A cry went up.
“Mair the Cwm is stuck fast beneath the wheel!”
Men struggled to right the cart, but the dead horse and collapsed load made it a near impossible object to lift.
“Fetch poles!” shouted a stallholder.
“Cut loose that horse!” yelled another.
Megan knelt in the mud, sinking up to her thighs. She could see Mair, eyes wide and frightened, pain distorting the young woman’s gentle features. Megan crawled under as far as she could, reaching out to take hold of Mair’s hand.
“Do not fear, Mair. Help is here,” she said. But even as she spoke she could see the light fading from her neighbor’s eyes. She peered out, meeting Merlin’s questioning look. “We must free her. The breath is being crushed from her body.”
“They are dragging away the horse,” Merlin told her. “And bringing poles to use as levers.”
Megan shook her head. “It will be too late.”
Merlin took in what she said, then moved back a short way. Megan watched, knowing he was about to do something, but having no idea what. She noticed sounds diminish. She could still see the mouths of the people around her open and shut and knew them to be shouting, but her own ears were cloaked with an unnatural silence. She felt a cool breeze against her skin, although the clouds sat steady in the sky. Then, as if some mighty unseen hand were lifting it, the underneath of the cart began to move. While Merlin remained unblinking, his eyes glazed, his breath shallow, the wagon raised itself up until it was hovering a hand’s breadth above Mair’s chest.
“Take her out!” Megan screamed, coming to her senses. “Pull her free!”
A dozen hands grasped the girl and slid her free of the cart. An instant later it crashed to the floor once more, its own weight splintering the wheel and splitting the framework of the underside of the wagon.
Megan scrambled to her feet. Merlin had fallen forward, shoulders slumped, and was struggling for breath. She put her arm about his shoulders.
“Merlin? Merlin, are you well?”
Slowly he straightened up, his labored breathing returning to a more normal rhythm. He put his hand over hers and nodded. About them people fussed and hurried to tend to Mair. In all the muddle and noise no one save Megan seemed to have noticed how the wagon came to move. She looked at the man she still held on to, wondering what manner of being could possess such a gift, and fearing that what could today be a blessing, could tomorrow prove a curse.
6
LESS THAN ONE week later Megan stood uncomfortably beside the long table in the great hall. She did not know exactly why she had been summoned to Lord Geraint’s presence, but she was certain it would have something to do with Merlin. The Lammas Day feast had left matters unresolved between the two men, and Megan knew her master well enough. He would not give up so easily. If he had his mind set on gaining Merlin’s help, one way or another he would get it.
Lord Geraint sat at the end of the table, leaning back in his grand wooden chair, eyeing Megan in a way that made her feel naked before him. Two of his favorite hunting dogs lay at his feet.
“Why is it you are always so stiff in my presence, Megan? Do you fear me?”
“No, my Lord.”
“You know I wish only the best for you,” he said, getting to his feet and coming to stand behind her. His speech was made unclear by wine and his breath smelled strongly. He put a hand on Megan’s shoulder. “You looked most beguiling in your pretty clothes at the festival. You would wear finery well, I think. I could give you everything your heart desires.” He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “Imagine, Megan, the softest spun wool, cool cotton, and silk from distant shores. Silver at your throat. Shoes of the supplest leather. Splendid food. The very best of everything. All that I would ask in return would be your favor.”
His breath was hot on her neck now. It took a great effort of will for Megan not to pull away, to push him from her.
“You are too kind, my Lord. But I am a simple maid. I have no desire for luxury. Only that I be permitted to follow my own heart.”
She waited, expecting his rage, or at the very least his displeasure. Instead he produced a small leather bag.
“I have something for you,” he told her. “A token of my affection, if you will.” He took from the bag an exquisite ring of silver set with the biggest amethyst Megan had ever seen. She could not help but gasp.
“Does it please you?” he asked, for once sounding as if her opinion truly mattered to him.
