by Daniel Diehl
“Welcome back, Praefator, you had best go straight in to the reception hall.” While one of the guards spoke the other opened the door and stood aside to allow the newcomers to pass. “The king has been scouring the countryside looking for you.”
Nodding wordlessly in answer to the guard’s comments, Merlin jerked his head to indicate that Jason and Beverley should follow him.
The room into which Merlin led them was large and filled with people; some milling around, going about their business, some sitting in small groups chatting, but the first thing to catch Jason’s attention was the mosaic tile floor. It depicted a scene by the edge of a river. Among reeds and marsh grasses, ducks, geese and heron floated across an artificial river and flew through the blue tile sky. Immediately he knew they were in what had been the dining room of the Roman villa. Fixated, he only jerked his mind back to attention when Beverley elbowed him in the ribs. Only then did he realize they – or, more specifically, Merlin - were being addressed by a man, about his own age, who was seated in a Roman style chair on a low, raised platform no more than ten feet in front of him. The man was extremely agitated and had been addressing a series of pointed remarks to Merlin.
“…none the less, I could have used your council. Not more than three weeks ago there was another attack by those damned creatures. They had left us alone since my father’s death and now, suddenly, they have appeared twice in as many months. Of course, by the time we arrived it was too late to do anything about it and the entire village had been decimated. Forty or more lives lost, their crops and animals completely destroyed. There was nothing left.
“We searched for the beasts for days but it was only on our way home that we found them – or, I should say, they found us. They just appeared out of nowhere, flying through the air like something out of a nightmare. We tried to take cover long enough to form a battle line but they killed nineteen of my men and simply sailed away into the sky. Nineteen more deaths and there was nothing I could do about it, Merlin. Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?” As he spoke, the king’s voice had risen to the point where a quiver had crept into it.
When he finished, Merlin bowed low and mumbled “My deepest apologies and regrets, my Lord.” Standing close to him, Beverley could see the tears creeping down Merlin’s cheeks and realized that while Arthur had seen Merlin only a few weeks earlier, this was the first time Merlin had seen his closest friend and king in more than sixteen centuries.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, stand up. I didn’t mean to take it out on you, old friend. Don’t weep. I’m not angry with you. I just wish I could have found you. We absolutely have to find a way to combat these things, you and I, together. They destroyed my father’s kingdom and they will certainly destroy mine unless we stop them…and we had better do it soon.”
“To that, my Lord, I have what I believe to be a hopeful answer.” Merlin pulled himself together, hid his pain and stepped forward. “The reason you could not find me is that I had gone to a far land seeking out individuals with the skills necessary to help us destroy the monsters.”
Waving a hand toward Jason and Beverley, he smiled and continued. “Anticipating that eventually the creatures would come again, I brought two of my brother wizards – or, should I say, one brother and one sister wizard – who have agreed to share their skill and wisdom with us. May I present to you my very good friends Mistress Beverley and Master Jason. And Jason, you will be pleased to know, my Lord, is a marvelously inventive military engineer who has personal knowledge of the dragons. With my own eyes I have seen him build a machine capable of defeating the creatures and I watched while he killed one of them singlehandedly.”
When the king stood up, stepped down from the dais and extended his hand it was clear that he was no more than a few years older than Jason’s twenty-nine years, and he stood very nearly as tall as Jason. He was clean shaven and his thick, light brown hair was gathered at the nape of his neck and plaited into a braid that hung half-way down his back. On top of an unadorned, knee-length tunic of tan linen he wore a brilliantly purple, ankle length cape edged in gold designs. The cloak was slung over his right shoulder and fastened at the neck with two large, gold brooches connected by a short length of gold chain. Around his neck was a massive golden torque ending in a pair of lion’s heads. He cut an impressively regal figure.
What fascinated Jason most, however, was the sword hanging at the man’s left hip. Longer than the standard Roman sword, the scabbard was so encrusted with gems and jewels mounted in heavy gold settings that the sheath’s leather covering was almost invisible. The hand grip was covered with common leather but the massive ornamental pommel appeared to be solid gold. This was the sword Merlin’s strange girlfriend Vivian had given to Arthur’s father and then to Arthur; this was the legendary Excalibur and the man wearing it was the real-life King Arthur.
Jason stepped forward, extending his trembling hand and was momentarily confused when Arthur reached beyond his palm to grip his arm half way to the elbow. Suddenly Jason remembered this was the way the Romans had shaken hands and responded in kind. He was amazed to find that King Arthur’s forearm was as hard as a rock, thick and ropey with muscle.
“Welcome to my court, to the town of Baenin and to the kingdom of the Britons, Master Jason. My people and I will be forever grateful for any assistance you can give us.” Arthur relinquished the handshake but retained eye contact. “Did Merlin tell you that one of my father’s equites once killed one of the monsters? Of course, I’m afraid he didn’t survive to tell the tale. I have no doubt that everyone looks forward to hearing about your own encounter with the thing.” As he started to turn away, he caught himself and moved back to inspect Jason’s face with a disconcertingly direct stare. “Merlin says you have the powers of a wizard. Is this true?”
