Merlin's Mistake

by Robert Newman

  “That’s true. That he’s gone, I mean. But there must be others who are skilled in the same arts he was.”

  “Your father knows about it?”

  “My quest? No. I’ve told no one about it before this. And I intend to tell no one else. But he won’t care.”

  “I’m sure you do him an injustice.”

  “No. After all, he has Primus and Secundus. They’re a pair of great lumps who can barely write their names, but they’re as keen on hunting and tournaments as he is—which I’m not. As a result, father’s always been uncomfortable with me. I doubt if he’ll even wonder where I am.”

  “I find that hard to believe. But if you’ve told no one else about your quest, why did you tell me?”

  “Because you asked me.”

  “I don’t think that’s the only reason,” said Brian slowly. “You may not be skilled as yet in the magical arts, but I think you knew what was in my mind.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes. And you’re right. I’m going with you.”

  Somehow Tertius did not seem surprised.

  “You asked me about my father,” he said. “What about your mother?”

  “For years now she’s asked me to wait and be patient, told me that when the time came she’d let me go. Well, today’s my birthday. I’m sixteen, and I think the time has come. And so … I suppose I really should ask you if you’d like me to go with you.”

  “Why?” asked Tertius, smiling. “You read what was in my mind as easily as I read what was in yours.”

  “Then the answer is yes?”

  “Of course. I suspect that what you’d really like is a quest of your own—one that involves a beautiful maiden and a giant, a dragon or a wicked knight. But in the meantime, mine should be interesting.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “I believe,” said the Lady Leolie, “that we are distantly connected.”

  “I believe we are, madam,” said Tertius. “On my mother’s side.”

  The Lady Leolie, with Sir Guy beside her, had been at the high table in the great hall when Brian brought Tertius in. Brian noticed that she was wearing her hennin and her second-best dress, the green one, which meant that one of the lookouts had seen them coming and sent word to her that they had a guest. If she was surprised that that guest was so young, she gave no sign of it but welcomed Tertius as warmly as she would anyone of gentle blood. She sat him next to her and waited patiently while he and Brian ate. Because it was Brian’s birthday, or perhaps because she suspected that Tertius had had no supper the night before—she had an instinct for such things—she had game pies brought to them for breakfast instead of the usual bread and cheese.

  “How’s your father?” asked Sir Guy abruptly.

  “I haven’t seen him for some time,” said Tertius. “Not since I began my service at Ferlay. But at last report he was well.”

  “Does he still favor his right leg, ride with his right stirrup longer than his left?”

  “I believe he does.”

  “You should notice such things,” said Sir Guy. “Very important in jousting. He’s bound to favor it, especially in damp weather. I was with him when he broke it, you know. It was in the same skirmish in which I lost this.” He touched the black patch that covered his missing eye. “But,” glancing sideways, “that was a small loss compared to others we suffered then.”

  “If you are speaking of Sir Owaine,” said the Lady Leolie, “he was a true and valiant knight and died a knightly death.”

  “That he did, my lady,” said Sir Guy. “Had it not been for him, there were few of us who would have left the field that day.”

  Brian felt the same pang he always felt when anyone talked about his father. At first he had wondered how they could be certain he was truly dead when his body had never been found nor any ransom asked for him. He had had visions of his riding home one day with a stirring tale of his escape from his Saracen captors. But as the years went by, he had come to realize that what he had been cherishing was a child’s hope. That one of the reasons he found it so hard to accept the truth was the fact that it was the loss of his father that kept him at Caercorbin.

  “I have heard both my father and Sir Gerard talk of it,” said Tertius politely. “Of Sir Owaine’s stand and of how the fighting went. It must have been a fine melee.”

  “One of the best,” said Sir Guy. “By the way, my squire tells me that you were alone when you arrived here.”

  “Sir Gerard sent a pair of varlets to ride here with me,” said Tertius. “But I let them return when I met Brian.”

