“Any song in particular?”
“Uh … anything you’d like to play.”
She picked up her harp and set it on her lap. “Maybe something brighter.” Her fingers struck the bronze strings, and they hummed to life.
Merlin’s breathing rose and fell with the melody, but after a few lines Natalenya stopped in midsong.
“Have you ever played?” she asked.
“No, I can’t say that I —”
She slid her chair next to his.
Merlin’s throat closed up.
He dropped his staff on the floor as she placed the harp on his lap. He held its smooth wood, amazed at how little it weighed.
“This is how you play.” Her warm hand touched his and angled it toward the strings.
Merlin plucked them roughly. “Not as pretty as your playing.”
“You don’t have my fingernails, either.” Her laughter filled the room, and the sound felt to him like a refreshing drink from the spring after working in the heat of the blacksmith shop.
Merlin ran his fingertips across the strings and experimented with the notes. The whole harp vibrated into his chest. It would take a lot of work to play a real song.
“You’ve got natural talent,” she said.
“I do?”
She turned her head to listen. “Sure. What song is that?”
“I’m trying to remember … I heard it many years ago.”
“Let me give you my practice harp. It has only ten strings, but you could learn on it.”
Learn the harp? He’d never thought about music. What if he damaged it? “I’d better not. I’m already in trouble with your father —”
“I saw what happened.”
“The wagon’s badly broken, isn’t it?”
“I don’t mean that. I witnessed what my brother Rondroc did to you. I had come to the doorway when I heard shouting. Father won’t listen to me, and … I’ve learned not to cross him.”
“We say in the blacksmith shop, once burned, always careful. I have a few scars to prove it.” He held up his right forearm for her to see.
She hesitated, then reached out … but her soft fingertips touched the scars on his right cheek instead.
He tightened his lips and tried not to pull away.
She traced the long gouges that disfigured his eyelids and ran across his right temple and forehead. “I see you in chapel, but I’ve never asked what happened to your eyes. People talk, of course, but you never know whom to believe.”
“Seven years ago. The memories are painful …”
“They’re faded now.”
“No, I’ll always remember.” He turned away slightly, hoping the subject would change.
“I … I meant the scars have faded. And your long hair covers many of them.” She ran her fingers through his black curls. “You have an honest face, with a handsome nose. When we moved to the village a few years ago, your scars still looked red, but they aren’t anymore.”
He wanted to walk out. He didn’t want to talk with her about this.
“How could Rondroc be so cruel,” she said, her voice trembling, “as to knock you over? Let me look at your scalp.” She walked behind him and gently leaned his head forward, probing the area where he’d hit the rock.
“Just because I’m mostly blind doesn’t mean I can’t take care of myself.”
“It’s a mess … All crusted over. You should get it washed.”
He turned his head away from her. “Is your brother all right? I hope I didn’t hurt him.”
“I saw him pull the knife on you; he deserved the thump.” Natalenya moved across the room. “And your little monk friend was funny!”
“You mean Garth?”
“I laughed when he dumped Dyslan into the hay trough.”
Merlin suppressed his own laugh. “I didn’t know whether to believe Garth, especially after he lied and told me he had permission to borrow the wagon.”
But Merlin couldn’t bring himself to tell her that Garth had said she had given permission. And Merlin had believed it. What a daft slow wit he was. “I should have gone back to verify his story. I really should have.”
Returning to him, Natalenya removed the harp from Merlin’s lap and laid in his hands what seemed to be a flat, lightweight piece of wood.
“Here’s my practice harp. I don’t use it anymore, so please take it.”
He felt two carved posts bending out from the top of the sound box. Shaped like a lyre, the harp had bronze strings stretched over an angled bridge. It was much smaller than Natalenya’s lap harp. “I can’t. Your father …”
“I bought it with my own denarii. It’s not up to him.”
“I just can’t. I’m sorry.” He held it out to her, but she didn’t take it.
A loud voice bellowed from the corridor.
