The Mammoth Book of Merlin

by Mike Ashley

  But he was smiling blandly when he straightened his knees and released her hand, though he staggered slightly and blinked again.

  Now the lady gazed at Lorn, and he stared back at her. She smiled a little with her bright, soft mouth; and her eyes – whatever their color in honest sunlight – were black and warm and limpid. But his eyes were clouded strangely, and his lips unsmiling. She put out her hand shyly and uttered a shy, tender whisper of soft laughter. Then he knelt lightly, took and kissed her fingers and rose lightly to his feet again – but to sway and stagger for a moment, and steady himself with a fumbling hand on the King’s shoulder. Squire Peter saluted the lady’s hand without kneeling to it, but his face and the back of his leathery neck were red as fire. Squire Gervis put even the King’s courtly gesture to shame, and kept his lips on the jeweled and scented fingers so long that he might well have been testing the pearls in the rings.

  The guests found themselves at table: but how this came about, not one of the four could have told you. It was a round table, and not large. It was spread with damask as white and bright as snow, and illuminated by scores of beeswax tapers in tall, branched sticks of silver; and there were other clusters of tapers in sconces on the walls. Stemmed cups of foreign crystal as fragile as bubbles to the eye, and vessels of gold and silver, some of them studded with gems, glowed and glinted like flowers and stars. Behind one chair stood the major-domo in his robes of office, with the manikin beside him, and behind each of the others stood an ancient footman in a livery of murrey and pea-green laced with tarnished silver. There were only five chairs. There was but the one lady present. The King and Peter were on her right, and Sir Lorn and Gervis on her left – but thanks to the smallness and shape of the table, none was far removed from her. In fact, the squires could gaze at their ease, whereas their masters had to turn their heads slightly to look at her.

  “My companion, the damosel Mary, is indisposed, but hopes to join us later, with her harp,” the lady informed them all, but with her gaze and smile on the King.

  Torrice acknowledged the information with a feeble smirk. He was still mazed. He had braced himself to meet the lachrymose gratitude of a bereaved dame of advanced age, and heartbreaking pleas for further relief. And what had he met? Could this be the widow of a doddering old stargazer? He had seen, and had to do with, beauties in every court in Christendom, and dames and damosels of devastating charms in many sylvan bowers and remote castles, and – or was this but vain thinking? – ladies whose enchantments were more than human, without losing his freedom for long at a time. And to lose it now! His very soul, at last! Nay, it could not be! Not his free and questing soul! He would not believe it. He glanced past her, at his grandson. Lorn was staring fixedly to his front, with a pale face. Torrice glanced farther, at young Gervis, who was regarding their hostess with bright-eyed, pink-faced and rapturous ardor. He looked at Peter, hoping that his practical, unvisionary, tough ex-groom at least would be unaffected by this thing which had already enmeshed his gentler companions. But not so! That matter-of-fact young man was gaping even more ardently than Gervis.

  Yellow wine was poured. It made giant topazes of the cups of crystal. The lark-and-pigeon pie was served. The King had set out with a fine appetite, but where was it now? He had only a thirst now. He drained his cup. It was refilled, and so he emptied it again. The squires also had lost their appetites and retained their thirsts. But the young knight, it seemed, had lost both. Of the five, only the lady comported herself without sign of mental or emotional disturbance. She sipped the yellow wine occasionally and composedly, but not – so Torrice observed excitedly – from a bubble of rare glass, but from the little silver-gilt cup of his giving.

  And when he saw, at that incomparable white throat, the modest necklace which he had sent to her, a confusion of shame and exultation all but suffocated him. Why had he not sent his finest remaining string of emeralds, or of diamonds or rubies, or brought it in his pouch? Why had he ever distributed such things – priceless treasures all from the secret and immemorial treasure-chest of Har – to the right and the left up and down the world and over the years? He moaned at the thought of the wasted expenditures of his lifelong quest. No exception could be taken to the quest itself, as he had proved on the bodies of hundreds with spear and sword: but it graveled him now to recall, however mistily in most instances, the innumerable necks and bosoms of beauties – aye, and the wrists and fingers – adorned by him on his long and crooked road to Beauty herself.

