flown smack into it while drinking, possibly during the night, thereby knocking himself cold.

“What is it?” Henri called.

“A fairy... I think.” He replaced the cup. “You better stay there.”

Henri, who was superstitious and leery of anything smacking of fairies, crossed himself. “I will, don’t worry!”

“And pack that grouse for me, please!”

Guilhem sat on his haunches. Brusque nosed in for a closer inspection, but the boy held him back. “This little fellow would have ended up being eaten by a fox or a badger had we not happened by,” he told the dog. He glanced at Stripe on his arm, but the haughty falcon paid the smelly little fairy no heed.

Now the problem was, what was he to do? The thing might be injured or even dead. He bent closer, ignoring as best he could its stench. He couldn’t tell if it was breathing.

Abruptly, it emitted a squawk, or a snort, or perhaps even a belch. It didn’t open its eyes. Guilhem wished he knew the wisest course of action in this circumstance. Perhaps he should scoop up the creature and take it to Brother Gabriel. But that would mean touching it, and he felt squeamish at the thought.

While he crouched there trying to decide on his next move, the fairy’s eyes fluttered and opened. Guilhem restrained an exclamation of surprise and disgust. The orbs were dark with no whites. They glittered wetly in the morning light.

“By the sacred scrotum of Thoth,” the fairy mumbled, raising a two-fingered hand to its head. Its mouth bore only four fang-like teeth. “What happened?”

“I-I think you collided with this tree,” said Guilhem, inclining his head toward the larch and wondering who—or what—Thoth was.

“I may have done, at that,” said the fairy, looking at the tree. It spat out a string of curses. “There, that’ll teach it to get in my way. It’ll die of blight within the month.” The fairy shook its head and climbed unsteadily to its feet. Guilhem watched in fascination as it tried its wings. They moved so fast that they blurred, like those of a hummingbird, producing a bee-like buzz. “All’s well, then,” the fairy muttered. “Say, I have you to thank for watching over me while I was helpless, do I not?”

“Well, uh, no, I was out hunting with my friend and found you here, you see,” Guilhem said.

The fairy made a dismissive gesture. “Nonsense. You probably saved me from being a buzzard’s breakfast.” It shook its head again. “I’ve got a headache worthy of a troll! Worse than drinking a barrel of mead. Ach, it serves me right for not watching where I was going.” It tried its wings again. “I must be on my way. The wedding party has moved to my uncle Auberon’s palace.” It scrunched up its ugly face. “I was on my way there and perhaps not being as observant in my flight as I should have been.” It cast a sage look up at Guilhem. “Do you know of my uncle, the prince? Prince Auberon? He will rule all the Folk one day, you know.”

Guilhem could only shake his head.

“Well, tis no matter. I am Walbert, by the way.”

“Um, Guilhem. Guilhem, son of Gui-Geoffroi, Comté du Poitou and duke of Poictiers.”

“Hmm! A noble yourself, eh? Splendid! Well, thank you again, young Guilhem.” He peered narrowly at the boy. “You are young, aren’t you? I find it hard to tell with humans.” His eyebrows went up. “Nevertheless, I am in your debt. Let me gift you! I name you ‘fairy friend forevermore.’ Henceforth, you will be attractive to all magical beings. They will see you as companion and benefactor.”

“Oh, but wait, no,” said Guilhem, with a pang of dismay. “I don’t wish to—”

“Quite all right, quite all right... no trouble at all. Glad to do it.” Walbert grabbed his cup, which promptly refilled itself with wine. After a good long drink from it, he leaped up into the air, buzzed in an unsteady circle around Guilhem’s head even as the boy expostulated, then zoomed off toward the forest, dipping and weaving in flight.

Guilhem ran after it, waving his free arm and shouting. “You don’t understand! I don’t want to be a fairy friend!” But the fairy simply flipped a hand in farewell and was gone.

“What’s going on there?” called Henri, his voice high with concern and anxiety.

Guilhem dropped his arm to his side, his shoulders slumping. “Nothing. I... I don’t know.” He chewed his lips for a moment. “Come on, we better be getting home.”