  “Ah,” said Sir Guy. “Didn’t sound like Sir Gerard to let you travel unaccompanied.”

  “Naturally we hope you’ll stay with us for some time,” said the Lady Leolie. “Guests are always welcome, and we are anxious to hear all the news from Ferlay. But I am sure that when you leave Sir Guy can spare you some men to see you safely home.”

  “You are very kind, my lady,” said Tertius cautiously. “Actually, I thought of going tomorrow. But there’s no need to send anyone with me.”

  “Nonsense,” said Sir Guy. “The forest’s a dangerous place—outlaws and all that. I wouldn’t dream of letting you go on alone.”

  “Well …” began Tertius.

  Brian swallowed. Now was the time. It was going to be difficult, but it wouldn’t be easier if he waited.

  “In the first place,” he said, “he’s not going home. He’s going on a quest. And in the second place, he won’t be alone because I’m going with him.”

  The Lady Leolie sat up stiffly.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said he’s not going home. He’s going on a quest. And I’m going with him.”

  The Lady Leolie shrieked, shrilly and piercingly.

  “Mother!” said Brian.

  The Lady Leolie shrieked again. Then her eyes rolled up, and she sank back limply in her chair.

  “My lady!” said Sir Guy. “Agnes, quick!”

  But Agnes was already hurrying toward them. Taking a phial of gillyflower water from her pouch, she sprinkled it on the Lady Leolie’s face.

  “There, there, my dearie, my duck,” she said, chafing the Lady Leolie’s wrists. “For shame,” she said, glaring at Brian. “What did you say to set her aswooning that way?”

  “Nothing,” said Brian uncomfortably. “Mother, forgive me.”

  “Then don’t ever say anything like that again!” said the Lady Leolie, opening her eyes.

  “But I must,” said Brian. “You always said that when the time came, you would let me go.”

  “Because you pressed me! But it will be years before you’ll be old enough. You’re still only a boy!”

  “If you’ve forgotten, today is my birthday.”

  “Your sixteenth! Does that make you a man?”

  “Perhaps not. But I’m no longer a boy either. Besides I’ve given my word to Tertius.”

  “Your word! What about your duty to me, your mother? I’ve already lost my husband. Must I now lose you, too?”

  “If you will forgive me for saying so, my lady,” said Tertius mildly, “the way to keep him is to let him go.”

  “I want none of your logic-chopping!” she snapped. “Sir Guy …!”

  “Fear not, my lady,” he said. “If you do not wish him to go, he shall not go.”

  “But I am going, Sir Guy.”

  “You forget yourself, sirrah!” said Sir Guy, his long mustachios bristling and his single eye flashing. “While I am steward of this castle you and all others shall do my lady’s bidding!”

  Hardly aware of it, they were now both speaking formally, in the High Language of Chivalry.

  “In all other things I am hers—and yours—to command, Sir Guy. But in this …”

  “Do you defy me, then?”

  “If it be needful to preserve my honor and my plighted word.” Then a thought came to him. “No, Sir Guy. But I ask leave to prove with my body—and upon yours—that I am a boy no longer, but man enough
to go.”

  Sir Guy was sitting very erect.

  “You are challenging me?”

  “Yes, Sir Guy.”

  “You are not a knight. I am under no obligation to accept your challenge.”

  “No, Sir Guy. But because you are a knight—and a gracious and worthy one—it is my hope that you will condescend to put the matter to the arbitrament of arms and break a spear with me.”

  “Speak more clearly. Precisely what is in your mind?”

  “We shall joust. If you overthrow me, I shall stay here for another year. If I overthrow you, you shall let me go now.”

  “Ah,” said Sir Guy, a strange look in his eye. “Yes.”

  “Sir Guy …” said the Lady Leolie anxiously.

  “It takes many a knock to make a knight, my lady,” said Sir Guy. “Let him learn now that it will be a long while before he is ready to go out into the world.” Then, to Brian, “I will meet you in the tiltyard at noon.”

  He and the Lady Leolie rose.