  For he could not doubt he had found her – Beauty herself, soul and body in one – though this astounding realization was tinged with a fearful reluctance and a sense of weariness that was almost of despair. His crystal cup was shining like a topaz again. He drained it once more and sighed profoundly. So this was the end of the high quest! And the achievement was as dust and ashes in his heart and mouth – in the heart and mouth of an old man. For Merlin had destroyed his dream of immortal manhood. Now he mourned the fact that his quest had not lasted out his mortal life. Now he knew that, however far he might ride in the months or years remaining to him, the marvel he had sought would lie behind him, found by him, but not for him to grasp.

  His crystal cup glowed again, but now redly like a great ruby. He drained it. He turned his head and met her questioning gaze. Or was it questioning? Or telling? Whichever – whatever – it held his own gaze fast.

  “Who are you?” he asked; and his voice sounded strange to him, and from far away.

  She whispered, leaning a little to him and smiling: “I am the lady of the manor.”

  He said: “You are very young, and Sir Gayling was old – but not so old as I.”

  She veiled her eyes and unveiled them instantly, even brighter, and deeper, and kinder than before.

  “You are not old like poor Gayling. He was so old that only the stars were old enough for him to love. But I know about you, King Torrice of Har, who have kept a young heart without the help of sorcery, on a high quest. Oh, a mad quest – of pleasure and excitement and change: but you called it noble, and by a noble name – the Quest of the Soul of Beauty.”

  “It is noble,” he protested, but weakly. He tried to avoid her gaze, but in vain.

  “I am a poet too – not only a knight-at-arms, not only a lord of lands,” he went on confusedly. “Beauty! I have sought her at peril of limb and life, at cost of blood and treasure. The Soul of Beauty. I have made songs to her: the best in all Christendom. They have been stolen and sung by generations of jinking troubadours. But I am not the Lord God, nor Archangel Michael, nor even a sneaking wizard, to know soul from body at a glance. There was Lorn’s grandmother. There was nothing of beauty there deeper than her skin. And the Princess of Castile, with – but what matter now? It was long ago.”

  “And now you have given up,” she sighed, and withdrew her gaze.

  He saw that the cup of crystal had become a glowing ruby again; and again he turned it back to a bubble of air.

  “No, I have found you,” he muttered. “Beauty! Soul and body in one. And mortal. And I am mortal – but old – as old as Merlin; but not ageless, like that warlock. There is nothing now – the quest ended – only the hope for a quick end left – and God’s mercy!”

  She looked at him. His head drooped, and he stared down at his trencher with unseeing, desolated eyes. She glanced to her left. The young knight, staring fixedly at a candle-flame, paid no heed. She smiled at the squires, both of whom were regarding her ardently. She turned back to the old King.

  “I know all about you and your quest, and the Irish grandson and the trick Merlin played you, long ago, in the guise of a hag in a red cloak,” she said.

  “The old palmer told you,” he muttered. “He was Merlin.”

  She laughed softly.

  “Yes, he was that warlock, that poor palmer. Do you think I did not know? Or that I did not know about you without any help from him? Look at me.”

  He looked at her. She smiled and touched his nearer wrist with li
ght finger-tips.

  “Do you see that for which you have quested and bled, and kissed and ridden away from, all your long, mad life?”

  He nodded and moaned.

  “Nay, do not grieve, dear Torrice. You are old, ’tis true – but the beauty you quested for is old too. And I am old too.”

  “Are you? What are you?” he gasped.

  “Are you afraid of me – even if I am a sorceress?” she sighed.

  Was It Sorcery or Inspiration?

  It was late when the Lady Clara’s guests returned to the pavilion beside the river and the willows. Joseph, who had guided them with a lanthorn, stopped only long enough to light a few tapers for them. King Torrice sat down heavily on the first couch he chanced to stumble against, and held his head with both hands. Peter and Gervis did likewise. Only Sir Lorn appeared to have the complete mastery of his legs.

  “It was the wines – yellow and red and green,” moaned the King.

  “And pink,” moaned Gervis.

  “Pink? Nay, I saw no pink. What did you see, Lorn? Did you see a pink wine?”

