by Chris Tookey
“Ah. You may not have heard. Buzzard is no longer with us,” said the Queen. “And he left no forwarding address. However, Osprey…”
“I was not referring to my fellow wizards, Your Majesty,” said Merlin. “I have a little something I would like to discuss with Mrs Scraggs.”
“Really?” said the Queen, as if she could not imagine anything that Merlin might have in common with her bad-tempered, one-legged cook.
“No need to accompany me,” said Merlin, as one of the bugbear guards stepped forward to guide him. “I know where I will find that estimable lady.”
30
Mrs Scraggs’ Wooden Leg
In which Wyrd demands a few straight answers
Wenda was scurrying around the kitchen, making preparations for the evening banquet. Mrs Scraggs dozed gently on her favourite stool. Wenda looked up as Merlin swept confidently into the room.
“Ah, Mrs Scraggs!” boomed Merlin, as though he were greeting a long-lost friend.
Mrs Scraggs awoke with a start and fell off her stool.
“You gave me a shock,” she grumbled, as Wenda helped her to her feet.
“My apologies,” said Merlin. “I did not wish to alarm you. But unless my memory has been playing tricks with me, you have a boy here. You may recall that I left him with you several years ago.”
“Oh, he’s still here,” said the old cook. “Useless, he was. But the King seemed to like him. And Osprey’s been training him up to be a gentleman.”
“Really?” Merlin said. “I must say that Osprey is not the first magician I would think of when attempting to impart gentlemanly ideals to the young, but there you are. Perhaps I am out of touch.”
“Do you remember me?” asked Wenda.
“Have we met?” inquired Merlin politely.
“I was the little girl who slept in the kitchen,” said Wenda.
“Ah yes. Over there,” said Merlin, pointing to Wenda’s alcove. “Brenda, wasn’t it?”
“Wenda.”
“Ah yes, Wenda. Delighted to see you again.”
“Do you still think I’m going to die?” asked Wenda.
“We are all going to die,” said Merlin, affably.
“You told me I was going to die before my eighteenth birthday,” said Wenda.
“Did I really?” said Merlin, scratching his head.
Wenda felt her chin quiver. She hoped she wasn’t about to cry.
“Don’t get upset, dear,” said Mrs Scraggs. “Half these wizards don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“That’s possibly true, Mrs Scraggs,” said Merlin, “but if you look at it another way, that means that half the wizards in the world do know what they’re talking about.”
“I’ve just turned seventeen,” said Wenda. “Two weeks ago.”
“Congratulations,” said Merlin, scratching his head, “but I can’t for the life of me remember what I told you.”
“It was something about bleeding to death in bed,” replied Wenda.
She could feel her bottom lip quivering but was determined not to show the wizard that she had taken his prophecy to heart.
“If you say so,” answered the magician, affably. “In that case, ah, you’d better make good use of the time you have left.”
Wenda couldn’t prevent tears from welling in her eyes. She turned away as Wyrd burst into the room.
“Wenda!” cried Wyrd. “You’ll never guess who’s just arrived! It’s…”
Wyrd’s voice tapered off as he recognised that something was wrong with Wenda, and Merlin was already in the room.
“It’s all right, Wyrd. I can see him,” said Wenda, sniffing as she returned to stir, the cauldron. She threw in some herbs from the table and watched as her friend and guardian met for the first time in years.
“There’s your boy,” said Mrs Scraggs, pointing at Wyrd.
“Excellent!” exclaimed Merlin, striding over to give Wyrd a hearty slap on the back. “My, how big you’ve grown!”
“Well,” said Wyrd, with a hint of tetchiness, “that’s hardly surprising. It’s seven years since you last saw me.”
“Good heavens! Is it really? Doesn’t time fly?” said Merlin. “To tell you the truth, I’ve been terribly busy up north. I’ve been trying to help the High King Vortigern unite Albion.”
“Oh yes?” responded Wyrd, coldly. “That must be interesting work.”
