by Dave Duncan
Back at my house, I wrote my letter and sent it over to the justiciar. Soon afterward, at dinner with Lars and Lovise, I faced an unexpected family rebellion.
“I am deeply concerned at the way you keep falling into trances without meaning to,” my wife declaimed. “Suppose you do that when you are riding a horse?”
“Obviously the horse will have to stop and pick me up.”
Humor was not appropriate, as I was quickly informed. I was arguing with two qualified sages, both of whom could quote dangers and precedents.
“That Myrddin Wyllt incantation is Satanic!” Lovise said. “It is taking control of you, and you must stop using it. Stop now!”
“She’s right, Father. You know that it is questionable, and therefore a downward step.” Reaching into his fabulous memory, Lars began to roll off a long list of initially well-meaning sages who had slid unwittingly into darker and darker magic. My ability to argue was limited by the fact that he was quoting instructors I had trained myself with the same examples.
I eventually had to bend my councillor’s oath and reveal a little of what was happening. “The test is not the method but the purpose, correct? The end justifies the means?”
Two heads nodded, but reluctantly.
“I am not doing this for my own benefit. Today I was shown the most serious move yet by King Philip of France against our liege lord, King Richard. His treachery and deceit are appalling. He is violating not only his personal oath of loyalty but also the Truce of God that protects crusaders. If the Pope will not stop him, then we must try. Do you disagree with that?”
Lars said, “Father, let us help you. You must stop invoking the Myrddin Wyllt!”
“I haven’t done so in months. It sends me visions when it wants to.”
“Then let me use it instead and perhaps it will leave you alone for a while. I am convinced that it is leading up to something big, which may not be as innocent as you hope.”
Lars was not a boy any longer; he was a skilled sage, and his opinions must carry weight.
“I will have to ask the justiciar’s permission,” I said. “He can swear you in as my deputy, I suppose. As soon as the roads clear, he is going to Winchester, and he wants me to go with him.” Lars flashed his old grin. “That will make a change from copying incantations, day in and day out.”
Lovise said softly, “I too will enjoy a change of scenery.”
So I was going to Winchester with two babysitters.
Later that day the snow turned to rain, and two days after that the justiciar and his train left Oxford, bound for Winchester, which was still the official capital of England, as it had been in the days of King Alfred the Great. We followed the next day. After a cold and unpleasant journey, we found the castle full, so Eadig made us welcome in the chantry. We settled in to wait upon events.
There was a race in progress, although we were the only people who knew it. On one hand, Philip had to dictate and dispatch his letter to John. It had then to be delivered to him, which was no small feat in the middle of winter, and John had to rush to Paris to do homage, an egregious betrayal of his brother.
On our side, my warning had to reach Queen Eleanor in Rouen, the capital of Normandy, and her reply had to reach us in Winchester. Richard had given her authority over John, so she could even order Walter to arrest him—provided she believed in my prophetic powers. My neck was definitely on the block. I told no one, but I had fears that the race was also a contest between me and Bran of Tara. King Philip, too, must have enchanters in his service.
Early the next morning, the three of us gathered in the room Lovise and I shared, and she chanted the Myrddin Wyllt incantation. Nothing happened, nothing at all. My wife was definitely displeased. Lars took her place on the bed and tried his luck. The incantation had worked for him once before, but this time he saw nothing. We had to assume that this was good news. The Loc hwær reported that John was still in Lincoln.
On our second morning, we gathered in Lars’s room, which was as cramped as a monk’s cell, and he stretched out on his bed to chant the Myrddin Wyllt. After he reached the end and just lay there with nothing happening, my attention wandered.
“Durwin! Durwin, wake up!” That was Lovise shouting, far away. I came back with a start. Had I nodded off? No. Thirsty, I reached for the beaker that we had set ready for Lars. It seemed that old Myrddin’s ghost had chosen me as his disciple and voice, me and no others.
“What did you see this time?” my wife demanded furiously. Anger often masks worry.
“You barely gave me time to see anything!” I thought back. . . . “Queen Eleanor has received the letters!”
Lovise and Lars snapped, “And?” in unison.
“And oh, saints! That lady has a vocabulary like a veteran Brabancon!” I laughed at their expressions. “She is coming. She was shouting for her litter. If I understood her Occitan correctly, she plans to hang a ball and chain on Lord John’s scrotum.”
(For those of you fortunate enough not to have heard of them, the Brabancons are the most vicious and feared of all mercenaries, monsters who kill men, women, children, and old folk without distinction, except that they rape the women before killing them.)
But to cross the Channel in February, a woman of almost seventy? If her ship went down, the traitors would win.
Either Carnonos was an obstinate god or the Myrddin Wyllt was a stubborn incantation. It refused now to respond to anyone but me. If Lovise invoked it, it ignored her. If Lars did, it might or might not respond, but only through me, depending on how far away I was. The other two grew very worried about this, but I just accepted that it worked. As long as we could trust its predictions, it was an incredibly powerful weapon against the two renegades.
A few days later I headed over to the castle to make my regular report to the justiciar. As usual, Walter received me alone, although rumors of Merlin Redux prophesying for him were already circulating.