“It is most beautiful, my Lord. But I could not possibly take it.”
“But I insist. I shall be most offended if you refuse.” He took her hand and slid the ring onto her finger. “There, a perfect fit. No, do not object. I want you to wear it and to think of me each time the sun’s rays gleam from it. Remember, this is the way things could be for you, Megan, in return for your own affection. And your loyalty, of course.”
“I hope I am always loyal to both my master and my mistress.”
“Lady Rhiannon’s interests need not concern you. Have no fear of reprisal from your mistress. She is herself well versed in the ways of the world. No, you can show your loyalty, to both of us, and to our boys, whom I know you care for greatly.”
“I do, sir.”
“Just so. And you would see them stay safe?”
“Though my life depended on it.”
“I do not ask so high a price. Only that you keep us all in your mind when next you visit your magician.”
“My Lord?”
“Come now, let us not play games. It was clear to the oldest man with the poorest sight that Merlin was charmed by you and that he will seek you out. Well, good. We can use such interest to best advantage. I make no secret of the fact I wish him to assist me against Lord Idris. I have not yet pressed the issue, but I already sense his resistance. You, my dear, could persuade him. Of that I have no doubt.”
“Merlin is his own man, my Lord. I could not make him act against his will.”
“Could not, or would not?”
Lord Geraint began to pace the long room, not looking at Megan now, his eyes cold, his face stern as he spoke.
“Let me speak plainly. I have found, in my many years of soldiering, that there are two effective strategies which can be employed before so much as a sword has been raised in anger. The first, and my preferred method in this instance, is that of persuasion, of negotiation, if you will. This can provide the best outcome for all concerned.” He paused to ruffle the coat of one of his hounds. “The second can be used with equal success, though at the expense of those weakest in the suit.” He looked up at her now, a tight smile belying the force of his words. “Just as every foe has his weakness, so has every potential ally. Merlin, it seems, is a solitary figure, and though he shows an interest in you, that is a new affection, and may indeed not be enough on its own. Unless you were to press matters, to cajole, to influence … You have voiced your own reluctance. You suggest you cannot be persuaded by gentle means to do as I ask and use your charms to bring Merlin to my heel. Take care, Megan, for there is someone else who has a claim on your heart. Should you fail me, things might not go well with him.”
“My father?”
“Let us simply say that his continued good health is in your delicate hands, my dear.”
After being dismissed by her master Megan was too distressed to go straight to her chamber. Instead she walked the gardens. The moon was full and the sky cloudless, so that her own moon shadow followed her as she paced and fretted. She could feel herself being pulled deeper and deeper into the muddy waters of Lord Geraint’s ambitions. To deceive Merlin, to press him to ally himself to such a man as her master was unthinkable. But if she refused, what fate awaited her poor, dear father? Should she leave now, warn her father, persuade him to quit the farm and flee? He would never do that. Perhaps she could simply stay away from Merlin. If she had no contact with him, Lord Geraint could surely not hold her to blame for her lack of influence. She could tell
him he had placed too much value on the magician’s interest in her. That it was a passing fancy. That she could bring no influence to bear in any case.
Megan stopped by the pond and gazed down into the glossy water. Frogs belched and growled. An owl hooted nearby. She contemplated her reflection, her face tense and frowning. As she watched the water rippled, though she had not seen a creature break the surface. Then, suddenly, her mirrored image faded before her eyes and was replaced by another face. Merlin’s face. Megan gasped, as much from wonder as from fear. She looked closer, assuring herself this was no trick of the moonlight. He was there. Watching her. The thought of his presence made her feel calmer. Stronger. It also made her realize that keeping from him was not a course she could make herself choose.
A noise behind her made her start. She wheeled round.
“Who is it? Who is there?”
“Forgive me.” Dafydd stepped into view. “I did not mean to startle you, Megan.”
“Dafydd. Were you looking for me?”
