by Dave Duncan
“Babies do not count very well, Lord King. They can emerge at seven months or ten, whenever they choose. Their mothers have been known to tamper with the data, too. I do have an incantation for the condition you fear, but it is back in England. It requires a single voice, so only the subject and the enchanter need know its purpose.”
I recalled that its marginal notes implied that the singer almost never detected acceptance, and therefore it might be no more effective than plain encouragement, so I continued: “The best treatment is a compound of love and persistence. It is the easiest medicine to take that I know of.”
The Lionheart closed his eyes. “Go, then. And if you breathe one word of this discussion, I will personally cut out your tripes.”
As soon as the king was strong enough to travel, the court moved back to Acre. When I went to see my patient there, I was informed that he was in conference. When next I had a vision I believed was urgent enough to report to him, I was again denied admittance. Finding myself persona non grata, I could only assume that he now so regretted his medical confessions that he could not bring himself to look me in the eye again. As it happened, I was wrong, and he had another reason for avoiding me, but there was nothing I could do. I could not even explain to Lars, who was sorely puzzled.
A few days later I was summoned by the Bishop of Salisbury, Hubert Walter, a close friend of the king, and a nephew of the late Ranulf de Glanville. If you expected a senior priest to be effete and emaciated, he would have disappointed you, for he was a tall and vigorous young man who looked as if he had been carved out of oak. There were a couple of dozen of us standing two-deep around the table, from earls to bishops to minstrels. I was not surprised to see William Legier there; ever since the battle of Jaffa he had been high in the king’s favor. I wasn’t sure in what capacity I had been included—prophet, healer, or minstrel?
Walter began by swearing us all to secrecy. That done, he said, “We are here to plan King Richard’s departure. He has named us as his chosen companions. The two queens will be leaving imminently, but he still has matters to attend to, and must delay his own departure. Sailing so late in the year is always dangerous, and this voyage will be especially perilous. Do any of you wish to visit Jerusalem and wait until the sea lanes open again next year?”
All heads shook.
He smiled. “I expected nothing less. The danger we shall face is that our king has acquired a number of very powerful and unscrupulous foes. Chief among them, of course is Philip of France.
“Nor must we forget the freelance pirates—Moorish, Greek, Saracen, and others. One thing is certain: if anyone can catch King Richard on his way home, Philip will pay a huge price for him, and what will happen after that does not bear thinking about.”
He looked around the glum faces. “Anyone want to change his mind? No? Well, then, you wonder how we will travel? The winds are westerly just now, and no ship ever built can sail through the Gut of Gibraltar against the winds and the current. Nor can any survive the rages of winter in the ocean beyond, so the sea route to England or Aquitaine is out of the question. I do not know which road the king will choose.”
All eyes seemed to turn on me, the king’s prophet, but I did not know either, and did not speak.
There was very little discussion. A sea voyage so late in the year was a daunting prospect in itself, and the political threat was worse.
The bishop dismissed us. “The password will be, May St. Brendan be with you. On the day you receive that, go down to the dock at sunset.”
I lingered, indicating that I needed to speak with him when we were alone. He was obviously reluctant to grant me a private interview, either because he was a bishop and I was a devil-worshiper, or because he knew I was currently out of royal favor. But I persisted, and when the last witness had left, I said, “Your Grace, I have important counsel to offer the king regarding this journey he plans.”
“Then you had better write it down. He does not wish to speak with you.”
“I do not understand. Do you know why I have fallen out of favor?”
“No.” Obviously this was not his fault, and I ought to be glad that I was included in the escort—assuming that I was not to be forgotten at the last minute. I bowed and departed.
On the way out I was accosted by one of Queen Berengaria’s ladies and conducted into her presence. She made me welcome, and we had the usual struggle with dialect and translation. She again thanked me for saving Richard’s life and presented me with a splendid ruby ring, which fitted on my pinkie.
I then begged a favor—that Lars be allowed to accompany her. I assured her that he was very good at curing sea sickness, and she readily granted my wish. My real motive, of course, was that I thought her chances of surviving the journey to England were much better than her husband’s.
When I told Lars of this arrangement, he saw through me right away. “So that at least one of us will survive to comfort Mother in her old age?”
This heavily tanned young man with the sun-bleached hair was not the youth who had left England with me. Crusading had aged him, and me perhaps even more.
“That’s part of it.”
“What has Myrddin Wyllt been telling you now?”
The answer was dusk, a storm, and a ship driven ashore, men fighting for their lives in the surf, myself among them. “Nothing,” I assured him.
“Father!”
“Nothing except this: I have foreseen you arriving at home and greeting your mother, but I am not there. If we leave here together, then the implication must be that I have died on the journey. If we go our separate ways, then perhaps I am merely delayed. You want my oath on this, Son?”
My logic was very shaky, and honor required that he resist, so we had a long argument. In the end I won, and he agreed to accompany the two queens. Thus I took one more step down the slippery slope. When I had implied to King Richard that I knew a cure for sterility, I had not mentioned that I believed it to be useless, so I had not quite told a lie, but what I told my son was outright falsehood. Thankfully, it worked anyway, and when the two queens sailed away on September 29th, Lars was aboard and my burdens felt lighter.