“The queen has not yet reached Dieppe,” I told him. “If the weather continues to hold, she ought to be here in a less than a week.”
He nodded, frowning. “The sooner the better. A troop of mercenaries turned up in Southampton yesterday, claiming that they were hired by Lord John.”
“Lord John was at Warwick last night.”
Now Walter scowled furiously. “Durwin, you told me yesterday he was still at Lincoln! He could not have ridden to Warwick in one day, not with the roads in the shape they’re in.”
“I think he could, Your Grace. I’ve caught him doing this before. He travels with one attendant, an Irishman named Bran of Tara. I assume that he is a sage. How they do it, I don’t know.” But would very much like to.
“Then he could be in Southampton tonight or sometime tomorrow. He’ll be gone over to France before the queen gets here.”
“Unless we stop him,” I said. “How soon can we get there and start making arrangements?”
The rain had let up the following morning when Lord John rode into Southampton town, possibly the busiest port in England. He headed straight for the castle, followed by a single companion, as I had predicted. The castle officially belonged to the king, but by then most of the constables in the country were in John’s pocket. They might not obey him against direct royal orders, but they would cooperate so far as they could, anticipating a fat bag of gold as a farewell gift, and preferment if Richard failed to return. John rode in unchallenged, dismounted, and ran up the stairs to the keep without a hint that he had covered two hundred miles in a couple of days.
Stable hands had come to hold the horses. John’s attendant, a stocky man with a forked black beard, had just unfastened a fat and obviously weighty saddle bag, when he realized that armed men had closed in around him. Lars was with them, wearing his green cape.
“You are Bran of Tara?” he said.
“What of it?”
“In my office as deputy enchanter general, I arrest you on suspicion of practicing black magic. Come with me and bring that bag with
you.”
Glaring, Bran dropped the bag and raised a hand as if about to cast a spell. Lovise, who had come in close behind him, jabbed a finger in his back and put him to sleep with a single word. It was safer to keep things in the family.
By then Lord John had cheerfully walked straight into the constable’s office and found himself in the presence of the justiciar and me—no constable. We were both seated in the most comfortable chairs I had ever met. I had promised myself some like them.
“Greetings, my son.” Walter extended his archbishop’s ring, so that John had to kiss it, dropping on one knee to do so. “Did you have a good journey?”
“Until now I did.” John rose, glanced around, then slammed the door shut behind him. There was a third seat present, but it was a simple three-legged stool, nothing like the two richly padded seats that Walter and I occupied. That was not my idea. I thought it petty.
John snarled and said, “On your feet, Saxon!”
“Stay where you are, Durwin,” Walter said. “Please be seated, John. The enchanter general and I have some questions to put to you. At the moment this is just an informal inquiry, you understand. It probably won’t have to proceed any farther.”
In the two years since I had seen the king’s brother, he had changed very little—just as dapper, just as arrogant, perhaps a little thicker in the belly and jowls. He put his hands on his hips. “I am sure it won’t, Your Grace. Ask your questions, and I will decide whether or not I will answer them.”
“How is your dear wife, the lovely Lady Isabella?”
John shrugged. “Haven’t seen her in months, and she was never lovely.”
“We have reason to believe that you have been in communication with King Philip of France.”
“Have you really?”
“Have you been?”
“What if I have? We’re on friendly terms, the king and I.”
“He has been spreading vicious lies about your brother, accusing him of terrible crimes. How can you be on friendly terms with a man like that?”
“Richard can be very trying at times.”
We were treading water here, waiting on evidence. If matters were proceeding as planned, my wife and son down in the yard were hastily rummaging through Lord John’s baggage, hunting for incriminating evidence. Unless they brought us some soon, the archbishop and I were going to be in deep trouble. All we had against John was his bizarre ability to travel like a bird, and the only evidence for that was my word against his.
Walter said, “Durwin?”
I took a turn in the lists. “Tell us where you slept last night, my lord.”
John’s contempt flamed into scarlet rage. “What business is that of yours?”
“Black magic anywhere is my business, my lord. I am charged to find it and report it to either the king or the church. I admire your riding raiment. It is very finely styled, and the leather is clearly of excellent quality. Doe skin, is it? Yet it is remarkably splattered with mud and dust for such an early hour. A nobleman on the road would normally have his servants clean it for him overnight. If he lacked servants, his host would provide some. So I am curious to know how far you have come this morning.”
“And you can remain so.” John was starting to display the beginnings of a Plantagenet temper tantrum. His father had been known to chew a mattress in his fury.
“Yes, but to arrive here at Southampton so early? All the way from Warwick!”
He showed his teeth in an animal snarl. “You’ve been spying on me, you lopsided Saxon slug?”
“I know you were in Lincoln until two days ago. Just convince me that your journey here wasn’t aided by Satan.”
He had a hand on his sword hilt. “No, first you convince me that your spying wasn’t.”
Walter intervened. “So, John, you don’t deny that you were in Lincoln two days ago?”