  “No sir, only yellow – and I drank but two cups,” mumbled the young knight, who stood steadily enough, but with a hand to his brow and his eyes burning in his pallid face.

  “There were wines of every color,” said Peter thickly, “and I drank them all – like one bewitched.”

  “And you’re drunk!” Torrice cried fretfully. “You too, Gervis! Me too! But you, dear lad? You must be sober – on two cups.”

  “I don’t know,” muttered Lorn.

  “You can’t be otherwise, dear lad. Two cups. Tell me what you saw. Tell me of this Dame Clara. She looked very young to me. How did she look to you?”

  “Yes sir. Very young.”

  “And – ah! – comely?”

  “Beautiful!” cried Gervis, springing to his feet, only to reseat himself as suddenly and clasp his head again.

  Lorn nodded.

  “And you found her beautiful, dear lad?”

  Lorn nodded again. Squire Peter uttered a short, harsh note of despairing laughter.

  “Why don’t you say it?” he cried. “Drunk or sober, you could see she’s beautiful! I could see she’s beautiful, and I’m not afraid to say so – tell the world – mauger my head! Me, stable-born! That lady’s beautiful, I say! Rose of the world! Who says she isn’t?”

  “You are drunk, good Peter,” said the King. “Calm yourself. My poor brains are jangled enough without your unmannerly howls. Nobody says she’s not beautiful. I asked for a sober man’s opinion, that’s all.”

  Peter muttered an apology and hung his head.

  “Sir, I’m not sober, but I want to say that I think as you do, Your Highness – Your Majesty,” said young Gervis, speaking with care and a look of profound deliberation. “I think – my studied opinion, sir – she is everything you named her in your wonderful song.”

  “What’s that?” cried King Torrice. “What song?”

  “Your latest, sir – and most wonderful, in my humble opinion. The one you sang tonight.”

  “You’re mad! I did not sing tonight. But hold! Or did I? Now that you mention it, I seem to – but no, I’d remember it – unless I was bewitched!”

  “Gervis speaks truth,” said Sir Lorn, gravely and sadly. “You sang tonight, sir; and it was a song I had never heard before, and the best I have ever heard. It was after the Damosel Mary played her harp and sang a few ditties.”

  The King protested that he knew nothing of it.

  “Then you were bewitched in very truth,” said his grandson. “For she made a great to-do with the biggest harp I ever saw.”

  “And a voice to match it,” said Peter.

  Torrice protested ignorance again, but uncertainly.

  “And yet you left your seat and went to her and took the harp from her,” said Gervis. “You must remember that, sir! Your eyes were wide open. And Lady Clara said to the damosel, who tried to push you away – and she was old enough to be Lady Clara’s grandmother: ‘Let him have it, Mary.’ So she let Your Majesty have it, but with a scowl on her face. Then you made a song to Lady Clara. You sang like a flute, sir, and now and again like a trumpet, but mostly like a flute; all the while the harp sobbed and sighed and hummed like little breezes in a forest of pines. You called her Beauty and Desire, sunshine and moonlight and star-shine, saint and enchantress, Love and Life and Immortality, goddess and witch, a rose and a dew-drop and a star, and by some heathenish names I had not heard before. And Lady Clara wept but did not hide her face, and smiled through her tears. And the ancient damosel covered her face with her hands, and so did Sir Lorn, and even Peter had to wipe his eyes.”

  The King turned a troubled, inquiring face to his grandson.

  “It is the truth,” said Sir Lorn grimly.

  The King looked at Peter.

  “It is Christ’s truth,” honest Peter told him, gruffly. “Nay, Satan’s, more likely! You were bewitched and bedeviled, sir. No mortal man – not the best poet in the world – could make such a song else – nor any drink from this side heaven or hell!”

  “Inspiration!” cried Torrice fretfully. “Must you bawl witchcraft and deviltry just because I make a good song? I’m a poet. Pure inspiration. But as I cannot recall it – song nor incident – not clearly . . . . The wine may have something to do with it. But enough of this! Let me sleep now. We all need sleep.”

  “May I suggest, sir, that Duke Merlin bedeviled the wine?” ventured Gervis.