“So, it’s g-gone?” Henri looked around, eyes wide.

“Yes, yes, it flew away.”

He turned back toward the castle and began walking, feeling somewhat dazed by the unexpected meeting. Brusque kept pace with him. Henri, with Sharpclaw on his arm, held the tied pheasant in his other hand.

“It was a fairy? A real fairy? What did it say?”

Guilhem mumbled, “Named me ‘fairy friend’ whatever that means.” On his arm, Stripe ruffled his feathers, rousing, but Guilhem’s encounter with the supernatural had driven any further enthusiasm for the hunt out of him.

Henri frowned in puzzlement. “Fairy friend? What does it mean?”

“Apparently, I am now attractive to all magical beings, it said.”

Henri shuddered. “I wouldn’t want to be attractive to the stinking things. I’d want to avoid them as much as possible!”

“Yes, well... me, too. But I don’t know what will happen.” He looked down at Brusque, but the hound merely wagged his tail. “Nothing, I pray.”

The Silver Lamprey was no different from a score of taverns Guilhem had patronized in his time—aside from its location in Adrianople, a bustling maritime city on the Bosphrous strait about a 125 miles west of Constantinople. Decadent and squalid in roughly equal parts, Adrianople was a Saracen city whose inhabitants were supposed to refrain from imbibing alcohol. The Lamprey catered to foreign travelers, however; and so Guilhem found himself there drinking raki, a fierce local liquor whose effects crept up on him almost without his notice.

Guilhem cast a dark glance at two fairies sitting up in the establishment’s rafters staring down at him with undisguised curiosity scrawled on their idiot faces, unseen by all save him. Normally he would have ignored them, but his distaste of their presence grew deeper the more he drank.

To distract himself from his unwelcome observers he turned to Henri, sitting to his left. “I don’t know how you managed to ferret out this place,” he said. “This stinking city is like a maze. I wouldn’t have thought I’d allowed enough leisure time from weapons practice for you to thread your way through it.”

“Do you never underestimate my thirst! Never!” Henri clicked his glass of raki against Guilhem’s. The men sat in a dark corner with two other Crusaders from among Guilhem’s men, Evrart and Ymbert Duplessis, beetle-browed brothers, who now roared boisterous approval at Henri’s riposte. “As long as we’re stuck here for a few days before we can meet up with the other armies while the rest of our forces straggle in, I say we make the best of it.”

Guilhem grinned. His original misgivings about the Silver Lamprey and its clientele had been swamped by the alcohol. At first sight, the place near the docks had made him uneasy. Scowling sailors lounged nearby, regarding the Franks with undisguised animosity. Guilhem’s suggestion that they find a tavern somewhat farther away from frequented byways were shouted down by Henri and the Duplessis brothers.

“This is a worthy establishment,” Henri insisted.

“Aye,” said Ymbert. “We’ve been here before. Only had to break two or three heads to get out.”

“When we were boys you weren’t never so cautious, my lord,” said Evrart.

Guilhem blew out his breath. He felt more comfortable with these men, friends and former schoolmates, than with the rank and file of his troops, more able to fraternize with them. It was good to have someone to gripe with about the endless delays jockeying the armies into position and all the bureaucratic and diplomatic foolishness he put up with from the other commanders, but even so...

“I wasn’t responsible for thousands of fighting men in those days,” he’d said to Evrart.

“Oh, don’t be such a baby,” Evrart said jocularly as he and Ymbert, with Henri behind, pushed Guilhem into the tavern. “You’ve had fifteen years to get used to being a duke, Guilhem. Come forget all that for a while and get drunk with us.”

Wary at first, Guilhem had relaxed after a couple of glasses of raki. Now he took another drink of the anise-tasting liquor. “I am still not quite sure I like this stuff,” he said to Henri.

“Nonsense!” his friend said. “You simply need more of it, is all!”

“Keep your voice down,” Guilhem said, glancing around. As the commanding officer, he had to be cognizant of the public’s perception of his men. Crusaders, he knew, weren’t very popular hereabouts; others had descended on the town like an infestation of locusts, careless and feckless, earning the wrath of the inhabitants with loud talk and ignorance of local custom. For that reason, he had been adamant his soldiers maintain discipline. It meant that, as commander, he had to set a good example. Though reluctant at first to go drinking in the city, curiosity and boredom eventually got the better of him, and he gave into Henri’s wheedling.

