impression that the unreliable, good-natured, and lazy ex-slave had done it. Ethne’s dazzling presence did no harm either.
“Hurrah for King Brutus, Lord of Din Guardi!” shouted the mayor, which was then echoed by the crowd. A feast day was declared, bonfires built, beer kegs rolled out, and unfortunate chickens chased for the festivities. In no time the trappings used for fairs were unpacked. A charming pavilion was erected for King Brutus and (as the townspeople assumed) his future bride, Ethne. Father Severus lost no time in informing everyone that she was a princess.
It was a grand celebration that went on late into the night. Jack worried about Pega and the hobgoblins, but Father Severus said it was better to leave them alone. “The Bugaboo will take care of her,” he said. “I hope her heart has inclined toward him since his near escape from death. She’s a good child and deserves a better fate than she’d receive here.”
But Jack thought about her horror of being underground without the light of the sun.
Chapter Forty-nine
ST. FILIAN’S WELCOME
In the morning they set out for St. Filian’s, leaving Ethne behind in case of trouble. A large crowd of townspeople insisted on coming, which was what Father Severus had wanted all along. “Believe me, the real problem lies with the monastery,” he told Jack as they rode side by side. “Those monks are little better than pirates, and there’s a lot of them. I quite look forward to sorting them out.” He smiled ominously.
“You, sir?” inquired Jack.
“Brutus is putting me in charge. Brother Aiden is the most forgiving man in the world. He’d rescue a drowning rat even if it bit him, and would bless the little brute afterward. Father Swein’s flock needs a different sort of shepherd.”
Jack saw a patch of white beyond a grove of pines on a hill and recognized St. Filian’s. Beyond, to his amazement, stretched a large lake filled with reeds. But where before Jack’s heart had lifted at the sight of beautiful white walls and buildings buzzing with activity, the monastery now seemed curiously dead. “It hasn’t been raided?” he said.
“Not from without,” said Father Severus. The grounds that had been carefully tended were now in squalor. Weeds grew everywhere. A rubbish heap was piled outside a door, and a latrine had obviously not been cleaned for a long time. Two monks—or slaves (it was hard to tell from that distance)—lay snoring on the heap. A pig rooted around them for scraps.
Some of the damage had come from the earthquake. Great cracks ran down some of the walls, but they should have been mended by now. “It’s like the vision I had,” murmured Jack.
“Blow the trumpet, Ratface,” commanded Father Severus. Ratface had been taught the skill at Din Guardi, to muster soldiers. What he lacked in musical ability he made up for with zeal. The trumpet shook the air again and again. The monks jumped up from the rubbish heap and ran into each other in panic. The pig dashed for the woods. Cries came from within.
“That should do it, Ratface,” Father Severus said. The boy grinned and wiped the spit off the mouthpiece.
“Run! Run!” cried voices.
“No! Fight! Fight!” shouted others.
“It’s the Northmen! We’re doomed!” one monk wailed.
“If it were Northmen, they’d be inside by now,” remarked Thorgil. Soon a group of slaves armed with cudgels was pushed out the door by cowering monks.
“Tell Brother Aiden we’ve come to see him,” Father Severus called out over the heads of the unwilling slaves. “We bring the new Lord of Din Guardi.”
“Hurrah for King Brutus!” shouted the townspeople, who were gathered behind. Brutus rode at their head, as befitted a noble lord. He drew Anredden and brandished it wildly. The crowd cheered.
“Someday he’s going to do himself serious harm with that,” muttered Thorgil.
“Forward!” ordered Father Severus, and the crowd streamed around the horses. They were thrilled to be part of such a momentous event, and if they punched a monk or two who had cheated them, who could blame them? Very soon St. Filian’s Monastery was under control. Brutus rode into the courtyard, beaming goodwill on all sides. Jack looked around until he saw a small man appear from the chapel.
“Brother Aiden! Thank Heaven, you’re all right,” the boy cried.
The monk’s face broke into a smile. “Jack! Brutus! I’m so glad to see you! And—and—it can’t be!”
“It is, my friend,” said Father Severus.
“You were taken by the Northmen. You were killed!”
“I was sold into slavery, but there’s far too much to explain here,” said Father Severus. “As soon as I’ve sorted things out, I’d be eternally grateful for a mug of your heather ale. Oh, and I’ve come to take over the monastery. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Such a blessed event has been in my prayers every night!” exclaimed Brother Aiden.
“Good,” said Father Severus with a not-so-pleasant smile as he looked around at the subdued monks, some with black eyes and all looking as repentant as one could wish. “I have a few chores to attend to first.”
The Bard and Father were in the infirmary, the most comfortable place in the monastery. The Bard had added to the collection of herbs hanging from the ceiling, and he was explaining their uses to Giles Crookleg when Jack and Thorgil came in.
“Jack—oh, my son,” cried Father. His leg was still bound in splints and he leaned on crutches, but Jack was delighted to see him looking so healthy. “I thought you’d never return. When Yffi covered the well—” Father straightened up to study Jack. “I swear you’ve grown, though it’s only been a few weeks. And where did you get those clothes?”
“Well done, Jack!” the Bard said heartily. “You’ve accomplished extraordinary things! Ah, Thorgil, we meet again.”
“Dragon Tongue?” the shield maiden said.
“I told you he was alive,” said Jack.
“Who is this lad?” said Father. Jack was flummoxed. All along he’d been going over ways to explain Thorgil. He realized that not only Father, but also the townspeople had taken her for a boy. That solved the problem of her refusal to wear dresses. She was still a Northman, however, and would be killed if anyone found out. And then Father made things worse by asking, “Where’s Lucy?”
The moment Jack dreaded had arrived. “She’s well,” he faltered. “She’s happy.”
“She was never ours, Giles,” said the Bard. “From the very beginning, you knew that. I assume she’s still in Elfland.”
“She didn’t want to leave,” Jack said miserably.
“Not for me? Or Alditha?” cried Father.
The Bard laid his hand comfortingly on Father’s shoulder. “Elves don’t think the way we do. You can break your heart on them and they’ll only laugh and turn away.”
Jack watched awkwardly, not knowing what to do as his father wept. Lucy had never loved him or anyone else. She’d probably forgotten all about him by now.
“Don’t you want to know about Hazel?” said Thorgil suddenly.
Father looked up. “Who are you?”
“I’m Thorgil Olaf’s—”
“That’s quite enough information,” said the Bard. “This is someone Jack met on his travels. Hazel is your real daughter, Giles, and last I heard, she was living with a family of hobgoblins.”
“Hobgoblins!” Father was suddenly roused from his grief. “They’ll eat her!”
“Nonsense. Hobgoblins are good-hearted creatures, and they adore children. I take it Hazel didn’t want to leave either.”