“That’s Father,” Natalenya said. “He’s angry, as always.”
“I need to go.” Merlin found his staff on the floor, stood up, and set the practice harp on the chair.
Natalenya began to say something but stopped.
“What?” Merlin asked.
“Never mind.” She walked with him toward the door. “I’m sorry for all this. I’ll be praying for you.”
Tregeagle’s voice called out, “Lictor Erbin!”
The rough, familiar hand of Merlin’s father guided Merlin to a chair in the great hall where everyone had gathered.
“Where’d you go?” his father whispered.
“Talking. With Natalenya.”
“Garth must have had a hard time.”
Merlin took hold of his father’s arm. “What am I seeing?”
“Tregeagle’s at a table, and there are now three soldiers with him from the fortress. Erbin just entered. He’s kind of short but strong, with black hair and beard. Got a leather jerkin. And a long whip.”
Tregeagle pounded the table. “Hear my verdict.”
Everyone went silent.
“I find Merlin guilty of lying and of assaulting my sons. However, Merlin is found not guilty of stealing the horses and wagon due to the clear confession of Garthwysus … and the meddling of monks.”
Tregeagle scratched a stylus on a parchment as he recorded the decision.
“I find Garthwysus guilty of lying and of assaulting my sons. I also find him guilty of having stolen and damaged my property.”
“I didn’t steal the wagon!” Garth said. “I told you I was just borrowin’ it!”
Tregeagle ignored the outburst and continued writing on the parchment. “And now for restitution. I charge you, Owain, as the blacksmith of the village, with fixing the wagon, along with the aid of your son. The bent axle will need straightening, and much of the wood will need to be replaced. You will procure other craftsmen for their services as required.”
Merlin’s father stood up, an edge in his voice. “Magister, who pays? My son is not responsible.”
Tregeagle stopped scribing. “I said nothing about Merlin’s innocence regarding damaging the wagon. Did not your son ride in it and interfere with the reins prior to the crash? Your son holds partial responsibility, and it is clear why I put you in charge.”
“What of payment? My work is free, but I cannot pay others.”
“The monks must compensate you for some costs. Is there anything Garthwysus owns?”
Abbot Prontwon spoke up. “He owns nothing, Magister, except an old bagpipe passed down from his father.”
“Then it is forfeit.”
“Nooo!” Garth sobbed. “I did nothin’ wrong!”
Merlin reached out and found Garth’s hand. It was sweaty, and the boy gripped Merlin’s hand firmly.
“The abbey is required to sell it and give the money to Owain.”
“You can’t do that. You can’t sell me pipes!”
“Costs beyond that, the abbey must find a way to pay,” Tregeagle continued.
Garth let go of Merlin’s hand and lunged at Tregeagle. Owain and Dybris grabbed Garth’s arms and pulled him
back to his chair.
“Now his punishment for stealing the wagon —”
Prontwon stood. “Is it not enough for him to be parted from his sole inheritance and the only remaining memory of his dead father?”
“No, it is not.” Tregeagle clapped, and the thunder of it echoed in the great hall. “Repair doesn’t pay for thievery. Erbin, what judgment had I decided for the imprisoned Connek?”
Erbin paused. “You know, Magister, that your judgment does not vary for thievery.”
“For the sake of our guests, what is my unwavering judgment?”
“Flogging,” Erbin said smugly.
The hall fell silent.
“In this case, Lictor Erbin, I no longer consider the testimony true regarding Connek’s attempted theft.”
Merlin stood. This was too much. That foul-smelling thief had tried to steal their lamb yesterday, but Merlin and his father had caught him. “Connek is a thief. Everyone in town —”
Tregeagle raised his voice. “Silence!”
Merlin sat down, his lips burning to say more.
“The nerve of you, Owain, tying Connek up and sending him here for my judgment. I now deem that Connek has done no wrong. He is to be released.”
Erbin stepped forward. “I shouldn’t flog him?”
“No. Instead, you will whip the young monk.”
