THE FROG AND THE GROG
by
Christopher Stasheff
Copyright 2011
The evening was drawing in when the minstrel came into the inn. I could tell his trade by the sackcloth bag slung across his back with the slender neck sticking out of it—clearly a lute. When my barmaid Jocelyn asked what he would have, he told her, "A pint and a half."
Curious, I took the two tankards over to the man myself and set them in front of him. "A penny and a farthing, traveler."
"An honest man is a prize." The minstrel took the coins from his scrip and laid them on the table. "Not many travelers on a winter's night?"
"Not much company," I agreed, "though you seem to be expecting some tonight." I nodded at the second tankard—for I must own, I was curious.
"It will go un-drinken," he told me, "in honor of Cadavan, who's no longer with us—for when he travelled the roads like me, he liked his ale."
"I'm sorry for your loss. Who was Cadavan?"
"Cadavan was a giant frog."
"Really!"
"Well, he was when I met him. He's a price now—or regent to one, at least. Of course, I didn't know he was a wizard at the time."
"No, you don't expect wizards to turn themselves into frogs." I felt rather odd hearing myself speak of it so nonchalantly. "Why did he?"
"He'd grown tired of people coming to him for help," the minstrel said, "cures, and love potions and suchlike—so he changed himself into a frog and took to the roads. It wasn't until he'd had his fill of his holiday that he tried to change himself back into a man—and couldn't."
"A spell gone wrong?"
"No, more of an oversight. Frogs can't talk, you see, so they can't chant spells."
"So he had to stay a rather unlikely traveling companion for a minstrel."
"Say rather that I was an unlikely traveling companion for him," the minstrel said. "Of course, I didn't know he was a wizard, only that he'd saved my life."
This was becoming more and more interesting. I sat down and called, "Jocelyn, bring dinner for our guest and an ale for me, would you?"
She did, with one for herself, and sat with us as the minstrel explained, "I always have a half-pint beside me when I drink, to remember a good friend."
"And in case he should come hopping in the door to join you?" After all, he hadn't said Cadavan was dead. "I take it his wanderlust was sated?"
"Something like that." The minstrel's eyes all for Jocelyn, and perhaps it was the desire to look well in her eyes that moved him to say, "But he has to run the kingdom now, and that doesn't give him much excuse to travel."
We both frowned, puzzled, then stared. "You mean our kingdom, Ustared?"
"Sadly so," the minstrel sighed. "You can see I've lost my traveling companion." He shook his head. "And to think all he wanted was to turn himself back into a man!"
"You mean he didn't intend to depose the usurper?"
"Not a bit," the minstrel said, "but the only wizard who could undo his frog-spell was Monahere, Prince Edmund's tutor, and the usurper had cast Monahere into the dungeon with the prince."
"So Cadavan had to free Monahere in order to become a man again?"
The minstrel nodded.
"How did he do it?" Jocelyn asked.
"The slow way," he answered. "He came in through the drains. After all, a frog had no fear of water, and what was a forbiddingly tight fit for a man was quite roomy for a frog." By now, the minstrel was in full storyteller mode, and he continued his incredible story about how Cadavan the frog had found Monahere in the dungeons, who turned Cadavan back into a man with a shout of triumph.
"A shout?" I asked. I admit, as his story grew more and more fantastical, I grew more and more skeptical. "That must have brought the jailer in a hurry! Not to mention the guards."
"Yes." Joceylyn frowned. "How could he do all this without a jailer coming to crush him?"
"Ah." Aelwyn rubbed a finger beside his nose. "Well, that was another story. They were, you see, somewhat indisposed."
"The guards?"
"Everyone in the whole castle," Aelwyn said. "You see, before he went looking for the drains, Cadavan sent me up to the gate with a keg under my arm and my lute on my back. The usurper was even then sitting down to dine with all his sycophants among the counts and barons who'd aided him in deposing the prince—not so hard, for the regent—and he was glad enough to see a minstrel, but even gladder to see one with a keg of brandywine. The steward took a taste of it and declared it fine, so he took me and it to the duke. He was delighted, the usurper, and took my keg from me and shared it out to all his cronies while I sang for them, tales of adventure and battle, while the aroma of that brandywine floated all through the castle. I changed to comic songs with just enough of a scurrilous edge to amuse them all without offending the ladies, and they laughed long and hard—but of course, they'd had a few sips of that brandy. No one could resist it—sentries came down off the wall and jailers up from the dungeon, even cooks from the kitchen, and the duke was in such a state from his cups of brandywine that he paid no heed but let them drink."