“Come, our money is as good as anyone’s, my lord!” said Henri. He poured out some raki from the bottle and downed it at a gulp.

Guilhem grinned again. His friend had grown into a slender young man with unruly hair, not much more than five feet tall, mercurial, and thin-skinned about his stature. Despite his height—or perhaps because of it—Henri was gifted and deadly at swordsmanship, often fighting with a sword in his right hand and a main-gauche, a long dagger with which he was an expert, held in his left to parry his opponent’s thrusts. No one taunted him twice about his size.

Guilhem himself had surpassed the physical promise of his youth, growing tall and strong. Thick blonde hair hung luxuriantly to his shoulders and his face shone. A strong chin and broad neck were offset by his aquiline nose and two bright blue eyes.

When the oafish brothers got into a conversation about women, Henri leaned closer to Guilhem. “I saw you looking up there,” he murmured, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “I did. Is it one of your little friends?” Henri’s own ability to see the fairies had not survived his youth; or if it had, he never admitted it, insisting that the Fey were purely pagan and nothing for a good Christian to have truck with. But he never taunted Guilhem about what had happened that day years ago.

Guilhem shrugged. Henri eyed the empty raki bottle with an owlish gaze. “More,” he said a little blurrily. “Need more. I’ll fetch it.” He pushed back his chair and started for the bar.

Guilhem noted the hot stares following Henri’s unsteady path. There’s going to be trouble before long, he told himself. The Duplessis brothers grew ever more boisterous in their dispute about women, as well. We ought to get out while we can. He knew he couldn’t appeal to Henri on the basis of avoiding an impending fight; Henri was far too self-conscious about his size to back down from any challenge, seeing them all as being rooted in disdain for his lack of height. But Guilhem knew he’d have to think of something, and soon, if they were to avoid a clash with the Saracens.

He took another drink of raki while pondering the problem. The ambient noise in the tavern seemed louder all the while. The Saracen fondness for poetry and song knew no limits. Several of them were singing in one corner of the tavern, while another man recited a poem having something to do with revenge to several entranced listeners:

“Effaced are the abodes, brief encampments and long-settled ones;

At Mina, the wilderness has claimed Mount Ghawl and Mount Rijam.”

It didn’t make much sense to Guilhem. He was aware through the buzz in his head that Henri was engaged in a spirited discussion in broken Arabic with one of the other patrons. The two brothers had vanished—when had they left the table? Guilhem couldn’t remember. Oh, yes; one of them had said something about wanting to get some sleep. Soldiers, as Guilhem knew well, never get enough sleep; they learn to grab it wherever and whenever they can. He sipped at another glass of raki. Oh yes, he thought. I told them to do what they must do. So, they probably went back to camp to sleep. That’s fine, now I know where they are. Or were. Are? Good stuff, this raki.

He thought of his wife, the beautiful dark-haired Phillipa, his daughter, Cateline, and of his young son, also named Guilhem, barely a toddler now but destined to become duke in his own time. He found himself sailing amid maudlin thoughts. When would he see them again? Then acrimonious voices brought him back to the present.

Henri’s dispute, he realized with dismay, was getting out of hand. One of the local patrons had said something disparaging about Franks. Guilhem pushed the bottle of raki away. He understood enough of the language to know that the insults had become more pointed. Perhaps he’d had enough. Perhaps it was time for them to go.

He laid a hand on Henri’s shoulder. The smaller man was almost toe to toe with a large, scowling Saracen. “Henri,” he said. “We should return to camp.”

Henri opened his mouth to reply, but then seemed to remember that Guilhem was, after all, his commanding officer and lord, as well as his friend. He subsided, clenching his jaw, and turned away from his adversary.

“Ah, so the cowardly infidels flee,” one of the locals said, in French, eliciting laughter from those who understood, while others translated for those who did not speak the tongue.

