Merlin Redux Page 5

  “And with you, Sir William.”

  “And . . . Lars, is it? Gods’s knuckles, lad, you’ve grown! I gather that your sorcery worked well, Enchanter. My trip was barely necessary.”There was a sliver of threat in his voice. William had always upheld his reputation with ferocity and I had just upstaged him.

  “I am certain that you have brought much more news than I could convey. I congratulate you on gaining the new king’s trust so soon. That speaks volumes for your abilities.”

  Like all knights of the slash-and-slice type, William was extremely touchy about his honor, which made him susceptible to flattery. He laughed. “Especially when I almost slew him outside Le Mans last month. I had him at the point of my lance, and he not armored! I killed his horse instead.”

  “Thank God!” And quick thinking, William.

  “Could you chant another spell for me tonight, just a small one?”

  “Of course we can. If we didn’t bring the right enchantment with us, the city chantry will certainly have whatever you need.”

  His chuckle in the darkness sounded embarrassed. “It’s a minor wound, and not earned in honorable battle. King Richard enjoined Gilbert Pipart and me to deliver his letters. We rode through Anjou, Maine, and Normandy. When we reached Dieppe, we jumped aboard a boat, and a plank in the deck burst under us. Pipart broke his arm and had to stay there. I scraped my leg a bit. And tomorrow I must ride to London.”

  I said, “Saints, man! After a journey like that can’t you rest a day or two here?”

  William’s hand thumping my shoulder felt like a falling chimney pot. “I have to collect a bride, my friend. The old king promised her to me, and the new one has confirmed it—Isabel of Striguil, no less!”

  I whistled, for even I had heard of the fair maid of Striguil. Was that how Richard had bought William the incorruptible?

  William was sprung from minor gentry. His grandfather had been Henry I’s marshal, meaning keeper of the king’s horses, and had been succeeded by his son, so that the title had become their family name. The current marshal was William’s older brother. By tradition and need, second sons become warriors, with third sons entering the clergy.

  As a natural-born fighter, William had won acceptance into the retinue of the young king and been knighted. He had rapidly acquired a reputation in the lists, which were much more rough- and-tumble deadly in those days than they became later. When the young king rebelled against his father, William stayed loyal to his lord and was included in the pardon that followed. Taking William with him, the young king went off for some dozen years of knight-erranting and jousting. William became the most famous and admired knight in Christendom, so that no man dare meet him in the lists. After Henry died, William fulfilled his deceased lord’s deathbed request and went on pilgrimage in his stead to Jerusalem, where he could slaughter Saracens instead of de-horsing Christians. On returning to England, he swore fealty to King Henry. And now that he had outlived another liege, he had been coaxed into Richard’s service, and granted the honor and riches of Striguil.

  William was in his middle forties, like me, and by then most knights must seek less strenuous employment, because their joints creak, their bones are crooked from badly-set breaks, and too many dents in their helms have jellied their wits. He was still in better shape than most, because he had ever been the best, always doing more damage than taking it. He had made immense fortunes in prize money and doubtless had spent every penny of all of them. His problem was a common one, and the solution to it must always be land, the source of all wealth.

  In England—but not France—whenever any of the king’s vassals die without adult male issue, his widow and orphans become wards of the king. He uses them as prizes to reward his older fighting men, who will breed another generation of staunch warriors. Isabel had been waiting for years to learn her fate, for her inheritance was huge and her beauty legendary. Striguil Castle was strategically located on the Welsh border, so Henry had perhaps been saving her for the greatest of his warriors; much more surprising was the fact that Richard had at once agreed to honor his father’s promise—that was an even greater tribute to William’s reputation. Or possibly to his negotiating skill, which was considerable.

