Twm unhitched the reins of the bridle and handed them to her. “Now don’t go too far, mind. She’s in no condition to gallop over the hills just yet.”
Megan led the horse outside. “Does she have a name?”
“None that I know of. You name her for me,” said Twm as he helped her spring into the saddle. She rode astride, hitching her skirts up to sit deeply in the saddle. As always she looked at home and at ease on a horse. Her earliest memories were of sitting on the saddle in front of her father. Now beneath her the mare fidgeted, taking small, nervous steps backward. Megan leaned forward and patted her sleek neck. She could feel the tension in the animal.
“Shhh, little one,” she said. “I will look after you. There is nothing to fear. Come, let us explore the meadows, where the soft grass can cool your hooves.”
The mare moved with short, anxious steps, as if afraid to leave a foot on the ground for a second longer than was necessary. She snorted at a pile of logs, arching her neck and moving her body as far from it as she could in the little yard. Where others might have tightened their grip or been concerned, Megan merely uttered soft words and urged her mount on quietly, through the gate and into the large, gently sloping fields. At the sight of the open space before her the mare began to jog and champ at the bit in her mouth. Megan instinctively dropped the reins, giving the animal its head, but sat deep and firm. She let the mare slip into a canter and as the horse gained courage its stride lengthened and loosened until it near floated over the ground. Gradually, Megan felt the horse begin to trust her. The mare flicked her ears backward to listen to Megan’s words of encouragement. By the time they returned to the barn the mare was walking with a long, happy gait, her head low and her manner tranquil.
Twm grinned proudly up at Megan. “You and she are well suited, Daughter.”
“She lacks courage, but she has a good nature.” Megan slipped easily to the ground, rubbing the mare’s ears fondly. “It will be a lucky lady who is given such a graceful and responsive mount.”
“I may have to look far and wide to find a maid can get the best from the mare, as you have done.”
“She will stay here some time then,” she said with a smile as she led the animal back to its stall. “Good! Oh, I had almost forgotten, I brought this for your new colt. It will rid him of his scar.” She took a small clay jar from her pocket and handed it to Twm. “Lavender oil. Enough for a full month, I think. That should be sufficient.”
“You have been taking ingredients for your remedies from your mistress’s garden again? Have a care—if she catches you, she will have a price from you, one way or another.”
“Lady Rhiannon rarely visits the garden, and never after dark. Besides, she can spare a few heads of lavender. They are of more use to you.”
They made their way to the stall where the young colt was eagerly eating his feed. He had not yet been weaned from his mother, who stood calmly beside him, but still he was hungry for extra sustenance. Growing so fast Megan could almost see him change before her eyes. He had a coat the color of the winter sun and with as great a brilliance, even in the dimness of the barn. He had not yet grown to fit his skinny limbs, and his whole frame was angular and stretched with the effort of transformation from babe to young horse. He was a bold animal and paid no heed to Twm as he rubbed the oil into his hind leg.
“He will make someone a fine destrier one day, mark my words,” Twm said with pride. “Good enough for any lord or knight you care to name.”
Megan watched him tend the horse for a moment, then forced herself to address the real reason for her visit.
“I hear you have a new neighbor. Someone has taken the croft.”
“Ty Bychan, you mean? Yes, the castle gossips are well informed.”
“Have you seen him?”
“From a distance. We have not yet met.”
“You should introduce yourself, Father.”
“I should?”
“Surely it is only neighborly,” she said, searching for ways to probe further. “And it may be he has need of a mount. It is not like you to miss the chance of making a sale.”
Twm straightened up and looked closely at Megan. “So, here it is, the true purpose of your visit. Did his Lordship send you to question me on this matter?”
Megan blushed, uncomfortable at having in any way deceived her father.
“No. It was Lady Rhiannon. She believes the stranger could be the prophet and magician Merlin. There has been talk. She wants to know the truth of it.”
