Free Three Hearts and Three Lions by Poul Anderson Page A

the bare glance he had had but from a memory which seemed to stretch over many years. “Who is she?”
    “Why—” Hugi rubbed his eyes. “That sounds like ye’ve spied Queen Morgan le Fay. Could it ha’ been hersel’ whom Alfric summoned last nicht from Avalon? Then there’s deviltry abroad for fair.”
    Morgan le Fay! That was it. Holger knew so with a certainty beyond knowledge. And Avalon, yes, he had seen an island of birds and roses, rainbows and enchantment, but where and when and how? “Tell me about her,” he urged. “Everything you know.”
    “Ho, is ’t yon doxy ye noo hanker for? She’s na for the likes o’ ye, lad, nor e’en for Duke Alfric. Cast no yer eyes too high up, lest the sun blind ’em. Or better, lest the moon strike ye mindless.”
    “No, no, no! I have to know, that’s all. Maybe I can figure out why she’s here.”
    “Well, noo... I dinna ken mickle. Avalon lies far, far in the western ocean, a part o’ the world wha’ we’ve nobbut auld wives’ tales aboot here. Hooever, folk know Morgan le Fay is sister to Arthur, the last great king o’ the Britons, though in her the Faerie strain in yon family runs strong and wild. She’s the michtiest witch in Christendie or heathendom, and could belike match hersel’ wi’ aught in the Middle World. Immortal, she is, and a kittle un; none know if she stands wi’ Law or Chaos or only her ain self. ’Tis said she bore off Arthur when he lay grievous wounded, to heal him and keep him against his time to return. Yet could be that were but a sly excuse to hold him from just such a coming back. Och, I’m no gleeful to be under ane roof wi’ her.”
    Still no proof. Morgan might have come here to help Alfric on Holger’s problem, or she might have stopped in on some altogether unrelated errand. But it did look queer.
    A goblin entered the bedchamber. “The good Duke gives a feast for castle servants,” he said. “You, dwarf, are bidden.”
    “Ummm—” Hugi tugged his beard. “I thank ye, nay. I dinna feel so well.”
    The goblin raised his hairless brows. “ ’Twill be taken ill if you spurn the feast,” he said.
    Hugi traded a look with Holger. The man nodded. Maybe this was a device to get the dwarf out of the way, but if so, there didn’t seem to be any means of evading it. “Go on,” he said. “Have a good time.”
    “Aye, so. Take care o’ yersel’ .” Hugi trotted after the goblin. Holger lit his pipe and lay down in the bath which had drawn itself for him, to think. He felt as if he were caught in spider webs. Very delicate, very lovely, but you couldn’t get out. For a panicky moment, he wanted to shout and run.
    He suppressed the feeling. He could do nothing at present but string along. And his suspicions were based on so little. Still—
    A new suit of party clothes was laid out for him. He donned it, the laces and buckles fastening themselves. Hardly had he finished when the doorknob formed into metallic lips and said politely, “His grace the Duke asks leave to enter your presence.”
    “Yipe!” said Holger. Recovering himself: “P-p-please come in.” Evidently slaves, being beneath notice, came and went without asking, while the upper classes respected each other’s privacy.
    The Pharisee entered, his chiseled white visage smiling. “I bring good news,” he said. “I have conferred with numerous of the Powers, and there seems to be an excellent chance of sending you back home.”
    “Why... why... I cannot thank you, your grace.” Holger stammered.
    “’Twill take some time to gather the necessaries for the spells,” Alfric said. “Meanwhile, methinks a special merrymaking is called for. There’s to be an entertainment in Elf Hill.”
    “Hm? Oh, yes. I’ve seen the place.”
    Alfric took his arm. “Shall we away, then? I warrant you’ll have some lusty hours. The elves know how to make a man glad.”
    Holger didn’t feel like an orgy, but had no way to refuse. They went down the