Merlin closed his eyes. This was his fault. He should never have cajoled Garth into walking up the hill past Tregeagle’s house. Garth hadn’t wanted to go that way — he’d been frustrated that the longer path would prolong their coal-gathering task. If Merlin hadn’t convinced him, none of these horrors would have occurred.
Garth blubbered. Prontwon bent over and put his arm around the boy.
Tregeagle continued. “Not the full nineteen lashes, considering his age. Nine should be sufficient to teach a lesson. Guard, go and free the prisoner.”
“Yes, sir.” One of the guards left the room.
Merlin couldn’t believe Connek would be set free.
Prontwon bowed before Tregeagle. “Is there some other punishment you would accept?”
“Gold. It has been the lifeblood of the empire, and I will accept it instead of the boy’s blood. Three gold coins I ask. One for every three lashes, and I will halt the judgment.”
Prontwon sputtered. “Magister, we —”
“Gold!” Tregeagle thundered. “Surely you monks have some squirreled away. Gold!”
“We are a poor abbey. We have not even one gold coin.”
“Then my judgment stands.”
“I beg you, allow me to take this punishment on his behalf.”
Tregeagle pulled Prontwon up while laughing in his face. “You fool. You think I will have it said that I flogged the abbot of Bosvenna? An absurd request, Prontus!”
Guilt and remorse battled a rising anger in Merlin’s heart as he listened to the exchange. Garth had done wrong, but nine lashes? He was just a child.
Abbot Prontwon tried again, “Mercy, Magister —”
“Mercy?” Tregeagle shouted. “The only one whom I would allow to take his place would be him.”
Merlin’s father leaned over and whispered through his teeth, “He’s pointing at you.”
The room spun. Merlin gripped his father’s hand. The thick metal armband his father always wore reflected dizzily before Merlin’s eyes.
Walking forward, Tregeagle mocked, “Have mercy, Merlin. Have mercy on the thief!”
“Sir, I —”
“Yes, have mercy. You who dare hurt my son!” Tregeagle slipped his knife from its sheath and waved it in front of Merlin’s eyes. “Take his place so we can see mercy.”
Silence filled the room, except for the sound of Tregeagle’s clacking heels as he returned to the front.
“I … I accept,” Merlin said.
Garth caught his breath and stopped crying.
Tregeagle turned. “You what?”
“I accept!” Merlin’s voice echoed through the room.
Tregeagle rapped on his table. “So be it. You shall —”
A stifled sob went up from somewhere behind Merlin. A girl’s voice.
Tregeagle hesitated.
Merlin turned his head but could only guess who it was.
His father hissed in his ear, “You cannot. Are you a fool? Garth’s done nothing but make trouble for you.”
“I can’t let him be whipped.”
“Yes, you can. Wash your hands of this rascal!”
Merlin tightened his shoulders. “I’m responsible too, and I won’t abandon him.”
“You’ll be scarred for life. Everyone who sees your back will think you’re a criminal or a runaway slave. It will take weeks to heal.”
Turning to his father, Merlin tilted his head until the light from the open window fell upon his face. “I’m already scarred. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
His father moaned.
“Lictor Erbin, we have a change.” Tregeagle’s voice betrayed no emotion. “Merlin is to be flogged in the boy’s place. Guards, take Merlin outside to the post.”
CHAPTER 5
HUNTED
Merlin stood, handed his staff and dirk to his father, and stepped forward. The guards grabbed him by the arms and thrust him across the great hall toward the light of the open front door. As he was pushed outside, a few raindrops fell on his cheeks. Dark clouds had thickened over the moor, and a shadow soon covered the mountainside.
Behind him, Prontwon’s footsteps caught up to his father’s. “This is not necessary —”
Merlin’s father spat. “My son can make his own daft decisions.”
Years of working the bellows in the blacksmith shop had added strength to Merlin’s frame, and he could break free from the grip of the guards if he wanted to. He could tell Tregeagle he’d changed his mind. But he forced himself to remember Garth’s plight and his own stupidity, and so he submitted as they led him away from the house.