  “Hah – that old trickster!” the King exclaimed. “What more likely – since he brought us here on his bedeviled horseshoes? He doesn’t love me, that warlock! He first tricked me long ago, in the matter of an elixir. And today he stayed Lorn’s dagger from Drecker’s throat. And tonight those wines! We must be on our guard every moment, at every step. But now let me sleep!”

  After a little while of grumbling and uneasy tossing, the dark pavilion was silent save for the old King’s fitful and uneven snores, and the occasional sighs and moans of his companions. Every one of them suffered strange dreams. Torrice fought with a knight in black armor, both of them afoot in dry sand, until arms and legs ached with weariness; and his sword broke on the black helmet, but that same stroke brought the sable knight groveling in the sand; and when Torrice tore away the helmet – behold, the thing disclosed was a fleshless, eyeless skull! He had done battle with a dead man.

  And Sir Lorn wandered about the margins of autumnal tarns and in desolate mountain gorges with red sunsets flaring at their far ends. And the squires pursued damosels who turned into hags in red cloaks, and creatures of mist and moonshine, and hedge-goblins and young dragons, between their hands. All were dreams of ill omen, according to the best authorities; so it was fortunate that only illusive and elusive fragments remained with the dreamers when they woke . . .

  It was another fine summer morning. Sir Lorn, who had taken only two cups of the Lady Clara’s yellow wine, was the first of the four cavaliers to wake. He went out from the pavilion softly and into a new world of level sunshine and dew-washed greenery. His eyes were clear, but his mind and heart were darkened by dream-shadows. As he looked about him, the shadows withdrew. He saw Goggin and Billikin busy among the horses; and he heard them too, for the lively fellows were whistling to match the birds in the willows and orchards. Observing the increase of the herd by the five big black chargers, yesterday flashed on his mind like pictures:

  Five strange horses? Five instead of six! He alone had failed to contribute a good beast to the herd and a dead rogue to the common grave! Again he saw Drecker galloping off unscathed; and he blushed with shame. To blame the warlock Merlin did not occur to his honest mind. He blamed his own faint heart. To slay a man horsed and spear in hand, or afoot and sword in hand on even terms, had never distressed him greatly, for he had never – unless in that time of which he had no clear memory? – engaged to the death with any save tyrants and murderers and false knights of sorts; but to kill one beaten and disarmed and
squealing for mercy, he lacked the required hardihood. He knew this, and felt guilt and shame. And then he thought of that old questing king-errant his grandfather, asleep there in the pavilion behind him. He had seen that champion in six mortal combats, but never had he seen him put a disarmed and beaten foe to death.

  So he thought less shamefully now of having spared that false knight.

  Young Gervis issued from the pavilion and greeted his master with a merry face. Sir Lorn regarded him with surprise, having expected to see pallid cheeks and bleary eyes.

  “It was faery wine of a certainty, sir, for even if I had drunk as little last night as you did, I swear I’d feel no brighter than I do,” babbled the squire. “And I pray the same for the King and Peter. I suffered some horrid dreams – but they have fled already, glory be to the holy saints! And now to bathe and shave, sir.”

  “Shave what?” Lorn asked gravely.

  “I have numerous sprouts, sir,” Gervis informed him proudly; “and ’tis a full sennight since I last laid steel to them. And may I venture to suggest that a touch of the razor might become you as well, sir; for I seem to remember having noticed something last night – and that by the dazzle of tapers. We may meet her again – the lady of the manor, that is to say! – at any moment; and in broad daylight, I hope. That’s to say, I hope the King doesn’t intend to ride away without seeing her again.”

  Lorn fingered his chin and cheeks thoughtfully, and puckered his brow, before he replied:

  “I hope not. He can’t do that. She – these defenceless people – are still in peril. It is my fault, for letting Drecker escape. So it is my duty to remain till all danger from Drecker is past. He will see that, at a word from me – my grandfather will. And I think you are right about my face. But my razor is duller than a hedger’s hook.”

  “You may use mine. It is of Damascus steel and honed to a whisper. Come down to the river, sir, and we’ll both use it.”

  So they went down to a screened pool in the river and bathed and shaved. They were joined there by Peter, who raised his eyebrows for a moment in acknowledgement of their smooth faces, but reported matter-of-factly that he had inspected the horse-lines and found all correct.