“In a small way, my Lord, but my skill level is nothing like that of your friend Merlin.”
“How strange. I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered a young wizard before. Congratulations.”
Even as he was making his last comments to Jason, King Arthur’s eyes had already turned toward Beverley, locking on her face. Now, as he moved half a step to his right, he raised a hand and pointed his index finger squarely at her nose. Leaning forward until his face was only inches from hers, he turned to Merlin. “What manner of thing is this in front of the lady’s eyes?”
“Ah, they’re called eyeglasses, my Lord.” Merlin hastened to explain the commonplace item which seemed so extraordinary in this time and place. “They allow her to see things which are unknowable and invisible to others.”
Jerking his head back, Arthur smiled wordlessly and extended his hand toward Beverley. When she offered hers in return, he lifted it gently, bowing slightly over her fingers before raising his eyes back to her own.
“I see you have flame colored hair. Does this indicate that you come from one of the Scotti tribes?”
Beverley smiled, suppressing a laugh, both amused and amazed by the king’s directness. “My family did originally come from the land of the Scots, my Lord.”
“From which tribe, if I might ask?”
“My people are known as McCullough.”
Returning Beverley’s hand, Arthur turned away but continued to talk. “It’s my understanding that there are very powerful wizards and druids among the people of the Scotti. Are you one of them?”
“I do have a certain small skill with the healing arts, but I don’t cast spells.” Smiling again, playing up to this strange new role Merlin had cast for her, she added “I leave the casting of spells to the men.”
Having walked halfway across the room with long, loose-limbed strides, Arthur drew himself up next to a group of women seated on chairs and stools, and took one of them by the hand. “This is my wife, Queen Gwenhwyfar. My dear, may I present to you Lady Beverley of the tribe McCullough of the Scotti people.” When Arthur pronounced her name he put the accent on the middle syllable making it sound like Bev-ER-ley.
As G
wenhwyfar rose and stepped forward, Beverley looked at her appraisingly. The legendary Queen Guinevere was no more than five feet in height, as slim and delicate as a whippet, with hair somewhere between ash blond and gold and finely arched eyebrows above large, deep brown eyes. Although she appeared to be no more than in her early twenties, she carried herself with a dignity and poise that was a natural extension of unquestioned self-assurance. Like her husband, the queen wore a gold torque around her neck, but hers was much thinner and finer, and the ornamental finials were dog’s heads rather than lions. Her dress, which hung nearly to the floor, was dyed a bright ochre and was cinched at the waist by a delicate belt made from a golden chain. Her mane of sunshine yellow hair was drawn back and fastened into a bun with two long wooden pins that reminded Beverley of chopsticks. Everything about the queen was bright and golden and as sunshiny as the spring weather, and it suited her wonderfully.
Taking Beverley by the hand, she leaned close and whispered “Come, sit with my ladies and myself, and tell us about your country.” Chuckling she added “We should probably leave the men alone so they can talk about battles and magical spells and drinking.”
Beverley smiled, nodded and added “The drinking part seems to be Merlin’s specialty.”
Answering with a small laugh as delicate as the tinkling of a glass bell, Gwenhwyfar nodded her agreement. “I see you know our friendly magus far too well.”
As she was led to the queen’s end of the room, Beverley took a moment to survey her surroundings. She recognized the mosaic floor as the one Jason had excavated, but the rest of the room – along with everything else in this world - had decayed to nothingness long before the twenty-first century. The age of the old Roman villa was obvious; the plaster on the walls had been patched as often as had the exterior of the building and what remained of the once-brightly colored wall paintings had flaked and moldered in the damp English climate until it was nearly gone. Here was a section that still depicted broken portions of a hunting scene, and there were the legs of a troupe of dancing girls, their upper bodies long ago crumbled to dust. Looking around the room, the thing that amazed Beverley most about the king’s court was the startling absence of old people. These were the leaders of a kingdom and only a handful of them appeared to have reached fifty years of age. In the world she knew government ministers tended to run from middle age upward to the point of dotage.
“Please sit down, Beverley. You must be exhausted after your journey. Would you like a drink?”
“That would be very nice, your ladyship. Thank you.”
Turning to one of the half dozen young girls standing behind the group of seated women, the queen said “Bronwyn, would you bring ale for us, please?” Then, almost as the words left her mouth, she waved a hand, correcting herself. “No. Make it wine. We have special guests and special people demand something special to drink.” As the young woman nodded and turned to leave, she added “And feel free to bring ale for yourself and the others, if you like.”
Offering only a small “Thank you, my Lady”, the girl scurried across the room, disappearing through a dark doorway.
After introducing Beverley to the half dozen women seated in the cluster of chairs, Gwenhwyfar laid her hand on top of Beverley’s. “The country where Merlin went to find you, is it very far away? Have you been traveling long?”