1192 (part 2)
still the king dallied in Acre. Shipping grew scarce as vessels were beached for the winter, and I suspect that this was part of his plan, for the coasts of the Middle Sea swarm with pirates, all of whom must be salivating at the thought of the ransom they could collect if they could just capture the richest king in Christendom—he would not be traveling with a fleet of a hundred ships this time. If he dared wait until there were no other vessels at sea, then their spies could not report his departure.
It was not until October 9th that I received the password. That evening, no banners flew and no bugles sounded as the Lionheart tiptoed out of the Holy Land like a mouse leaving a house full of cats. The ship was another buss, this one having two masts bearing triangular sails, and twin rudders. The king had a small cabin at the stern, so I did not see him actually leaving, but I knew from earlier visions that he wept as Acre slid away into the darkness.
I had forgotten how much I hated sailing. Ships are never still and ever noisy—ropes and planks creaking, waves and sails slapping. The crew claimed that the vessel would carry a thousand men, but I cannot imagine how, for even our small party seemed too many for comfort. We also carried horses in the hold, so we preferred to stay on deck as much as the weather allowed. Even in the Middle Sea, which is usually calmer than the ocean waters around England, vessels rarely ventured far from land, and we ate and slept ashore as often as we could.
Our captain was a Genoese, whose French I could not understand at all, but the real commander was Robert de Turnham, Richard’s admiral, who had done such magnificent work in sweeping Saladin’s fleet off the seas and keeping the crusade supplied.
On the third day, we entered Limassol harbor in Cyprus. Richard had conquered the island on his outward trip, then sold it to the Templars. When they failed to pay him for it
, he had given it to Guy of Lusignan as compensation for losing the throne of Jerusalem. Probably this visit involved money, because I noticed that the king was accompanied by a couple of heavy chests when he came back from wherever he had gone.
From Cyprus we pushed on to Rhodes, sailing against the wind as best we could. We had been fortunate with the weather so far, but autumn had been stormy and kept sending brief squalls to remind us of what it could do. I had no idea where we were heading, and I doubted that either king or captain knew either. God would decide.
We had two notable minstrels aboard, Blondel de Nesle and Sir Conon de Béthune, and in fair weather they would sing, with all the passengers and most of the crew listening eagerly. Sometimes they would invite me to perform, which I was honored to do, and rarely Richard himself would. But he never acknowledged my presence. I worried, but I had to assume that he had some reason for bringing me, and another for ignoring me.
Even from a distance, I saw great improvement in my former patient. Relieved of the stress of running the war, he rapidly reverted to regal form—abrupt, confident, inquisitive, unpredictable, and autocratic. He had a fine musical ear and could compose masterful ballads, or even very humorous songs, as he did once at Beit Nuba in response to one the Duke of Burgundy composed to mock him. You could never be quite sure with Richard when he was being humorous, for he could also be deadly, like most kings.
We bypassed the Aegean Sea, although I had secretly hoped that we would turn north and head for Byzantium, no longer ruler of half the old Roman empire, but still the world’s greatest city. We didn’t, but early in November we arrived at Corfu, an island off the west coast of Greece that is officially ruled by the Byzantines. In practice its dock area was a boiling pot of every race and nationality from Spain to Outremer and England to Egypt. Richard went off with an armed escort and the rest of us pitched in to help unload the horses so the poor brutes could see the sun again. Passengers drew the line at helping with the mucking out the hold, though.
I never learned who Richard visited, probably several people, for it was almost dark when he returned. By then water casks had been refilled, victuals purchased, and the four-footed cargo had been reloaded—unhappily.
At dawn we set out again, heading roughly westward, as if bound for Italy, but the winds were erratic, so we made little progress. One evening, as I was hanging over the rail wondering whether I would feel better or worse if I did lose my dinner, who should set his arms alongside mine but William Legier. It was entirely in character that William never got seasick. He would regard that as unforgivable weakness.
“So what do you foresee, Merlin Red Duck?” he demanded with loathsome joviality.
“Too many things.”
He gave me a quizzical glance. “Good or bad?”
“Bad, mostly.”
“Where is the king headed?”
Perhaps it was the queasiness in my stomach, but I forgot discretion and snapped at him. “How should I know? I haven’t spoken to him in weeks.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because he refuses me audience. I am out of favor for some reason.”
“But you could advise him?”
“I could certainly warn him of disaster if he stays on this course.”
“Stay right here!” William told me, and marched off to beard the Lionheart in his den. I doubt if any other man aboard would have dared do what he did—or survived doing it, whatever it was. Nobody confronts kings! All I know is that he came skating over the rocking deck a few minutes later and careened into the rail beside me.
“The king will see you now.”
When I tried to protest, he took me by the scruff of the neck and propelled me in the right direction.
“Don’t try to kneel! Sit there.” King Richard pointed to the bunk, where he would have been short of headroom, and settled himself on the solitary chair, which was lower. I had never seen inside the royal cabin before. It was tiny, especially for a man of Richard’s size. He poured two beakers of wine and handed me one. I accepted it, although my belly roiled at the sight of it.