  “I thank you for your courtesy,” said Brian, rising also.

  Sir Guy answered his bow with a nod and followed the Lady Leolie out of the hall.

  “Now you’ve done it,” said Tertius.

  “I suppose I have,” said Brian. “I didn’t mean to. I hadn’t thought of it before—challenging Sir Guy, I mean. It just came out.”

  “Well, I don’t know how far you would have gotten arguing with them …”

  “Nowhere,” said Brian. “At least, not with mother.”

  “But you could have tried again in a few days. This way there’ll be nothing you can do for another year.” He sighed. “I’m afraid you trapped yourself. Too bad. It would have been very pleasant to have had you with me.”

  The tiltyard was in the outer ward with the outside bailey wall on one side of it and the wall of the inner shell keep on the other; a stretch of turf open at both ends and packed hard by years of use. For it was here that pages and squires had learned to use their weapons ever since the castle had been built.

  The sun was directly overhead when Brian came out of the armory door into it. Tertius had acted as his squire, helping him into the old hauberk of his father’s that he had often worn during practice, raising the chain mail coif over his head, placing the arming cap on it and lacing on his tilting helm. The hauberk was a little large for him, but not enough to be awkward.

  Sir Guy was already waiting at the far end of the tiltyard, mounted on Gaillard, his white charger. Simon came toward Brian, leading his own bay gelding and carrying a lance.

  “You will ride my horse,” said Simon, handing him the reins. “And Sir Guy said to tell you that he will be using a short spear, the same length as yours.”

  These were two of the many things that Brian had been wondering about: whether he would be given a charger to ride, a horse accustomed to jousting, and what length lance Sir Guy would be carrying. For there was of course a decided advantage in a long lance. And, since Sir Guy was stronger and more experienced than Brian, he could—if he chose—use a longer one than Brian could handle at the moment.

  Enclosed in the iron helm, Brian did not attempt to say anything, but nodded his thanks. He should have known, should have expected no less of Sir Guy. Simon waited while he mounted, then handed him the lance.

  “Good luck,” he said, his face impassive.

  Again Brian nodded in acknowledgment, then turned the bay and walked it to the far end of the yard, opposite Sir Guy. So far it was all familiar: the smell of leather, the weight of the tilting helm on his shoulders and of the shield on his left arm; the feel of the tough ash lance in his right hand as he carried it with the point up, the butt resting on his right foot. For more than four years he had practiced here in the tiltyard almost every day: in the heat of summer and the cold of winter. There was the quintain, the wooden Saracen mounted on a post against which he had ridden hundreds of times, learning to strike him in the middle of the forehead for, if your lance hit him off-center, he spun around and his outstretched arm dealt you a buffet that could unhorse you. There was the iron ring, suspended by a thread, that he had finally become skillful enough to pick up on his lance point. And there was the pelquintain, the stake on which he had practiced handstrokes under Sir Guy’s critical eye, cutting high and low, right and left until he could barely lift his sword arm.

  What was different about it was that now, for the first time, he was facing not an inanimate but a living target: a trained and seasoned warrior whose lance would be seeking Brian even as Brian drove against him. So there would be not only his own spear to be concerned about, but the shock of Sir Guy’s spear as it smashed home against his shield, helmet or body.

  Looking out through the narrow slit of his helm, Brian saw that Simon, with Tertius following him, had reached the center of the yard and was drawing his sword. And now, for the first time, he saw that his mother was seated on the bench set against the inner wall with Agnes beside her. Well, there was nothing strange about that. Everyone in the castle was there—the men-at-arms, the cook and undercooks, the scullions and serving wenches—watching from the open ends of the yard, the windows that overlooked it or the top of the outer wall. And the Lady Leolie had a greater stake in what was taking place there than anyone except Brian.