“Fascinating,” said Merlin, who was as usual impervious to sarcasm.
“Is that why you wrote the book about Theodosius?” asked Wyrd.
“In many ways, it is,” said Merlin. “I wrote it to warn future rulers about the perils of bigotry and tyranny.”
“I know,” said Wyrd. “I had no idea the Roman Empire was so cruel.”
“Well, not all the emperors were mad,” said Merlin, “at least not at the beginning. But power corrupts, you know.”
“As with your friend Vitalinus?” asked Wyrd.
Merlin looked around to make sure he could not be overheard.
“Sadly, yes,” he admitted. “I gave him my book on Theodosius, and he regards it as a handbook on how to govern. As do his two sons. Not at all what I intended. But I’m glad you seem to have got the point.”
“So you are, in effect, helping a savage and bigoted tyrant?”
“For the moment I suppose I am,” confessed Merlin. “But it can’t be helped. Do you know that until Vortigern came along, there were no fewer than thirty-two kings in Albion, many of them laying claim to the same pieces of land, and totally disunited? No wonder the Saxons, Jutes and Angles were capturing territory with such success.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Wyrd, interrupting him. “I know that I must rank extremely low on your list of priorities, but can you tell me yet who my parents are?”
“Ah,” said Merlin, with a grimace, “did I say I would?”
“Yes. You also said you’d try and find out who wanted to have me killed.”
“Did I?” said Merlin. “Dear, oh dear. Is there anything else I should have done?”
“You said you’d tell me some day who I am.”
“Well, that’s easy enough,” said Merlin, “you’re you!”
“I know that,” said Wyrd. “What I mean is: where do I fit in? Was I highborn or lowborn? Am I Celtic? Roman? Saxon?”
“Does it matter?” asked Merlin.
“It probably mattered to whoever sent those bugbears to kill me.”
“Good point,” said Merlin. “But sometimes it’s better not to know things, the knowledge of which would only cause one to regret that one knew it, if you follow me.”
“Not completely,” said Wyrd. “And what about my early life? Did I do something terrible to get myself nearly killed like that, or was I just an innocent victim?”
“Yes, I can see how that sort of information might be of interest,” said Merlin, “but isn’t it better treated as water under the bridge?”
“I thought you might know,” said Wyrd, disappointedly.
“Oh, I do know,” said Merlin encouragingly. “It’s just that there’s a time and a place for such revelations, and this isn’t it.”
Wenda made a small noise of disapproval. It was midway between “Tuh!” and “Pah!”
“I hope you realise,” said Wenda, “that with poor Wyrd not knowing who’s trying to kill him or why, he’s a nervous wreck.”
“No I’m not,” said Wyrd, flushing with embarrassment.
“Yes you are,” said Wenda. “You’re always telling me you can’t sleep.”
“That was because Old Buzzard sent Mogbut to kill me. And werewolves. And a giant.”
“Did he?” Merlin raised one eyebrow at the news. “Well, well, well.”
“You mean you didn’t know?” said Wyrd. “I thought you’d sent Small
to help me!”
“Who or what is Small?” asked Merlin.
“Never mind,” said Wyrd. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I heard you promise to protect Wyrd as long as he didn’t leave the castle,” said Wenda.
“My, my, so I did,” said Merlin, with an apologetic smile. “Do you know, I’d completely forgotten. Oh well, the spell would have worn out by now, in any case.”
“It would?” asked Wyrd. “You mean I haven’t been safe all this while?”
“I’m sure you’re safer here than you would be outside,” said Merlin. “Anyway, haven’t you got your wyrd horn?”
“What?”
“Your wyrd horn.”
“Oh yes,” said Wyrd, dimly remembering. For some time now, he had been wondering if the wyrd horn had been a memory or just a dream.
“I hope that you have been taking good care of it,” said Merlin.
“I don’t have it,” said Wyrd apologetically. “I can’t exactly remember where I put it.”
“Mrs Scraggs,” said Merlin, “have you perhaps any light to shed on this?”