He said, “Sage Durwin,” then took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Baron Weldon tells me that you have news for me. I admit that I have been neglecting you of late.”
I muttered something as tactful as I could fashion. Royal apologies are so rare that there are no rules for dealing with them.
He smiled bitterly in the flickering lamplight. “At our last meeting, you told me I had won. You said that all I need do was wait until spring and Saladin would be gone, his empire crumbling into pieces. What you didn’t know, but I did, was that I could not stay until Easter as I had originally planned. I was out of money, and the army was dwindling as men gave up and went home. The French refused to cooperate in any way, although they expected me to cover their expenses there—while they continued to spew out vicious lies about me, accusing me of taking bribes, betraying the cause by dealing with the heathens, having people stabbed or poisoned. They were even denouncing you as a devil-inspired witch. I absolutely had to leave before winter! Saladin was in much the same predicament. His emirs were tired of the war, threatening to take their men and go home. But I had to have an armistice to take away with me, so that in two or three years I can come back and try again.”
Return! I had never imagined anything like that. He had bled England white to finance one crusade. He had showered money like rain to fight his campaign—kings never count costs. Now he intended to do it all over again? Nor had I ever been able to understand why my prophecy about Saladin’s death should have made me so unwanted. Kings think in strange ways. I said nothing and tried not to watch the wine swilling back and forth in my beaker.
“So?” the king said. “What prophecies do you have for me tonight, Lord Merlin?”
I looked him straight in the eye, which is a breach of courtly etiquette, and asked him a direct question, which is another. “Where are you heading now?”
He frowned but answered civilly enough. “To the coast of France, west of Marseilles. There are many little ports I could land at. The shores of the Middle Sea are not far from my duchy of Aquitaine. Count Raymond is a vassal of mine. He has done homage to me for his county.”
“Perchance he has, Lord King, but he is now in connivance with King Philip. I have seen them together, drinking toasts to your destruction. Count Raymond was boasting that he has set guards on every point at which you might land. And Philip swore that, once Raymond handed you over, you would never see the sun again.”
Richard’s glare chilled my blood. “You swear this?”
“I swear it as I swore to you of Jaffa, and Tell al-Khuwialifia! Toulouse means death for you, Lord King. Philip will lock you up until you die, an event that he may hasten by losing the key.”
It is not unknown for kings to starve prisoners to death. Even Richard’s father sometimes indulged in such an execution, although he did not normally favor barbarities. And Richard’s great-grandfather, Henry I of England, locked up his own brother for 26 years, until he died—childless, of course, so that Henry could inherit his dukedom.
King Richard sighed. “We were good friends once, Philip and I.”
Not now, though.
As though he had heard me thinking, the king said, “But not now. He has not merely broken his crusaders’ oath, but another oath, which we swore together, not to molest each other’s lands until we were both home again. His hatred of me has become a madness, a canker of the brain. He has attacked our dukedom of Normandy. He has been spreading lies all across Christendom: that I tried to poison him when he was in Outremer, that I paid the Old Man of the Mountain to have King Conrad assassinated, that I accepted a huge bribe from Saladin not to attack Jerusalem, that at the end I poisoned the Duke of Burgundy, and so on. Worst of all is the bitter, bitter truth—that the huge effort and expense put into the crusade has failed to recover the Holy City, and I was its leader, the traitor who would not even lay siege to it.”
He began to rise as if he wanted to pace, but then he remembered that he could not even straighten up in the cabin, and sat down again.
“If Toulouse is out, then I must sail to Italy. That is how my wife and sister were planning to go. They were to proceed to Rome and seek protection from the Pope. I shall follow. The Pope, certainly, must respect the Truce of God.”
Ha! Although the current Pope was not the one Richard had so grossly insulted on his way out to Outremer, the Vatican has the longest memory in the world. Besides, Pope Celestine was close to ninety and well past his best.
“And where from there, Lord King? The northern half of Italy is ruled by the German Emperor. He is another who has sworn a treaty with Philip, your foe. They agreed that the Truce of God does not apply to you, that you must be put on trial for all those imaginary crimes you just mentioned—murder, treason, and so on—and that the Truce of God cannot shield a traitor. I have seen them shaking hands on it.”
The Lionheart scowled, but he nodded. “Aye. Henry is another of my enemies, because he claims to rule the island of Sicily, and I befriended King Tancred when I was there.”
There was a pause, while I wondered if I was about to be thrown overboard. When the king spoke again, his voice was louder and harsher.
“God’s legs! Must you croak like a raven all night, Merlin Redux? Have you no good news for me at all? Where do you suggest I go?”
The air was icy. I wondered if the real reason he had denied me audience for so long was just that he feared what dismal future I might reveal.
“King Philip boasts that you cannot set foot anywhere between Spain and Byzantium without falling into his hands, Lord King, but if he is watching the ports and harbors, you may escape him, for I foresee a shipwreck in my own future, a vessel driven aground in shallow water by a mighty storm. Many men will make their way to the beach, so I do not believe that the death toll will be high. On such a night no one will be watching for a king’s landing. I prophesy that you will wade into Christendom unseen, not stroll down a gangplank to be arrested.”