  Although we were the same age, William and I, any pair less alike would be hard to imagine. He lived a life of blood and steel, I one of fusty old books and music. He was universally honored, I was largely despised and distrusted as a worker in dark arts. He was a huge and ferocious man, I was a cripple. And yet we had become friends! We had met first when he followed the Young Henry, and from time to time since, whenever he came to England or on my rare trips to France; we had met in council or just sitting around waiting on our betters, as courtiers always do. I like to think we hit it off because we recognized each other as basically honest, which is a rare attribute in the corridors of kings.

  Down in our chamber, Lars and I discovered that what William dismissed as a scrape would have put most men in bed for a week. The healing enchantment I had in my baggage was not the one I would have chosen, but I knew it would work, so we sang it, and it did.

  “All it needs now is some good English ale,” our patient declared, adjusting the pillows so he could lean back comfortably on the bed. “That pissy French wine muddles a man’s head too fast.”

  I took that as a hint to dispose of the witness, so I bade Lars go and find what was needed. Confident that he would know not to be too fast about it, I then settled on the stool and returned William’s businesslike stare.

  “I’m told Lord John got here just a day after you did,” he said.

  Aha! So we scented the same quarry, William and I. I nodded.

  “He was in France a month or so ago. Then he vanished. His father was worried about him. I can guess how you learned the news, but how did he?”

  “I don’t know. I know for a fact—but I pray you not to spread this around—that he was in Nottingham on Wednesday evening, and here on Saturday night.”

  “Godamercy! How did he find out so soon, then?”

  How indeed? “That is something I intend to discover,” I said. “Of course, most men of high station keep a house sage. When you take up your honor of Striguil, I’ll recommend some good men to you. I have a fair idea of most of England’s enchanters, because they were trained in the Oxford College, but I don’t know of any in John’s service.”

  “Why did he come here, to Winchester?” William mused. “Just to check up on Dear Mommy? Or did he know you had forestalled him, so it was no use heading straight to the Tower of London and trying to claim the throne?”

  “I don’t know that either.”The thought that John might be spying on me as easily as I could spy on him was enough to make a turtle itch. “What I do know is that I intend to keep an eye on what he is up to in future. King Richard will not prohibit that, will he?”

  “Not as long as you are discreet. He killed his father, you know.”

  That he did not mean Richard. “He did?”

  Sir William sighed. “Henry’s last few days were terrible. He went to another parley with Richard and King Philip, but he couldn’t even dismount for it, and we had to hold him upright on his horse. They dictated the terms, everything they could think of, and he just agreed to them all. He had to, he was in agony.”

  I had witnessed that meeting and had watched the dying man whisper something about being revenged on his son. William must have overheard that, but he didn’t mention it.

  “A month ago, when Le Mans fell, we put him on a litter and carried him north, dodging the patrols out looking for him, and heading for Normandy where he would be safe. Just think of it—the lord of the Angevin Empire being transported like a woman and scuttling from nook to cranny like a hunted outlaw! But when we were almost there, he sent his escort on ahead, and told us to turn around and go back to Chinon. We argued but he insisted.”

  Going home to die, as his wife had said.

  ”Every day he was worse. He insisted on attending tha
t final parley. We made it back to the castle and put him to bed. But then he demanded to hear the list of traitors he had agreed to pardon. Again we argued; again he insisted. The list was long, but the first name—”

  I had guessed what was coming. “Was John’s?”

  William nodded. “He didn’t listen to the rest. He just turned his face to the wall, and soon after that he became delirious.”

  Five legitimate sons. Three dead and the other two both traitors, not one of them worthy to be his heir.

  “But why John? The whole cause of the war was Henry’s constant refusal to name Richard his heir. He kept hinting that he was going to leave everything to John. Surely John should have remained loyal this time?”

  William’s killer eyes narrowed. “You are implying that my liege, King Richard, would stoop to such foulness?”

  “No,” I said hastily. “Richard never would, but I wouldn’t put it past Philip to sneak John’s name onto the list, just to twist the knife more.”