Beverley thought about the question for a moment. Obviously she would not dare tell the truth, even if she could make these women believe her – which she certainly did not think she could. God, did we only leave home this morning? How long has it been? Four hours, maybe five? It can’t have been any longer than that. She thought fast, trying to decide what to say. “Traveling with Merlin is a rather strange experience, as you may know.”
The queen pressed one hand to her mouth, suppressing a grin. “I’ve never traveled with him, but I can well imagine how odd it must be.” Leaning close and whispering in Beverley’s ear, she giggled. “Sometimes his incessant talking can make even the short walk across a room seem like a journey of miles. And then he simply vanishes; sometimes I think he does it just so you can’t answer him.”
Beverley nearly burst out laughing, but caught herself. “To say the least.”
“Seriously, was it long and arduous, your journey with the praefator? And where do you call home?”
Trying to look nonchalant, Beverley offered what she hoped would pass for an enigmatic smile and said “We come from a land called England, and depending on how you look at it, my Lady, it is either a very, very long way away or much closer than you might think.”
The queen twisted her head to one side in utter confusion and seemed to be on the verge of asking something when her lady in waiting reappeared carrying a large wooden tray laden with an earthenware pitcher and seven goblets. There was no doubt which of the goblets belonged to the queen; it was the one made of chased silver and covered with figures of deer and rabbits running among clusters of grape vines. The top edge was banded with gold. The other goblets were delicately turned from what appeared to be lime wood and each of them had matching designs of grape leaves carved around the rim, but even here, in this primitive world, it was obvious that rank still had its little privileges. Bronwyn poured the rich, deep purple liquid into the goblets and passed them around, serving the queen first and then Beverley and the ladies of the court before pouring ale for herself and the staff. Waiting for Gwenhwyfar to take the first sip, Beverley smiled and spoke.
“Surely grapes don’t grow in this climate, is your wine imported all the way from the continent?”
Taking a sip to signal that the other women could drink, the queen paused a moment before answering.
“Taste it.”
Carefully, Beverley raised the glass to her lips and sampled the wine. The taste was sweet and mild and quite pleasant but it was not until she went to lower the cup that she smelled the drink. There was no grape odor but the scent of something else, something she had smelled before but could not quite place. Seeing her confusion, one of the ladies leaned forward and whispered over Beverley’s shoulder.
“Elderberry.”
“Of course.” Beverley broke into a huge grin. “It is elderberry. I knew I recognized the smell.” Turning to the women, she asked “What other fruit wines do you make?”
Excitedly, the women rolled off an extensive list of fruits suitable for fermentation and the various processes used to ensure that each one reached the peak of its particular flavor before it was transferred from the wine vat to an earthenware jar and placed in storage. From the way they talked, Beverley had no doubt that the noblewomen of King Arthur’s court worked right alongside their subjects. There was no place in this world for idle hands and Beverley was fascinated to understand the women’s place in a society that was historically linked to Roman traditions but was also striking out to develop new rules of its own. Even as they spoke one of the ladies in waiting began combing the queen’s hair with a comb carved from a piece of deer antler and Beverley tried not to stare at the figure of a recumbent doe delicately carved on the spine.
Deciding that her position as an outsider gave her some leeway to ask questions, she started probing gently into the role and status of women in Dark Age Briton and as the women began sharing their lives and stories with her, she quickly realized that she was learning more in this one afternoon than she had in nine years of higher education. While it was obvious that Gwenhwyfar was shown respect and deference by the other women, it was no more than the respect afforded to a person who was chief among equals. When the conversation warranted it, the other women clearly felt free to interject themselves into the conversation. Still, it was the queen who seemed to have the firmest grasp on those rights guaranteed to women by law as opposed to those things which were simple tradition. Now, she leaned close to Beverley, lowering her voice to make certain the men did not hear.
“And it was my husband who decreed that if a man deserts his family, his wife can legally claim all of his la
nd and property.” Then, speaking in no more than a whisper, she continued. “I think he was ashamed of the scandalous way his father abandoned his first wife and seduced Ygraine.”
To lighten the awkwardness of this last statement, one of the other women leaned forward, giggled, and added “And if a man’s man-part stops working his wife can divorce him, claim half of his property and demand the return of her dowry.”
“Of course, any man can have a bad day,” an unseen voice interjected.
“Particularly if he drank too much ale at dinner” said a woman wearing a green cloak, who never looked up from her sewing but shook her head as though she spoke from experience.
“Well that certainly doesn’t happen to my husband.”
All the women giggled, and one spoke in particularly breathless tones. “Oh, wait until you meet Ganieda’s husband, Beverley. Llewellyn is SO gorgeous.”
This final revelation brought gales of laughter from the other women who all chimed in to add their own bits of information on their marriages and how the laws of the Britons did, or did not, protect them.
“You can also divorce him if he is too lazy to provide properly for you and the children.”
“And even if he has bad breath. Nobody wants to kiss a man whose mouth smells like bad meat.”
“Only if it’s chronic, Guendolena. Anybody can have bad breath from time to time.”
“Well, I didn’t mean…”
“We know what you meant, dear. We all remember your first husband.”