Guilhem tightened his grip on Henri’s shoulder, but the slender man shook it off and faced the Saracen. “Listen to me, you lout. My lord, here, is a nobleman, and a brave warrior.” Guilhem winced. That might not have been the most tactful thing to say in a room full of drunken enemies. Again, he tried to pull Henri away from the confrontation, but Henri wasn’t having any of it. “More,” Henri went on. “He plays the lute and composes his own tunes. And stories?” Henri laughed. “Why, he keeps us entertained at night after long marches when we’re so exhausted we can barely think.”

Guilhem suddenly understood Henri’s intent: he was defusing the situation in his own way: by putting the emphasis not on fighting skills but on more scholarly pursuits. The Saracens were no fools, to judge by the number who could follow the conversation and were translating for the rest.

“My lord’s songs would put yours to shame,” Henri said, putting as much of a sneer into his voice as he could. “If you only knew! He sings of women and adventure. Why,” he added, his eyes going wide, “he’s even a friend to the fairies! Did you know that? How many of you can count a djinn among your intimates? How many! Eh?” The force of his emotion seemed to overcome him for a moment, and he bit his lips as his eyes filled with tears.

Guilhem groaned softly. “Henri,” he whispered in Latin, “stop. Let us leave, please.”

Henri took no notice. Worse, as Guilhem saw, the two fairies perched in the rafters were now listening with ears cocked toward Henri below, no doubt eager to hear more about themselves. What were the little bastards doing here anyway? They were far from their haunts back in Frankish lands. Weren’t they worried about being assaulted by the djinn?

Probably they are in league, fairies and djinn alike, being magical beings all, he thought sourly.

“Tell a story about us!” cried one of the fairies, launching himself (or herself; it wasn’t always easy to tell what sex they were, if any at all) into the air. Guilhem, refusing to respond, ignored it. Fortunately, none of the Saracens could see the thing.

“I will tell of an encounter I had with two wenches,” Guilhem said, raising his voice, hoping to distract the crowd. “Wives of vassals were they.”

That got the Saracens’ attention, and they settled down somewhat, looking at him with interest.

“A song I’ll make you, worthy to recall, With ample folly and with sense but small, Of joy, young-heartedness, and love will I compound it all.”

He grinned at his audience. “Now, as it happened it was a fine morning, and I was on the homeward leg of a walking tour. Beside the road gurgled the rapids and eddies of a river named the Dordogne, of which I am sure you have never heard. But it is a wide and beautiful course of water... though at that place it was young, just sprung from the side of a mountain, and no more than a stream.

“Soon I heard the sound of horses approaching from around the bend ahead. Brigands? No. Highwaymen wouldn’t choose that time of day or such an open setting for their depredations. Therefore, I maintained a carefree pace.

“Just before the riders hove into view I marked them by their cheerful chatter as women, and, by the tinkling of bells on the harnesses of their mounts, high born at that.

“A single glance marked their well-bred palfreys, and their fine clothing. I knew them at once: the ladies Ermessen and Berthaude, wives of two nobles who lived not far from my keep. Their men had marched off to—” He broke off just before saying that his vassals had gone to join the Crusade to free the Holy Land from the Saracens. Hastily he improvised: “To war in a nearby duchy.”

A flash of memory rushed through his mind. When he’d first heard about the Crusade Guilhem had pondered going, too, but ultimately decided that his affection for the church was not sufficient to allow him to abandon his property and family for an unknown length of time on a perilous journey promising no firm return for his investment of time and money.

“Why, they’d have me raise an army of three thousand souls,” he had complained to Brother Gabriel over wine. “It would cost me deep in the purse!” He snorted. “And meanwhile all my lands would be unprotected.”

Brother Gabriel’s eyes twinkled as he looked at Guilhem over the rim of his glass. “I daresay the departure of your neighbors will provide you with unexpected opportunities,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “Insofar as comforting certain lonely wives about certain husbands’ absences...”

He banished the memory and said to the other tavern-goers, “Now, the ladies were most fair and beguiling. One was Berthaude, a winsome brunette, with a pale complexion, large eyes, and a somewhat sly manner. ‘Well met, pilgrim,’ she said, and I knew she did not recognize me, travel-stained and footsore as I was.