Garth hung on to Merlin until someone dragged him away. “You needn’t do it. Run!”
The guards roped Merlin’s hands to a six-foot post and tore off his tunic to expose his back. His muscles tensed as he waited in the coolness of the evening breeze.
Merlin set his jaw and tried to brace his body.
Behind him, Erbin test-snapped the whip as he chatted with Tregeagle.
Dear God, help me, Merlin prayed.
Crack!
Merlin let out a painful cry, then shut his mouth. A great welt burned from his left shoulder blade down to the middle of his back.
Crack!
Merlin lurched but held his tongue as the gash crisscrossed the previous one.
Ca-chack!
Merlin let out a ragged breath. Another blazing welt, this time lower down. He imagined Erbin leering as he swished the whip around.
Crack!
The whip opened up a long cut straight down the middle of his back, and Merlin’s body recoiled, his legs trembling. All of the other welts opened, and blood wept down his back.
“Lord Jesu … help,” he whispered.
Crack!
Ca-tchow!
Crack!
The strikes felt like hot knives slicing open his flesh, and his knees buckled. Blood flowed down his breeches, and he cried out in great gasps.
Through the haze of a light rain, he heard Prontwon call on God’s mercy.
He could hear his father yelling for Tregeagle to stop.
Tregeagle’s cold voice answered, “You think I am harsh? Count him lucky. The tally will be nine. Do not tempt me to raise it.”
His father said no more.
Merlin shook his head to clear it and pulled himself up. The rain slicked the rope, and he gripped it tighter for the final two strikes. “Father in heaven,” he called, but he kept imagining an adder behind him ready to strike.
Crack!
Ca-wrack!
He dropped to his knees, all his muscles in a spasm. Vaguely, he heard the sobbing of a girl.
&nbs
p; Dybris rushed to untie him. “So sorry …”
Merlin fell to his side, and his father wiped the blood that leaked from his wounds. Merlin felt his head lifted from the ground, and Garth was there.
Tregeagle’s voice echoed through the air. “Get your rabbling son out of here. My coach must be fixed and in perfect condition before it is returned to me. You have two weeks.”
Merlin fought to sit up, the world shifting and swirling around him.
His father’s voice faded until just a sigh remained, flitting away on the wind. His blurred sight exploded with light and colors, all hurtling toward him and pouring into his head. There was green and darker green and blue above that. His vision sharpened until he could see everything perfectly.
Strangely, his back didn’t hurt, and the whipping post had disappeared.
He gaped in shock at the clear sight of tall weeds growing among grayish-red cabbages, whose pungence filled his senses. Sharply defined bees floated on thrumming wings, and a delicately feathered robin chirruped as she paraded through … garden paths? Merlin’s trousers were rolled up, and his knees were pressed into the coolness of the soil.
This was his family’s garden. He had sat here for hours on end throughout the last many years, weeding by touch. The smithy stood to his left, and oaken roof timbers jutted out from its conical thatched roof. The granite rock wall was lichened green. Beyond the smithy squatted his family’s house, smaller, with its low door closed and silent.
Where had everyone gone? How had he come to be here?
The sun rolled across the sky and fled away. Stars appeared, so bright that Merlin gazed upward in wonder. And he could focus on them.
But how can I see?
Then clouds rolled in, hiding the stars. Searing light flashed before his startled eyes. Deafening thunder struck at his ears.
Wolves howled in the distance, and Merlin jerked his head to look at the dark woods across the road — but no creature could be seen through the trees. He put a hand on his dirk and prepared to get up and run.
Then he smelled smoke. Hearing a crackling roar, he turned to see flames leaping from the roof of the smithy. Heat rolled over him and stung his face and arms. He started to rise, pushing off the ground with his hands, but his knees and fingers pressed into a sticky, dark liquid, which clung to him along with clods of dirt. He tried rubbing it off, but he could see now that it was blood.
Merlin's Blade Page 4