“It is Midnight. He is ailing.” Dafydd looked deeply concerned.
“What ails him?”
“I cannot be sure.”
“Is his condition grave?”
“I fear we may lose him before morning. Will you come?”
“You had only to ask.” In an instant all other thoughts were banished from her mind. “Take me to him.”
In his stall, Midnight stood with his head hanging low. The horse’s eyes bulged and rolled in pain. His flanks were slick with sweat, and his chest heaved with labored breath. Megan ran a hand over his proud neck. It moved her near to tears to see him suffering so. She gently pulled back his lips to reveal gums the color of rotting carrots. She sniffed his breath and recoiled at the putrid stench.
“There, fellow, you are a sorry sight. How long has he been like this, Dafydd?”
“Since dusk.”
“You should have fetched me sooner.”
“At first I thought ’twas just the colic. He’s had it before. I dosed him as usual, but the pain became worse.” Dafydd shook his head. “Can you save him, Megan?”
It was a question of importance not only for the sake of the poor beast. If Dafydd let his master’s favorite mount die he would, at best, be stripped of employment and home. At worst, Lord Geraint’s temper might not be restrained.
Megan was all too well aware of what was at stake.
“Bring me an armful of fresh-cut bracken—the greenest ferns you can find. And warm water, plenty of it. And a large piece of calico. Salt, too. Go to the kitchen—you will have to wake the cook for the key.”
“You do not think it is simple colic then?”
Megan shook her head.
“He is not rolling, nor kicking his belly. There is a sickness poisoning him. Something he has eaten or a disease. I cannot tell which. Either way, we must purge him.”
“That could work.”
“It could, if the sickness has not yet spread to his blood and taken hold. I won’t lie to you, Dafydd, we may lose him yet.”
The two exchanged worried looks before Dafydd hurried away to fetch what was needed. Megan took the animal’s head in her hands and kissed it fondly.
“There, there, my handsome one. You must be strong now. Show me what a brave heart you have, and we will see the sun rise together.”
A short time later when Dafydd returned he was not alone.
“Huw! Why are you not in your bed?” Megan was too concerned for her patient to keep the harshness out of her voice. She regretted sounding so sharp at the sight of the boy’s hurt expression.
“I could not sleep, Megan. I came to look for you and found Dafydd instead. Please let me stay. I can help you.”
“Your mother would not allow it.”
“She need not know. Please, Megan, let me see what it is you do.”
Megan saw in the child a memory of herself at a young age. She recalled sitting silently in the straw watching her mother tend an ailing animal. Watching and learning.
“Very well. But stay quiet, young master, and keep out of the way. We have work to do here.”
“He looks very sick. Is he going to die, Megan?”
“Is that your notion of quiet, Huw?”
Chastened, the boy settled himself down and said no more.
Megan took the bracken from Dafydd and broke it into small handfuls. She pressed the bruised ferns into a large pail before pouring warm water over them. She used her hands to stir the concoction, kneading the greenery until the water was stained and pungent. Her sparkling ring was soon dulled and dirtied by the soupy liquid. She took the cloth and strained the mixture into another bucket.
“Dafydd, fetch the drenching horn.”
“Is it ready?”
“If we had time I would let it steep for an hour or more. But Midnight cannot wait even that long. Help me hold his head up.” She kissed the animal’s cheek and spoke softly to him. “Let me help you, my gentle giant. All will be well.”
While Dafydd raised the horse’s head, tipping its nose uppermost, Megan clambered onto the manger. She leaned forward and placed the drenching horn in Midnight’s mouth.
“Drink, Midnight. Drink,” she told him.
The horse flicked his ears and rolled his eyes, but put up no resistance until at last all the bitter liquid had been given.
“Good boy.” Megan stroked his damp nose as he lowered his head once more. She took the precious salt from its wrapping and held out a handful. Midnight showed no interest. Megan rubbed a little onto his mouth. He licked slowly at first, then with more vigor, until he had cleaned her palm of every grain. “There, that’s a better taste. And it will strengthen you, you’ll see.”