“It is as I have said: I have not yet met my new neighbor. But take heed, Daughter. A man who chooses to live so far from others without apparent reason for doing so does not want to be troubled. You would do well to leave such a person to himself. What is more, I doubt your Ladyship’s motives are of the purest nature.”
“I am sorry, Father. I had no choice but to ask you. And I fear Lady Rhiannon will not be content with such sparse information.”
“Tell her I know little. Tell her the man seems ordinary. Of no interest to her. She will send someone else to find out what she wants to know. You are best off staying out of such matters, if it can be done.”
Megan nodded, biting her bottom lip. She wanted to be reassured by what her father said, but she knew her mistress too well to think she would be so easily satisfied.
Twm put his arm around his daughter. “Now we have a far more important matter to discuss,” he said seriously.
“Oh?” Megan looked up at him.
“Yes. You still haven’t named that white mare.” He gave her a hug and steered her toward the house. “And you can’t consider such a grave subject without a little food. Come, let me be a fussing father and feed you. You’ve no more meat on you than that colt over there.”
After a another hour in her father’s company Megan knew she could delay her return to the castle no longer. She said good-bye to him fondly and set off on the route that would take her through the woods on her way back. The heat of the day was tiring, so that the shade of the leafy trees was very welcome. She paused at the patch of garlic she had noticed the day before. She knelt down and gently lifted one of the plants, carefully wriggling its bulb free of the dry soil. The strong, distinctive smell filled her nose and stung her eyes as she packed her prize away in the pocket of her skirts. She was about to get to her feet when the sense of someone, or something, watching her made her freeze. Cautiously, she raised her head and peered into the woodland, searching for whatever was there. She felt frightened. Irrationally so, she thought, for she knew these woods better than the castle gardens and had never had cause to be afraid before. A low growl made her heart miss a beat. Into the glade, on stealthy paws, stepped a full-grown, dark grey wolf. The only time Megan had seen a wolf before was when her father’s cousin, the wolf catcher from beyond the far valley, had brought a dead one through the town one market day. She had never encountered a live one, and the sight of it was terrifying, stirring in her her own animal instinct to keep motionless, or to run. The beast was too close to risk running, so she could think of nothing else that might save her skin other than to remain still as a stone and pray the pungent garlic would mask her own scent. The wolf raised his nose and sniffed the air, staring all the while straight at Megan with small, shiny eyes. A movement among the trees brought an involuntary gasp from her.
Could there be a pack of wolves? Here, in these woods she had known her whole life and where she had never seen a single one?
She waited, transfixed with fear, hardly daring to look and see what was going to emerge from the undergrowth. To her astonishment, it was a man. He was tall and lean, with a mane of black hair and a full beard. He looked to be young, but definitely a man rather than a boy. Somehow, though, his true age was hard to be sure of. He came to stand beside the wolf and let his hand drop onto the animal. A wordless command seemed to pass from him to the fearsome beast. The wolf lay down, still watching Megan closely, but no longer in an attitude of possible attack. Megan strug
gled to make sense of what she was seeing. First the shock of the wolf itself, and now this stranger who appeared to have tamed the animal. She rose unsteadily to her feet. The man nodded courteously.
“You were looking for me,” he said. It was not a question but a statement of fact.
Megan was confused.
“I have been visiting my father. I am on my way back to Castle Craig,” she told him.
“My name is Merlin,” said the man, looking squarely at her.
She noticed now how uncommonly blue his eyes were, like rosemary flowers, or a noon sky in summer. They seemed to shine out of him with a light all their own. And when he locked his gaze onto hers she was as transfixed as she had been by the sight of the wolf.
Merlin stepped forward until he was standing not more than an arm’s length from Megan. He gestured toward the wolf.
“Please, do not be afraid. He is harmless as any hunting dog. Only those who would threaten me need fear him.”
The animal got up and loped to its master’s side, where it nuzzled his hand. Megan watched in wonder.
