The Sorcerer of the North- Character Reaction

24

"My turn!" Stig announced. Lydia smirked, tossing the book in his direction.

"What is this, a game of fetch?" Halt asked dryly. The Skandian grinned at him.

"Always."

Will performed in the men-at-arms' barracks that evening. It was normal practice for a jongleur to spread himself around. After all, if he were to perform in the main hall every night, the audience there would soon grow bored with his repertoire. Halt refrained from speaking, although Will had a sneaking suspicion that it was taking much to do so. And the soldiers in a remote castle such as Macindaw could often prove to be more than generous. They had little to spend their money on in a small, remote shire like that one. As a result, he could expect to make his purse considerably heavier if they enjoyed his work.

"If they enjoyed his work?" Pauline sent her husband a stern look and he quieted for the moment.

"You know, Halt," Will replied. "Sometimes I wonder what I'd do without you. You're amazing at raising people's moral." His former mentor smirked.

Furthermore, while a visiting entertainer might expect a small cash bonus from the castle lord at the end of his tenure, his chief payment came in the form of shelter, food and accommodation. A performer looking for hard cash would usually find it among the soldiers, or at the local tavern, if there were one.

In addition to all these excellent reasons, Will had another motive for taking himself to the barracks room that night. He wanted to get the men talking, to hear the local gossip and rumors about the forbidding Grimsdell Wood and the black mere. Both Will and Alyss shuddered. And nothing loosened men's tongues like an evening of music and wine, he thought wryly.

Crowley coughed loudly. "That was years ago, Crowley," Halt muttered. "You're being petty."

"And you were still being stupid and yet here we are."

By now, he had become an accepted part of Macindaw life and people would be more likely to open up to him. In addition, the men-at-arms would feel more secure than the country folk who went home each night from the Cracked Flagon to their isolated, unprotected homes and farms. The men here were well armed and relatively secure behind the solid walls of a castle. That, if nothing else, would help to make their tongues a little looser.

"It worked," Will said mildly. Erak grinned.

"Knowing you, you could probably get a King to be talked down from his throne." Duncan was still in the room, and Will cleared his throat, his face burning. He decided it would be better to say nothing.

He was greeted cheerfully when he arrived-all the more so when he produced a large flagon of apple brandy to help the night along. The Skandians grinned. His standard repertoire of country folk songs, jigs and reels was exactly what this audience wanted. And he added a few of the bawdier numbers he had been taught by Berrigan as well: Old Scully's Daughter and a rather coarse parody of The Knights of Dark Renown titled The Knights Whose Pants Fell Down, among others. Crowley smiled fondly at the mention of his old friend, and even Halt's stern face softened. The evening was a success and the coins showered into his mandola case as the hours passed.

At length, he and half a dozen of the group were left lolling around the dying fire, brandy tankards in their hands. He had set the mandola aside.

"You mean the lute?"

"No, I mean your head."

The singing was over for the night and the men were content with that. He had given them good value and now he once again experienced that strange phenomenon where, having performed for an audience for an hour or so, he was accepted into their midst as if they had known him all their lives.