He showed the guard the sealed parchment. To his dismay, the man snatched it from his hand. “Hey!”
“Leave your mule with the stable hands. Your bags will be brought to you—Am!”
A small boy, a page clad in the count’s blue livery, came running. “Sir?”
“Take this bardling to the squires’ quarters.”
“But my message!” Kevin protested—
“It will be given to Count Volmar.” The guard’s contemptuous stare said without words, Did you really think a mere bardling would be allowed to bother a count? “Go get your mule stabled.”
With that, the man turned and disappeared into the keep. Kevin hesitated, toying with the idea of hurrying after the guard and insisting he be admitted to the
Oh no. Not only would something like that destroy what little was left of his dignity, it would probably get him thrown out of the castle!
Kevin’s shoulders sagged. So much for being able to rub elbows with nobility!
“I’m supposed to wait here.”
“That’s what I was told,” little Am answered. “In the squires’ quarters.”
“But here?” the bardling repeated. “There’s nobody —Am! Wait!”
The boy had already scurried away. Kevin, feeling helpless, stood looking uneasily about. The squires’ quarters was nothing more than this long, dark, chilly hall broken up by a row of cots and clothes chests. The high roof was supported by thick columns, and the only light came from narrow windows set high in the walls. The silence was heavier than anything back in the forest.
The bardling sat down on (he edge of one of the cots to wait. And wait. And wait.
Kevin had just about decided he’d been abandoned, and was wondering what would happen if he went hunting for Count Volmar himself when he heard a sudden rush of cheerful voices and sprang to his feet. A crowd of boys in their late teens came ambling into the hall, all of them in blue livery.
These must surely be the missing squires. Kevin watched them in sudden uneasiness, painfully aware that his secluded musician’s life hadn’t given him many chances to spend time with anyone his own age.
A stocky blond boy stopped short, staring at Kevin with bright blue eyes. “Holla! Who’s this?”
“My name is Kevin,” the bardling began, “and I—”
“You’ve got a lute. You a minstrel?”
“No!”
“You seem kinda young to be a Bard.”
The boy’s voice was brusque, but a hint of respect shone in his eyes. For a moment Kevin toyed with the idea of claiming that yes, he was a Bard. But he could picture his Master’s disapproval only too well. A Bard, after all, was always supposed to be truthful. With a sigh. Kevin admitted:
“I’m not. Not yet. I’m apprenticed to a Bard, but—”
“A bardling,” someone said in a scornful voice. “He’s nobody.”
The squires turned away. Blatantly ignoring him, they set about changing their clothes or cleaning their boots, chattering and joking as though he wasn’t even there.
“Did you see me in the tilting yard?”
“Sure did. Saw you fall off, too!”
“The saddle slipped!”
“S-u-r-e it did! Like this!”