  A stake: he smiled grimly. Tertius had been right. How could he have been foolish enough to challenge an experienced knight like Sir Guy? It was, of course, a combination of things that had led him to it: his eagerness to leave Caercorbin, his meeting with Tertius and the discovery that, young as he was, he was on a quest. But, mistake or not, the challenge had been accepted and all that Brian could do now was acquit himself as bravely as possible.

  Simon was looking from him to Sir Guy to see if they were both ready, and Brian lowered the lance and couched it, tucking the butt between his body and his right arm, his right hand gripping it firmly.

  Then, as Simon brought his sword down, calling, “Laissez les aller!” he drove in his heels and the bay went into a canter. While he had been waiting, his mouth had been dry, his muscles tense. But now, as he and Sir Guy thundered toward one another on the firm green turf, something deep within him took over. He seemed to hear Sir Guy’s voice saying, as he had said so many times before, “Lightly as a feather, stoutly as an oak” and “Watch your point. Watch your point. Become your point!” He was not thinking. He was letting his muscles do what they had been trained to do, holding himself loose and limber, eyes on the tip of his lance.

  They were almost upon each other, and through the slit of his helmet he could see Sir Guy and his huge white horse bearing down on him, looking larger than life-size. Then, clamping his legs to the bay and gripping the lance tightly with arm and hand, he concentrated—not just all his own strength, but the headlong drive of the horse as well—on the point of the lance and became one with it, as firm and unyielding as an oak branch.

  There was a jarring double shock as Sir Guy’s lance struck the center of his shield and his lance drove home against the upper edge of Sir Guy’s shield. Braced for the impact that he thought would carry him backward off the bay, he found himself still in the saddle, his lance intact and still in his hand. He pulled in his horse and turned it. There was Gaillard, snorting and tossing his head, at the far end of the tiltyard. But Sir Guy was not on his back. He was lying, face upward and unmoving, near the center of the yard with his shattered lance beside him.

  For a moment Brian stared, incredulous. Then, dropping his lance, he dismounted and hurried toward him. But, quick as he was, Simon was quicker. By the time Brian reached them, he had Sir Guy’s helmet off and was raising his head. As Brian kneeled, Sir Guy opened his eye, looked at Brian and then past him. Brian turned. There stood the Lady Leolie, her face expressionless.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  “No, my lady,” said Sir Guy. “Stunned for a moment, that’s all.”

  “Too bad,” she said, and now she was white with rage. “I hoped you had broken your
neck. Because you did that on purpose—you know you did!”

  “My lady, I give you my word.…”

  “You would tell me that a green and untried boy could unhorse you? A fig for your word!” And, eyes blazing, she stalked off, out of the yard and into the castle.

  “Is it true, Sir Guy?” asked Brian. “I mean …”

  “That I did it on purpose? No. She’s right in that I thought of it—I admit that. And I doubt if you could do it again. But it was done fairly and featly. Which, for my pride’s sake, proves that I taught you even better than I knew. And now, give me your hand. For if you’re to leave here tomorrow, there’s much to be done and many things that we must talk about.”

  Holding out his hand, Brian helped Sir Guy to his feet. As he reached up to take off his own helm, it was taken off for him. Tertius was still acting as his squire. But he did not look solemn now. Poised and restrained though he was, he was grinning a wide, happy grin.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Supper that evening was a silent meal. At least, it began that way. The Lady Leolie had kept to her room most of the afternoon; and when she came down to take her place at the high table, her face was expressionless, though very pale.

  The meal itself was more lavish than usual. After the fish—both trout and carp—there was a roast goose and a rack of pork as well as the joint. But of all those at the high table, only Father Bernard showed any great interest in what was put before them. The Lady Leolie was still too angry—and too distressed—to have any appetite. Brian was too disturbed at her distress and, at the same time, too excited. And both Sir Guy and Tertius seemed to have other things on their minds.

  Dinner was nearly over before the Lady Leolie broke the silence of the meal. “What is this quest upon which my son is so determined to accompany you?”

  Brian was amused, wondering how Tertius was going to handle this. For obviously he wasn’t going to tell her.