“I refuse to answer lies thrown about by a Saxon witch. I—”
Lars strode in, detoured around Lord John, and handed me a vellum scroll. He nodded respectfully to the archbishop and went out again. I unrolled the parchment. It was fine, soft calfskin, and the surface was totally blank. Why should a man travel with a saddlebag full of blank vellums? I could feel the warding spell on it. Whatever was written there could not be read without the antiphon. I turned it toward Walter, so he could see that we had failed.
Knowing that he had won, John was smirking. “What have you done to my ostler?”
“He has not been harmed,” I said.
“I warned you years ago not to annoy me, witch. I will deal with you later.”
Walter frowned at him. “We’ll have no threats here. Baron Durwin was only doing his duty, and we will find out when you left Lincoln. You will be staying here for a few days, I trust?”
“I have not decided.”
“I do hope that you tarry until your honored mother arrives. We expect her here very soon.”
John guessed my part in this right away, for his anger flipped back to me again, flaring up like oil on a fire. “You are a meddling pest! Stay out of my affairs from now on, for I shan’t warn you again.” He faked a smile at Walter. “I am waiting for the rest of my escort to arrive, Your Grace, and then I am heading over to France to inspect some of my lands there. This is none of your business.” He wheeled around and was gone, slamming the door behind him.
So our plot failed. I hung on to the scroll that Lars had brought me, and later that day I managed to remove the warding on it, revealing a long text written in a language unknown to me. I ran the Algazelus test for evil on it and the entire parchment turned black. That convinced me, but it would not have brought the wrath of civil law down on Bran of Tara, and it was certainly not enough to clip Lord John’s wings.
More of Lord John’s mercenaries arrived over the next few days, but Walter had interdicted all the ships large enough to carry them, at least for a short while. John was still there when Queen Eleanor arrived. She moved at once into the castle and sent for him. Their interview was brief and private, with no one else present except her faithful Amaria. I had foreseen it the previous evening.
Eleanor was seated, while Amaria brushed her hair for her. Her hair, I saw, was white and cut quite short, for she kept it hidden inside her French hood when she was in public. When the knock came, Amaria answered the door and reported, “Lord John, Your Grace.”
“Admit him.”
In he strode. He blinked at seeing his mother déshabille, then bowed low and started to say something.
“Shut up!” she snapped. “I don’t need any of your buttery words. I am ashamed that my womb could ever have spat out such a faithless slug as you. All the oaths that you have sworn, and all the riches your brother has poured out to you, and you stab him in the back at every chance you get!”
John displayed amusement. “Had a rough crossing, did you?” For a long moment they stared at each other, furious mother and insolent son. Then—“Just tell me why you are here,” she said quietly.
“I am on my way to inspect my French lands, Mother. The best fertilizer is the owner’s shoe on the soil, you know.”
“Then listen carefully, Farmer John. If you leave here on a ship, I will confiscate every acre you own in England, every hide of land, every inch! And don’t doubt my power to do so.”
John did not, for he lost color.
“Now get out,” she said, and he went without a word.
I had written to my long-time friend Nicholaa de la Haye in Lincoln Castle, and her reply was waiting for me when I returned to Oxford. She confirmed my spying—John truly had journeyed from there to Southampton in less than two days. I hoped that he would be more careful in future, as long as I was around to watch him. He might well try to arrange that I wasn’t, of course, and I warded our house to repel curses.
In the following weeks Eleanor summoned four successive meetings of the great council and had every member swear a new oath of fealty to Richard. The peace could not last, however, and the news from th
e Holy Land was not good.
One morning I looked out the window and saw summer. By the calendar it was April, but the showers had done, the blossom had fallen, and swallows were frantically snapping up insects to take home to feed their broods. I trotted downstairs and found Lars already at work. We exchanged blessings.
For many months he had been copying incantations onto rolls of silk. I helped him with the proofreading, but it was tedious work for both of us, especially him. The advantage of silk was that a couple of bags could hold spells that would weigh a ton if written on vellum.
“The time has come,” I announced. “We must go.”
He looked at me darkly. “Another vision?”
“No, just a hunch, but it will take us at least two months to reach the Holy Land, perhaps longer if we travel as minstrels. By then the war may be over.”
Lars took up the rag and wiped his pen very carefully. “Father, you have never told me exactly why we are going there.”
“Because I don’t know. I have been shown the two of us serenading an audience of crusaders. You saw us on a ship. I suspect that our exact purpose has not yet been settled, just that we will be needed somehow.”
He nodded solemnly and stood up. “Then we must go for the sake of our souls.” He added innocently, “I must remember to collect some worthwhile sins, for which I will be absolved when I have completed my pilgrimage to Jerusalem.”
The hard part was saying farewell to Lovise. In the early days of our marriage, I had often been absent for long periods. Sometimes she had accompanied me, riding fourscore miles or more in a week, but even when I had to leave her behind, she had never complained. This time she did, because she thoroughly distrusted absolutely anything to do with the Myrddin Wyllt enchantment.
I prevaricated. “We are going to Westminster to see the queen. If she sees no need for us to go farther, then we shall turn right around and come home. All right?”