"One small keg?" I frowned. "How could it serve so many?"
"Ah." The minstrel nodded. "You noticed that part—but after a few swallows, none of them did. It was Cadavan's keg, of course—and, like all wizard's tools…"
"It was enchanted!" Jocelyn said.
"Exactly. I didn't know it at the time, of course, but the keg followed the frog around, and the liquor inside would become whatever he needed to drink. And believe me, I'd never seen a frog drink ale before, yet alone that much!"
"I imagine so," I said, suspicious of this enchanted keg so convenient to his story. "But how could Cadavan change the liquor into brandywine—something he wouldn't himself drink, since he wasn't even at the feast?"
"Because a liquor that would stupefy all in that castle was what Cadavan needed then," the minstrel explained. "What kind of drink it was I can't say, though even to me its scent was so alluring that I could scarcely resist it. Fortunately, the line at its spigot was so long that I never had a chance before the usurper fell asleep, and his whole court with him. Then the guards began dropping, measuring their lengths on the floor to snore. The last two in line hadn't tasted the brew yet, and they cried out in alarm—but they never expected to see a minstrel swing his lute at their heads."
"You broke your lute?" Jocelyn asked, wide-eyed.
"There was no time to seek anything else," the minstrel said with a sigh, "and it was in a good cause. Cadavan gave me another, when it was all done."
"What was left to do, with the whole court asleep?" I asked.
"Not a great deal," the minstrel said. "I took the strings from my lute and bound the duke's hands behind him, then those of his advisers. I took the laces from their drawers and bound others with them, then took theirs to bind more. I worked in a fever of haste, I can tell you, for I'd no idea how long they'd be asleep."
"But they didn't wake?"
"They were still asleep when Cadavan and Monahare came up the stairs out of the dungeon with the prince, and that was all that mattered. Mind you, Monahare had been surprised enough when she saw who the frog changed into—and delighted that a friend was on the other side of the bars, one who could set her and the prince free.
"Mind you," the minstrel continued, "I had no idea who he was, at the time. I know only a naked man ran into the great hall and snatched a robe from the nearest baron. I looked up in shock, thinking I'd missed one, but he looked about at all the snoring bodies, then looked at me and said, 'Well done, Aelwyn!' "
"And who is Aelwyn?" Jocelyn asked, interrupting the tale.
"Why, I am, of course!" The minstrel looked surprised, then abashed. "How rude of me, I forgot to introduce myself!" He stood and held out his hand to me. "Aelwyn Chanter, wandering minstrel." I hadn't yet made my mind up about the man yet, but I shook his hand just the same. He held out his palm to Jocelyn as well, but when she extended her hand, he bowed and gently kissed her knuckles. Jocelyn bushed prettily and look down demurely, of course, and didn't miss the chance to bat her eyelashes as well. I suspected this minstrel had come to my inn in search of a warm bed as much as a warm meal.
"So there I was," Aelwyn continued his tale, "caught red-handed in the great hall, tying up the sleeping royal court, with a stranger who knows my name! 'Who the blazes are you?' I said. Well, he looked confused for a moment, then smiled and said, 'Ribbit. Ribbit, ribbit!' "
I admit even I laughed at that. If this wizard Cadavan was a real person and not the figment of a minstrel's imagination, then he had a fin sense of humor. Aelwyn continued the story, telling of how they'd dragged the usurper and his court down in to the dungeons and locked them in cells. "Sure enough, they didn't wake until dawn, though they didn't see it," he finished. "They came to with aching heads and bound hands to find themselves piled in the dungeons—and there was deal of angry shouting then, I can tell you."
"But so many!" I said. "Couldn't they have broken the bars?"
"Perhaps, but the castle was filled with loyal soldiers by then—Monahare found them by magic and together, she and Cadavan called them back."
"So you helped him depose the usurper and restore the prince!" Jocelyn's eyes glowed.
"It makes a fine story, at least," I said quickly, "and the whole kingdom has heard of a wizard who threw out the usurper and restored the little king to his throne, although we assumed it was his tutor. But if it was really Cadavan, why didn't he leave once he was a man again? Why stay?"
"He couldn't be sure the lad would be safe," Aelwyn explained, "not with only one wizard—but he and Monahare together could hold off an army."
"Then she should have ruled for the Prince," Jocelyn said.