  And I realized that I wouldn’t put it past Lackland to play on both teams, pretending to join in the conspiracy to stay on his brother’s good side when it seemed likely that he was going to win. Once he had curried favor with both sides, he might have then sneaked away, back to England, to await the outcome.

  “We sent for Richard,” William said, “but he suspected a trap and didn’t come. Henry died early on Thursday, and we reported that, and he turned up on Friday, by which time we had moved the body to Fontevrault Abbey, where he wanted to be buried.” Then Lars returned, leading a burly footman carrying a small cask and a page bringing drinking horns. The conversation turned to merrier subjects.

  I had overlooked the most incredible thing that William had told me.

  Early the next day Queen Eleanor rode forth in procession, freed from her long penance at last and now, by royal decree, ruler of England until her son returned. Every town and hamlet turned out to cheer her. A strangely humbled Ranulf de Glanville accompanied her. The king’s warrant had given her the power to punish him, but she had not done so.

  I did not try to claim the role of queen’s favorite, which could only increase my unpopularity in that company, so I found myself astride a scrawny, rawboned mare that no other baron in Christendom would have tolerated. I saw many smirks aimed in my direction. Those did not trouble me, because in the last week I had been sitting beside the queen while every one of those toadies knelt before us to swear loyalty to her son. There would be much jostling for status in the new reign, and I wanted no part of that. I had my own place in the government. If the Lionheart wanted me gone, then I would retire to Pipewell quite happily, and someone else could be enchanter general.

  Lars fared even worse than I did in the horse stakes, and had to settle for a mule, trailing along at the end of the line, among servants and riffraff. I fretted, for I dearly wanted to return to Oxford and investigate the mysterious Bran of Tara. Even if he was not mentioned in any of my records, that absence would tell me something. I had done my best duty to the queen, I thought resentfully, and she did not need me now.

  After a couple of hours, though, word was passed back that Her Grace required Baron Durwin, which gave me a lot of hard work to make my grudging mare move faster than all the mounts ahead of us. Eventually I arrived at the front, and Eleanor evicted a veteran bishop to make room for me on her right, which was the side she was then facing. Not that she couldn’t ride astride when she chose to.

  “Ah, Lord Merlin!” she said. “I want your advice.”

  “For what it is worth, it is yours to command, Lady Queen.”

  “My son was born here, but he is a southerner at heart. You know that for years he has ruled my ancestral Aquitaine for me. Why he has hardly set foot in England since he was a child! The people barely know his name. The nobility do, but he is a stranger to the rest. I want to rouse them to joy over his accession. I want . . . where in the world did you find that wreck of a horse?”

  “Just outside the glue factory door, my lady. I fear it has taken holy orders recently.”

  The queen’s eyes glinted like dagger points. “Just because the first Merlin was allowed to speak in riddles doesn’t give you that right.”

  I described how every holy house was required to maintain some of the king’s horses, and how this was resented as an effective tax on the church that many orders could ill-afford. Such animals were often very poorly fed and badly cared for.

  She beamed. “Then if I abolish that law in my son’s name, it would be popular among the clergy?

  “Their tonsures would glow with joy.”

  “Splendid! I shall, of course, open the jails and free all prisoners. What other ideas can your nimble mind provide?”

  By then I had thought up a few more, and our conversation prospered. Eleanor knew as well as I did that the nobility were aware of Richard’s record in Aquitaine, where he had raised taxes until the nobles rebelled, and had then brutally suppressed their rebellions. He was both a brilliant warrior and a very effective ruler, but not a lovable one.

  Eventually the queen gave me the sort of opening I needed.

  “My son mentioned that he hopes to fulfill his crusaders’ oath soon. Can you predict whether he will manage to retrieve the holy city from the Saracens?”

  “I could update his horoscope, ma’am, if such be your orders to me. That should advise him of his best times for making the effort.”

  She guessed what I wanted, of course, and reluctantly gave me leave to go home, although she warned that she might send for me soon. I collected Lars, and we headed northward on the first available trail. Once we had changed our mounts at a handy monastery, we made better progress. I was ruefully aware that my advice to the queen about horses had probably made travel much harder for me in future.