“Don’t look at me,” said Mrs Scraggs, gruffly. “I haven’t got it.”
“Come now, Mrs Scraggs,” said Merlin, “your memory must be playing you tricks. Of course you have the wyrd horn.”
“I’m sure that I haven’t.”
“I’m sure that you have,” responded Merlin. “And I’m equally certain that you are about to give it back.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the old woman said, implacably.
“It’s in her leg,” said Wenda.
Mrs Scraggs aimed a ferocious glare at Wenda.
“How dare you?” the old woman croaked. “After all I’ve done for you!”
“Well, it is,” insisted Wenda. “I saw you put it there.”
“Did you, Mrs Scraggs?” asked Merlin, sternly. “That wyrd horn could be very dangerous in the wrong leg… I mean, hands. Now, give it back!”
The old woman reluctantly unscrewed her wooden leg and drew out the horn that had first been given to Wyrd when he was a baby.
“There,” said Merlin, placidly. “I knew you’d remember eventually.”
Wyrd stepped across to take it from Mrs Scraggs, who even now seemed reluctant to let go of it.
“And now, er…” said Merlin, turning to him, “what is it they call you?”
“Uther.”
“Ah yes, Uther. I trust that you can remember how to use that wyrd horn of yours.”
“I think so,” said Wyrd, trying to remember. “Don’t I just blow?”
“Quite so,” said Merlin, approvingly. “But did I mention there’s one small snag.”
“Small snag?”
“It could be a big one,” said Merlin.
“How big?”
“Well, it could prove to be fatal.”
“How come?”
“There are, in fact, two wyrd horns like this, both made from the teeth of the same dragon.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not much of a problem,” said Merlin, “as such. It’s just that if ever one wyrd horn answers the other, the person who blew the first horn will die.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure,” replied Merlin, scratching his head. “It’s just one of those things.”
“So, do you mind telling me who has the other wyrd horn?” asked Wyrd.
“It’s better…”
“That I don’t know,” Wyrd finished the wizard’s sentence for him.
“Precisely,” said Merlin.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” cried Wyrd, exasperated.
“Well,” replied the wizard imperturbably, “it’s been absolutely marvellous to see you all looking so well. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must see to my unicorn.”
And with that, he vanished through one of the kitchen walls.
“Why won’t he ever tell me what I need to know?” wailed Wyrd.
“Why won’t he ever use the door?” grumbled Mrs Scraggs, stomping off to the larder.
“Well, there’s one piece of good news at least,” Wyrd told Wenda, as soon as Mrs Scraggs was out of earshot. “It looks as though I won’t have to marry the princess!”
“Excuse me while I jump for joy,” commented Wenda, with a trace of acidity. “But aren’t you sure to be executed anyway, as soon as you assassinate King Otto?”
“Er, yes,” admitted Wyrd. “But now at least I only have one problem to contend with. Maybe I could run away.”
“They’re bound to catch you,” said Wenda. “And when they do, you won’t only have your head chopped off. They’ll hang, draw and quarter you.”
“Unpleasant,” said Wyrd.
“Very,” said Wenda. “It’s an old Atlantean tradition, and I’m sure Prince Artorus would take a great deal of pleasure in upholding it.”
She chopped a cabbage in half. Wyrd winced.
Just then, Princess Beatrice poked her head through the door.
“Ah there you are,” she said to Wyrd. “The Queen wants to talk to you. Urgently. She’s in her bedroom.”
Wenda looked at Wyrd quizzically. What was this about? Wyrd just shrugged and left with the young princess.
31
A Slight Change of Plan
In which Wyrd hears of a new, and probably fatal, expedition
Wyrd was aware of a strained atmosphere as he entered the Queen’s bedroom with Princess Beatrice. Queen Elinor was looking tired and strained.
“Do come in,” said the Queen. “Not you, Beatrice.”
“Yes,” said Melisande, with a sweet smile. “Go and play with your dolls or something.”