Megan went to sit with Huw.
“What will happen now?” he asked.
“We hope the medicine will wash out the poison from poor Midnight.”
“Can it really do that?”
“It can, but it is a strong remedy, Huw. If he is too weakened by the sickness, it could prove too much for him.”
“You mean, it could kill him?” Huw was terrified at the prospect.
Megan and Dafydd exchanged concerned glances, for the boy had voiced a new fear—that Megan would now also be held to account if the cure did not succeed.
An hour later, after the drench had done its work, the creature that stood before them was a trembling shadow of the noble animal it had once been. Dafydd worked to clear away the stinking straw and replace it with fresh. Midnight groaned and snorted, then sank heavily to the ground.
Huw leaped to his feet, tears in his eyes.
“Oh, Megan. He is dying!”
Megan took his hand and squeezed it but could find no words of comfort or reassurance to give. She knew the boy might be right. Only time would tell. She stepped forward and tried to tempt the suffering horse with more salt but he was too weak to so much as lick her hand. Megan closed her eyes as she stroked him. He had trusted her to help him; had she merely hastened his end?
“Dafydd! Dafydd, where are you, man?” Lord Geraint’s shouts could be heard before he even reached the barn. He strode through the door, his rage palpable. “What is this? I hear word that Midnight is grievous ill, and I find a maid and a boy attending him!”
“My Lord, my own remedies were having no effect,” Dafydd said as he stepped forward. “I asked Megan to help. She has saved mares and colts here before today.”
“So you let her practice her arts on my finest destrier?” Lord Geraint picked up a handful of the discarded bracken. “And she feeds him this poison!”
“I sought only to save the animal, my Lord,” said Megan.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps you found an opportunity to vent your own anger by killing a favorite of mine.”
“No! No, my Lord.”
“Father, she was trying to help poor Midnight.”
“Hold your tongue, child! I have no interest in your view of the matter. Go back to your bedchamber where you belong!”
&n
bsp; The boy shrank back as if his father had struck him.
“You would let Brychan stay,” he shouted, his voice shaking. “But not me. Never me!”
“Go, I tell you!”
The child ran from the stall. Megan wanted to chase after him, to take him in her arms and comfort him, but she was not free to leave. And Midnight still needed her.
Lord Geraint stared at the horse for a moment, then hissed at Megan.
“He had better live, d’you hear me? I will not be taken for a fool.”
So saying he left, his anger lingering in the stable after he had gone.
Megan shut his threats from her mind and turned back to her fading patient. His eyes were glazed now, and he lay flat in an attitude of hopelessness.
“Do not give up, my brave friend. Stay and fight, though this is the fiercest of all the many battles you have seen.” Megan did her best to sound calm, but tears coursed down her face. It would take nothing short of magic to give the horse the strength he must have to survive his ordeal now. As the thought formed in her head a new possibility came to her. She stole a look at Dafydd. He was busying himself with yet more bedding. Megan closed her eyes again and summoned up Merlin’s face behind her closed lids.
“Merlin,” she whispered his name. “Help us. Help us now.”
The stable fell unnaturally still. Megan waited. The horse lay motionless and touching the hem of death. A thin wind blew as if from inside the barn itself, whining around the stall, stirring up the straw. Dafydd stopped his futile work. Megan stood up, more than a little afraid, not knowing what could come next. The force of the wind increased, blowing Megan’s hair wildly about her, flinging bedding and hay in a whirlwind. Dafydd threw his arm over his eyes. Megan fought for breath as the dust was churned and hurled around the stall. Then, in a heartbeat, the tempest stopped. An eerie stillness filled the place once more. Neither Megan nor Dafydd moved. Midnight lay lifeless, until his great chest heaved in a giant, rasping breath. The animal coughed, raising his head, then hauled himself back onto his feet.
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