  We took our time, but the weather continued fair and in due course we returned safely to Oxford and the college. Lovise made us welcome, complaining how empty the house had seemed with both of us away, and only the servants for company.

  I had kept profuse notes on Richard’s horoscope, and I gave them to Lovise so she could update it, she being the only person I would trust with that very sensitive—and potentially treasonous— procedure. Similarly, I gave Lars the task of updating Lord John’s.

  In recent years I had shed all my direct oversight of the college in order to concentrate on my own studies and my occasional work for the king’s council. I was therefore able to concentrate on our Irish lore, such as it was. I soon learned that the country was a political pigsty with innumerable petty kings squabbling like wild boars, unable to cooperate against the Norman intruders who had been staking claims to their trough at intervals for almost a century.

  I learned that Tara was a hill, and whoever could claim the title of King of Tara was overall king of Ireland, except that there were usually several claimants. Of more interest to me was that the hill had ancient druidic connections. If Bran of Tara were a genuine sage, then he might be in possession of some lore that I had no access to. That made my metaphorical mouth water.

  If I had imagined that I was going to return to my life of quiet scholarship, I was soon disabused. Queen Eleanor’s summons to Westminster arrived within a week. This time I took a larger train, although extremely modest for my rank: Lovise, my trusty Sage Wilbur of London, a couple of cantors, four servants, and two packhorses. One of the cantors was Lars, because I would not entirely trust any adolescent of his age when left alone with time on his hands, and especially not an adolescent with training in enchantment. I put him in charge of our baggage, which included several dozen incantations that I thought we might need.

  I discovered that when Queen Eleanor ruled, all England jumped. The importance of Westminster was that the coronation was to be held in the cathedral there, and it was near to London, England’s greatest city and the center of its law and finance. If King Richard were really going on crusade, he would need money by the wagonload.

  Eleanor had already issued
a blizzard of edicts on a multitude of topics—pardoning criminals, relaxing the tyrannical forest laws, clamping down on corrupt officials. If her purpose was to make the people eager to accept King Richard, she failed. They wanted her to stay right where she was, on the throne.

  I was granted an audience the day after we arrived. In less than two weeks, Eleanor had established a court, so that the throne room was packed with nobles and senior officials. The throne itself stood empty, waiting for its rightful occupant, but the queen sat in a canopied chair of state beside it, glowing with joy, and apparently thriving on a pace that would have exhausted men or women half her age. Her gown was sumptuous, far grander than the workaday garb she had been reduced to wearing during her captivity. She had gotten her hands on the crown jewels, too, so that she sparkled, from her coronet to her slippers.

  She greeted me with calculated warmth—which of course was carefully noted by the audience—adding, “You and dear

  Lovise will sup with me this evening.” That was to tell me that she knew I had brought my wife.

  I presented her with the updated version of the king’s horoscope, which was all Lovise’s work. I had not needed to change a thing, only copy it out myself, since both queen and king knew my handwriting. Eleanor scanned it briefly. It showed that current year as being exceedingly favorable for him, as any fool could have guessed, but in 1190 the stars began to turn against him. By 1191 the prospects were mixed and his fortune darkened dramatically in the latter half of that year. From then until 1194, the outlook was black indeed.

  “It would seem that he had better move quickly,” his mother said, giving me an angry look, as if I ran the heavens personally. She did know better, of course. “My son has little favor for enchantment. I sometimes think he even distrusts the stars. Take it to Francois, over there, and seal it. Tell him the red wax.”

  Next!

  I bowed out. Francois’s table stood nearby. I told him the red wax. He neatly tied the scroll with ribbon, dribbled the hot wax on the knot, and I sealed it with my ring, designed by Eleanor herself, many years ago now, a crown within a pentagram. I noted that red-wax scrolls went in the smallest of three bags.