"Should have, but couldn't," Aelwyn told her. "It's a big job, too much for one person, and she needed help. Oh, Cadavan was all for striding out into the night and leaving the governing of the land to her, but she wouldn't hear of it, accused him of deserting her. So he stayed in the castle, helping run the kingdom until the barons could gather."
"But Cadavan is a commoner!" I protested. "How could the barons stand to see him lifted above them?"
"Oh, I suspect they all knew they'd fall to fighting among themselves soon enough," Aelwyn said, "and none wanted to be so clear a target as Cadavan had become. I expect they'll fight it out among themselves, then the winner will come back to slay Cadavan." His grin turned wolfish. "Whoever does that has a nasty surprise in store."
I didn't believe for a minute that this lowly minstrel had been friend to a wizard-king, but his tale worked all too well. His attempt to impress Jocelyn had succeeded; she stirred in her chair only slightly, but she seemed to glow now, and the minstrel's eyes glowed back. After all, she was a lovely lass, with great dark eyes and full lips and tumbling dark brown hair that made a man want to run his fingers through it. The first lines had appeared at the corners of her eyes, though, for she was past her first youth and unlikely to find another husband.
Well, I shouldn't say "another," for we'd learned after the first had left that he'd been married twice before and had never divorced. He walked away from Jocelyn and her dower farm three years before, though, leaving her to till the land alone, which was too much for one alone, or to scrape a living as best she could—so she'd rented the land to a neighbor and come to work for me. My wife had died the spring before, and we'd always been fond of the lass, ever since she was a slip of a girl with her thumb in her mouth and her eyes huge, hiding behind her mother's skirts. If only the old dame had been with us still, to hide her from lustful lads! But she'd died three months before Jocelyn's soldier had come marching into town, and her father died not long after, leaving her all the more susceptible to a handsome face and honeyed words. The soldier had claimed his prize, both in woman and in land, and tilled both one season—but the parching sun had burned his crop and Jocelyn had proved more fertile than the land, so she'd woken one morning to find her soldier gone—if a soldier he'd truly been.
Now here she was, about to throw herself at another stranger with a voice of melody and hungry eyes. She had a knack for picking the wrong ones—or so I thought.
There was, of course, the chance that he was only spinning her a fable—and if that was so, it would be better to expose it quickly and show Jocelyn his true nature. After all, I'd hosted a roadside inn long enough to have seen several minstrels come through, and they usually tried to trade songs for ale. That he hadn't showed only that this troubadour played a more subtle game. That, or was honest… but if he had been, would he have been tramping the roads?
So I asked, "Would he repudiate you, then, if he saw you again? For surely, those who win to high office will disdain those they once knew."
"Not Cadavan." Aelwyn lost his smile, and his eyes flashed danger at me. "No man could ask for a more loyal friend! But a fellow grows weary, hanging about a royal court wearing finery and eating of a friend's charity, and the simple fact was that there was no work for me there, no purpose. I told Cadavan that, so he sent me out to walk the roads and see how his governing worked in practice—if the crops grew and the people prospered."
Jocelyn frowned. "A weak excuse, I'd say."
"An excuse to make sure I had money in my pocket and an illusion that I might be useful," Aelwyn agreed. "Oh, I knew the charge for what it was, but I could only be grateful to my friend for saving my face."
"He was sad to see you go, though?"
"Aye, for I was the one friend there he could be sure was true," Aelwyn's eyes darkened. "That's why I stayed as long as I did. But a fellow can idle about for only so long."
News to me, for wasn't that a minstrel's life—idling? But Jocelyn seemed to understand, for she said, "Do you seek your fortune, then?"
"Alas, I know not what I seek," Aelwyn's lips said, though his eyes told her he'd found it. "Betimes I think I only while away the days until Cadavan has real need of me again."
"A wizard, in need of a minstrel?" I stared.
"He did indeed, once," said Aelwyn, "for he hadn't thought it through, you see—this changing shapes, and once transformed to a frog, he was trapped in that form. He told me later that turning himself back into a man required speech, that he had to chant a magic phrase, but all he could manage as a frog was a croak."
"So once the wizard croaked, he was gone to this life?" Jocelyn asked, eyes wide.
He saw, and his eyes turned wolfish again. My heart twisted with pain for her—she was drinking up every lie he gave her. I tried to show her the fable he was spinning; I tried to expose him by asking, "How could a minstrel aid him, then?"