Once Beatrice had slammed the door behind her, Wyrd looked expectantly at the Queen. Princess Melisande and Prince Artorus flanked her on either side. Osprey stood a little apart, deferentially hunched over his walking stick.
“Now,” said the Queen. “My dear Sir Uther, would you care for a drink?”
Wyrd remembered the last time and decided it might be better if he abstained. The Queen poured herself one.
“I know I shouldn’t, but it’s been a very tiring day,” she said. “And Merlin’s arrival has been most vexing. How much of what he said did you hear?”
“Naturally, I heard of the princess becoming betrothed to Prince Catigern the Mighty,” said Wyrd. “My congratulations to you, my lady.”
Melisande bowed her head graciously.
“Yes, but did you hear the other bit?” demanded Prince Artorus. “About me having to go off and be King Vortigern’s hostage! It’s bloody outrageous!”
“Language, Artorus!” snapped Queen Elinor.
“Sorry, Mumsy,” said Artorus. “But it is outrageous. Me! Held hostage!”
She took another drink.
“Calm down, Artorus,” she said. “We’re all a little on edge. It’s a full moon tonight, and I’ve just been throwing sticks for the King to fetch. It helps to tire him out and make him so much less vocal when he… changes.”
“Poor Mumsy,” said Prince Artorus.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” said Queen Elinor, sharply.
“Sorry, er… Mother.”
“Of course,” said the Queen, “it is quite impossible for Artorus to go.”
“Absolutely!” cried Prince Artorus.
“Would you please let me do the talking?” said the Queen, icily.
“Oh, righto,” said her son.
“Artorus is simply not the hostage type. It does not fit in with his plans. He wishes to become ruler of all Albion!”
“Absolutely!” said the prince.
“And so you will, my dear,” said the Queen. “Just leave the matter with me. And Sir Uther here.”
“B
ut I understood,” said Wyrd, cagily, “that the King might, er, have only months to live.”
“Ah. There is good news on that score,” said the Queen. “Osprey has come up with a potion that will extend his survival prospects to at least a year, during which the King has agreed that he and I will rule together.”
“That’s marvellous news!” said Wyrd. “It means that no one will have to…”
“Take any precipitate action,” said the Queen, hurriedly. “Quite so.”
“However,” said the prince, “it doesn’t get round the fact that I’m up a proverbial gum tree!”
“I don’t want to have to say it again,” snapped the Queen. “Shut up!”
“Sorry, Mumsy,” said Artorus. “I mean, Mother.”
“Osprey and I have devised a plan,” the Queen told Wyrd. “And it concerns you.”
“It’s a brilliant plan,” said Melisande, looking at Wyrd with her eyes shining. “I mean, haven’t you always wanted to be a prince?”
“What? But I thought you were going to marry this Catigern,” said Wyrd.
“I don’t mean by marrying me, silly!” said Melisande, rolling her eyes in disbelief.
“Oh!” An awful thought struck Wyrd. “You don’t want me to marry Beatrice, do you?”
“What an idea!” said the Queen. “Anyway, I can’t imagine why you think she’d have you.”
“Perhaps I might explain to the young man,” said Osprey smoothly.
“I wish you would,” said Artorus. “And while you’re doing it, explain it to me. I haven’t the foggiest idea what’s going on.”
“The Queen wishes you, Sir Uther, to become Prince Artorus,” said Osprey. “Thanks, I flatter myself, to my tuition, you have the right princely bearing, the knowledge, even the necessary martial skills.”
“I say, hold on!” said Artorus.
“Though not, of course, to the same level of excellence as the prince,” added Osprey hastily.
“But I’m not him,” said Wyrd, “and everyone here knows that.”
“Precisely,” said Osprey. “Everyone here knows that. But Vortigern doesn’t know what Prince Artorus looks like. Nor does anyone at his court.”
“Merlin does,” said Wyrd quickly. “And he knows who I really am – which is more, incidentally, than I do.”