“Therefore, did I put my tongue in my cheek, withholding a grin. ‘Seek you the shrine of Saint Laumart, pilgrim? It is not far,’ said the other, Ermessen, in a thrilling voice.”

The Saracens muttered approvingly. Henri, who had previously heard this boastful story from Guilhem, grinned.

“Younger than Berthaude was she,” Guilhem said hurriedly, “and her husband’s second wife, his first having died in childbirth. Fate had brought both to me. What would I do?” He reached for the bottle of raki, poured out a glassful, and downed it.

“What did you do?” called one of the French-speaking men. Any hint of threat was gone from his voice.

Guilhem chuckled. “I played a mute,” he said. “For if they believed I could not speak, they might be willing to have sport with me, their husbands being away... a mute can tell no tales.

“So, they took me to Castle Beynac, nearby, which belonged to Berthaude’s husband, Count Piers. Perched atop a huge rock, it was in truth little more than a chateau despite its grandiose name, with a tall donjon looking out over a three-story turreted keep beside a small, placid lake. And yet a pretty place was it for an assignation.

“I continued to play the speechless fool. The ladies bathed me... a pleasant experience.” His audience murmured and chuckled in appreciation. “But now they began to doubt. Was I truly a mute? Could I in truth make no more sounds than babble and turkey-gobbles?

“They spoke among themselves so I could not hear, and then left the room. I knew not what they were about and was puzzled mightily. Were we not to frolic? But. But! Presently the women returned wearing, I was delighted to see, only their underdresses—but bearing between them a cage in which reposed a large orange tomcat with bristling whiskers. The cat spat and gave forth a low yowl of displeasure. What they meant to do was drag it down my back to see if I would cry out!

“But, seeing this, Vorlion, grinning toothily, said—”

“Who?” called one of the Saracens. “You made no mention of this Vorlion previously.”

And above, from the rafters, came the cry: “Good Vorlion! Tell more of him!” “Yes, tell more! Vorlion! Vorlion!”

Guilhem cast a desperate look at Henri. Vorlion was a fairy who had attached himself to Guilhem during his sojourn into the countryside, an audibly flatulent little monstrosity who rode on the brim of his peasant hat, refusing to leave him. Guilhem had spoken of the creature to Henri, his closest friend, but to no other. Now, having gotten carried away with his story, he had let slip the truth of the fairy’s presence.

Henri, somewhat more befuddled with alcohol than Guilhem, spoke up: “A fairy! Did I not say that my lord, here, is a friend to the Fey?”

“Ah, the fairies,” called one of the Saracens. “Wee sprites, akin to the djinn, are they not? Yes, we would hear more of them.” Others shouted their approval of this suggestion.

“No,” said Guilhem. “It’s... it’s foolishness.” He waved his hands. “I know nothing of them.”

“Then who was Vorlion, and from whence did he come?”

“Curse you!” Guilhem hissed at the dismayed Henri, who knew he had gone too far. To the crowd, he said, lamely, “A... a parrot, I had trained to talk.”

“Oh, what sort of fools do you infidels take us for?” demanded one of the men. “Was it a fairy or was it not?”

Guilhem clenched his fists. “If you would listen—”

Calls of Liar! erupted now from all sides.

Later, Guilhem could not recall whose fist was first to contact an opponent’s jaw. All he knew was that he and Henri suddenly found themselves fighting for their lives. Though no cowards, the Saracens were hampered somewhat by the robes they wore, where Guilhem and Henri had more freedom of movement. Guilhem grabbed two opponents and knocked their heads together with a sharp crack, head-butted another, then ducked and dove straight at a fourth man, bowling him over into two others. He heard the hiss of a Saracen blade being pulled from its scabbard. There was no room for swordplay inside the crowded tavern, but all the men possessed knives or daggers. Those of the Saracens were wickedly curved, and wielded with cunning and expertise. It was only through Henri’s even greater skills with his main-gauche that the two Europeans battled their way to the door and fled for their lives into Adrianople’s twisting alleyways, unable to restrain their drunken laughter.