"Oh, any man would have been protection enough for a frog," Aelwyn said. "I could scare away foxes and falcons, after all—and if boys or bandits sought to make him an object of sport, I could fight then."
"Could you win against five or six, then?" I asked, hoping he would spin a lie so outrageous as to be clear.
"No, but I could fight them," Aelwyn said. "At the worst, I could hold them long enough for him to escape—and there were still a few spells that seemed to work by croaking."
"Were there truly!" I made my disbelief clear.
"What kind?" Jocelyn asked.
"Well, the keg, for one," Aelwyn said. "It went with us."
"Went with you?" I couldn't believe that. "How can that be? Floated behind you down the road?"
"No, wherever we stopped for the night, it was there before us." Aelwyn shrugged. "I don't pretend to understand it—I'm not a wizard. But there it was."
I felt weak with relief; the man was nothing but a liar—or, to give him his due, a minstrel with a wild story to amuse us. To think I had believed him!
Jocelyn still did, though. She asked another question, and as Aelwyn answered it, his eyes did their best to drink up hers. She was worse, staring at him besotted. I sighed as I rose and went back to the kitchen to make sure the dinner had not burned in the warming oven, and to begin cleaning up; with two so young as they, nature would take its course, and there was little an old fellow like me could do to prevent it.
However, I didn't expect the course to be run so quickly. I went back to the common room before I went to bed, to make sure Aelwyn was comfortable before the hearth, but the room was empty. Hoping he had gone off into the night, I went up to my bedchamber—but as I passed Jocelyn's room, I heard giggles and baritone chuckles, then a gasp of pleasure. Flinching, I fled to the shelter of my bed.
* * *
The next morning, they fair made me sick, for Aelwyn was up as early as she to share her breakfast while the world was still dark outside, still laughing softly at her sallies and returning them, his eyes still gobbling hers up, his hand touching hers whenever he could. I doubt he tasted a mouthful of the food.
Jocelyn was no better, gazing at him with calf's eyes, huge and brown, her laughter musical.
Then the sun rose and so did she, clearing away the dishes and rebuking Aelwyn when he tried to help her, saying he'd break half the crockery in the kitchen. She was turning away when the door burst open.
They came marching in, half a dozen soldiers in the king's livery, and the sergeant clapped the minstrel on the shoulder. "Aelwyn Chanter, I arrest you in the king's name!"
Jocelyn cried out in dismay as she whirled; crockery flew from her tray and smashed. Aelwyn rose, face pale and strained—but a different Aelwyn then we'd seen the evening before, for somehow he seemed bigger, even menacing, his every gesture a threat. "Why would Cadavan send you after me?"
"Master Cadavan, to you—and you can ask him yourself, if his judge doesn't clap you in irons first!" The sergeant snatched up the lute in its bag.
Aelwyn shouted alarm as he lunged for it, but two soldiers caught his arms and held him.
"Come along, now," said the sergeant, "or I'll break it."
The look Aelwyn gave him was pure hatred, and seeing the latent murder in his eyes, I was glad he wasn't staying—but Jocelyn cried out in protest.
The sergeant gave her a knowing look. "Like that, is it? Well, a woman should know better than to take up with a musician."
"I was going to stay." Aelwyn's voice was thick with anger. "Stay and farm."
"No longer. Come, or hear the sound of splintering wood."
Aelwyn came, stiff-legged, the two soldiers keeping pace with him. At the door, he cast one looking back at Jocelyn, so filled with naked longing that she keened with heartbreak.
Then he was gone, and she sank to the floor, weeping and calling his name.
I fell to my knees beside her and gathered her into my arms. She wept on my shoulder, sobbing as though her heart would break, and I crooned and soothed as best I knew how. "There, lass, there. You know he would have gone away sooner or later. Best it be now, before..."
"I don't care!" Jocelyn cried, tears in her eyes. "I want a babe, and I'll take it where I can get it! If I can't trust any man as a husband, I'll take one who won't stay! He's handsome and charming, not a lout like the lads about here—and if he won't stay, he won't try to rule me, either!"
I would have been glad to oblige her, had I been as young as Aelwyn—but I knew she'd have found me as much a lout as any of the plowboys who came into our common room for their daily pint at the end of the day—but more to josh with Jocelyn and stare when they thought she wouldn't see. She took their flirtations in good part but didn't return them.
Now she did.
Unworthy thought it was, I found myself wondering how the minstrel had persuaded the soldiers to come in the morning and "arrest" him. I didn't tell Jocelyn, of course.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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