Free A Minstrel’s Quest (The Trouble with Magic Book 4) by B. J. Beach

Let’s hear what this minstrel has to say for himself.”
    The shouting and pushing eased a little and the smith turned his attention once more to Corlin. “Before the reeve gets here to drag you off to the magistrate, tell us how you did it.”
    The memory of his treatment at the hands of the footpads was still clear in his mind, and Corlin had no wish to repeat the experience. Signalling to Otty to stay put, he stood up, limped slowly across the room and rested his backside against a heavy wooden table near the door. The black-smith watched his every move.
    Corlin beckoned. “Let as many in as is safe, and I’ll tell you how it happened.”
    The smith scowled again, studied Corlin’s calm, open face for a moment, then nodded. Lowering his arms he stood aside as the mob, suspicious of this unusual turn of events, pushed into the room. A few meaningful clouts from the smith’s meaty fist kept the more unruly ones in grumbling, shuffling order.
    The smith growled “We’re waiting.”
    Corlin was as good a narrator as he was a minstrel, and he soon had the mob settled and hanging on his words. He left nothing out, telling them everything up to the moment Grumas had removed them from the castle. “The trooper Jouan said that the duke would more than likely go mad, if he wasn’t already. As to how he died, it certainly wasn’t at my hand. I can only think the madness consumed him.”
    He rested his hands on his thighs and waited for the murmurs of conjecture and spontaneous arguments to die down. A gruff voice rumbled from somewhere at the back of the room. “So where’s this trooper that you reckon was there?”
    Another voice, strong and firm came from just outside the door. “Right here. The minstrel is telling the truth. I was with him.”
    Corlin turned away to hide a smile and a sigh of relief as the crowd shuffled grudgingly aside to let Jouan take a step forward. His insignia embroidered cloak, dark grey uniform trousers and black boots spattered with mud, the trooper took two long strides into the room.
    With bodies pressing in on all sides, he jerked his head in Corlin’s general direction. “When master Bentfoot played the duke’s gimalin, a curse was woken...I’m sure you’ve all heard the stories...which caused Ergwyn to utter an evil name. The uttering of that name condemned our beloved duke to death.”
    As the import of Jouan’s words hit home, Corlin suddenly felt very sick. Until now it had never occurred to him that the pursuit of his quest had ultimately brought about the death of the ageing duke. Then he thought of his brother Clies in slavery to Lord Treevers, and for one callous moment, decided it was worth the price if it led to success. He looked up and mouthed “Thank you” as he saw Jouan gazing steadily at him across someone’s shoulder. The trooper gave a brief nod, but his expression told Corlin nothing.
    The shoving and shouting had died down, and to Corlin’s relief the majority seemed to have given him and Jouan the benefit of the doubt.
    Seizing the opportunity, Willem Trewidden stepped round from behind the bar. “Good night gentlemen. Time to go. I’m closing the bar.” He turned on a couple of grumblers. “Well, what did you expect me to do? Have a night of revelry and merrymaking? Get on with you; show some respect!”
    As Willem began to push the door closed, muffling the sonorous note of one remaining tolling bell, Corlin looked across to Otty. “Where did Jouan go?” It was the innkeeper who answered as he slid bolts home. “The trooper? He left just after I started to clear the bar.”
    Otty shrugged, shook his head and stood up. “Corlin, I’m going to bed. It’s the second room on the left.” He sounded tired and dispirited, dragging his feet as he headed for the door to the stairs. The minstrel could feel his own mind going numb, despite everything that seemed to be tearing around inside it. He decided that bed was a very good idea. Not giving a