“Can I … can I touch him?” she asked. When Merlin nodded she moved cautiously toward the animal, then reached out a trembling hand. The wolf sniffed her palm, then sneezed as the garlic burned his nostrils. Megan laughed, and looked up to see Merlin laughing silently, too, his face animated and softened by his smile. She reached forward once more and touched the wolf’s dense coat. “Oh,” she said, “it is softer than a lamb’s wool! Who would have believed such a thing?”
The wolf seemed to enjoy the attention and was happy to let her make a fuss of him. Megan found herself so fascinated by the creature she all but forgot Merlin until he spoke again.
“It is often true that being close to the object of our fears is not as terrifying as we had supposed it to be. It is the threat of terror that controls a man more than the terror itself.”
Megan turned her attention away from the wolf and back to its master. He was softly spoken for such a powerful-looking man. There was a curious grace about his movements and a lightness to his footfall. Indeed, he seemed to have more in common with the wild animal at his side than with any man Megan could bring to mind. And yet, at the same time, there was nothing savage about him. She shook her head as if to clear it of such idle thoughts and bring her to the task she had been set.
“You have taken the croft above my father’s house. You and he are neighbors now,” she said, then added “I am certain he would welcome you, should you call on him.” She was surprised to hear herself uttering such a suggestion, and was not at all sure it was true. Nonetheless, whatever her father’s warnings, she felt this man could be trusted. “He is a breeder of fine horses, should you have need of one.”
“I am looking for a mount. Something simple and hardy. I will call on your father one day soon.” As he spoke he continued to regard Megan with interest, apparently searching her face, as if trying to read her every expression. “But it was not your father who sent you to seek me out. You were on an errand for your mistress.”
Megan felt unnerved that he knew so much. She had heard him called a prophet and a seer, but she had not, until this moment, stopped to think what that meant. Could it be he had somehow divined the details of her visit to her father’s house? No, surely some of the gossip from the castle must have reached his ears. That was the more likely explanation.
“Lady Rhiannon expressed an interest in your being in the region. It is true she sent me to ask after you. She had heard of your reputation as a seer.”
“But thought only sufficient of it to send a girl as her messenger?”
He was teasing her now, she was sure of it. Despite herself she heard her own temper in her voice.
“Is it such a reputation as only a man can value? Or does Merlin the Magician consider a woman unworthy of his conversation, perhaps?” Megan knew she had spoken sharply and was cross with herself for giving rein to her feelings.
Merlin’s face showed he disliked her response, as if his gentle joke had been misconstrued.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I had no wish to offend you.”
“For you to offend me I would have to give weight to your opinion. It is of no matter to me how you regard me. I am merely carrying out the wishes of my Lady. Now that I have found you, I can inform her that her information was correct. What she chooses to do with that knowledge is not my concern.”
She made as if to step past Merlin, but he moved to block her path. Now, close up, she could see that his apparently grim expression was born of trying to suppress a smile. That he should be laughing at her further fueled Megan’s indignation.
“Be kind enough to let me pass, sir,” she said, deliberately avoiding his hypnotic gaze.
“Tell your mistress I am her servant.” He remained in her way for a moment longer, then stepped aside with a low bow in an exaggerated gesture of formality.
Megan swept passed, striding on without so much as a farewell. As she walked on she could feel his eyes still upon her. Only when she had marched some distance into the dense woodland did she allow herself to pause. Hesitantly, she turned, but he and his unnerving companion had melted back into the trees as silently as they had appeared.
* * *
THE FOLLOWING DAY Megan was summoned by her mistress. As she climbed the steep stairs, she felt strangely ill at ease at having to discuss her father’s curious new neighbor with her mistress. She told herself he had been unconcerned at Lady Rhiannon’s interest and had announced himself to be her servant. Nonetheless, he did not seem the sort of man who would, in truth, care to be associated with such a woman. Megan felt in her bones that no good could come of their meeting. And yet, why should she concern herself? Here is yet another man with no regard for women, save they can be of use to him in some way, she thought. Where then is the magic and wisdom?
She found her mistress reclining on soft bolsters and rugs on a low chair, her feet raised on a tapestry stool. She was dressed for day, but her left arm was exposed to the shoulder. Beside her stood a small man, late in years, stooped and slow. He wore a dark cap and the robes of a man of leechcraft. Megan felt her stomach turn as he took a needle-fine bodkin and pressed it to her mistress’s exposed flesh. She had known, of course, that Lady Rhiannon favored the practice of bloodletting, but she had escaped witnessing the procedure until now. As the wine red stream trickled along the outstretched arm and flowed off her wrist in a narrow ribbon the lady’s maid hurried forward with a pewter bowl. The sound of liquid pouring from a height onto metal signaled the collection of the noble blood. Lady Rhiannon appeared entirely at ease with what was being done. Indeed, her state of relaxation suggested she gained some pleasure from having her vein opened. Megan considered the habit the utmost stupidity. She had never even used the treatment on any horse she had tended, though she understood for some people in extreme sickness it could prove beneficial. But to use it as a cosmetic aid, to improve the whiteness of the skin, was, to her, pure folly.
The solar looked different in daylight, though it remained gloomy and dimly lit. The curtains around the bed were tied back, showing it neat, tidy, and empty. The floor had been swept clear but no fresh rushes or herbs thrown down. One small candle burned near Lady Rhiannon. The overall effect was of order. Gone was the warmth, the passion, the heavy air that had filled the room on Megan’s last visit. In spite of the warm day, the space felt cold and unwelcoming. It was clear Lady Rhiannon was preparing for Lord Geraint’s return.
“Well, Megan, what news have you for me?” Lady Rhiannon spoke with her eyes closed, her face languid. She signaled to her maid, who stepped forward to brush her lady’s hair with long, soothing strokes, making it shine like the wing of a raven.
“Your information was correct, my Lady. The man now living at the croft is indeed the one they call Merlin the Magician.”
“Good. Your father has met him?”
“No, my Lady. Though he has seen him from a distance.”
“And this is all the proof you have of the man’s identity? Is your father, too, in possession of powers of prophecy and foresight?” Lady Rhiannon opened her eyes now, but only to scowl, not to look in Megan’s direction.
“No, my Lady. That is, I am certain he is the man you seek, as I myself have spoken to him.”
“You?” Now she redirected her gaze, her interest aroused. She swatted away her maid with an impatient hand. “How did this come about?”
“I encountered him on my way back to the castle. He introduced himself to me.”
“Indeed?” Lady Rhiannon studied Megan closely now. “It would seem I was wise to send a pretty maid to flush him out. He is a man like any other, after all. Tell me what he had to say for himself.”
“Very little, my Lady,” She decided not to mention the wolf. “I told him who had sent me and of your interest in his … work. He said to tell you that he is your servant.”
“Well, well.” Lady Rhiannon smiled at this, signaling for her maid to continue with her hair. “So, he is a man who knows it is wise to recognize his superiors, as well as a man who likes a pretty face. A worthwhile combination, I believe. We must arrange to meet.”
“Indeed we must!” A gruff voice from the doorway made all three women start.
Megan swung round to see Lord Geraint, still in his traveling clothes, come striding into the room. Lady Rhiannon snapped her fingers and the old man finished his work. He pressed a cloth against the inside of the exposed elbow and bound it swiftly before collecting the pewter bowl and melting into the shadows with it. In his haste he moved the vessel too quickly and a splash of blood sloshed to the floor. Lady Rhiannon gave no sign of having noticed, but Megan and the maid exchanged glances, the significance of spilled blood being lost on neither of them. They curtsied as their master approached.
“My Lord.” There was no warmth in Lady Rhiannon’s voice at the sight of her husband. “You are returned early.”
“As you see.”
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