The Mammoth Book of Merlin

by Mike Ashley

  He meant to swear to her a binding oath never to neglect the spirit nor despise his Illuminatrice. But he woke too soon, his lungs no longer burdened, the bones in his broad chest newly healed. “Such a dream!” he told a startled Ambrosius. Arthur sat up amidst the curtains of his bed, looking about excitedly. “What is that odor?” he cried out to his mage. “Is it not midnight roses, and myrrh from a distant land?”

  “No, my ward, it is the scent of hazel,” said Merlin, hiding his wonderment when he saw, amidst Arthur’s coverlets, the broadsword in its jewel-encrusted sheath.

  When the marriage of Arthur and Gwenhwyvar was arranged, Arthur was delighted, for it was politically an advantageous match that would bring him much land. The woman was beautiful in the bargain, and reputedly wise.

  Arthur called his vassals about his throne and said, “I am to be wed in the ancient city of Trinobantes, in the Church of Stephen, upon Candlemas, during the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin. Now it cannot be that a king is married if his vassals are not. As every fighting Dane and Nord goes forth with his shieldmaiden, and every hero of the Slavs and Poles is accompanied by his guardian vila, so too must every knight of Camelot pledge himself to a lady, to make her the sovereign of his heart, the inspiration for his conduct. Therefore each of you must go forth to find fair brides. Then come all of you to Trinobantes, clad entirely in white, so that we may all be wed together.”

  All knights but two repaired to private chambers to prepare themselves for travel. Of the two who stood fast by the throne, the first bore a white scar at the left of his throat. He was Balin of Caer Belli, that is, of Baal’s Castle, famous from Cornwall to Northumberland. The other was Pellinore, chieftain of the Glassy Isle and possessor of Horn Castle, he that bore a scar identical to Balin’s save only that it was on the right of his throat.

  These two knights looked one another eye to eye. Although they had been friends and companions, there was suddenly a spark of enmity between them, for what cause they knew not.

  “Come now,” said Arthur, “have you not ladies to pursue?”

  Sir Balin murmured lowly, like the sound of a rolling earthquake, “We have one.”

  Before he could explain himself, there rode into the midst of the court the Loathly Maid astride a dappled mare and armed with dagger and broadsword. She wore high boots and greaves, a coat of light mail, and over it a sleeveless tabard embroidered front and back with red poppies on a blue-green field. Her hair was caught up in a sparkling net. Her face had much of youth about it, yet was made to seem older by the way she scowled.

  The hooves of the mare clattered before the throne, and Arthur was insulted that she would ride into his hall. He had heard of the Loathly Maid prior, and was fascinated by her more than he would care to admit. Her scowling wildness made her homely, but Arthur found himself wondering how she might appear if only she would smile. There was something familiar about her, though he was certain they could never have encountered one another outside of imagination.

  When she dismounted, a squire scurried forth to remove the mare from the great hall. Arthur said, “Loathly Maid, why is it you wear armor and bear weapons such as deprive thee of comeliness?”

  “Sir King, I am but a messenger, clad for far travel. Do you not recognize my sword?”

  Arthur gasped, then felt quickly for his own sword, that leaned beside his throne. “I know you, then,” said Arthur. “If only from a dream.”

  “Perhaps so; or not. This sword of mine is fused to its sheath. As yours cannot be drawn for evil purpose, mine cannot be drawn for good. Here, I will lend it to this squire called Girflet. Boy, take it. Draw the steel.”

  He tugged at it, making faces and chewing his lip. Those gathered about the court laughed to see him struggle.

  The Loathly Maid said, “Give it then to Arthur.”

  Girflet gave the sword to the king. He looked it over with a shiver, for he would have sworn it was Caliburnus, had not that glorious weapon been ever at his side. He could not draw the blade, so handed it to Pellinore, who likewise struggled.

  “Return it to me,” said the Loathly Maid, but as Pellinore moved toward her, Balin took two long strides and said, “I will try,” taking the sword from Pellinore.

  The blade unsheathed easily.

  “As you have seen,” said the Loathly Maid, “there is one among your vassals sufficiently wicked to draw that steel. If you happen to recall it, Sir King, you do happen to owe me one boon. I require the head of Sir Balin.”

  Balin bristled. “You Salome!” he hissed.

  “But you are no Saint John,” said she.

  Arthur sat silent in his throne. He knew, indeed, who the Loathly Maid must truly be, and by rights he should bow to her in hard obedience. But there was a voice beckoning from the curtains at his back, from a secret chamber, and Arthur leaned to one side to better listen.

  “Send her away,” the hoarse voice whispered, so that only the king heard. “If you love Me, and God, and all the things of this World such as I have brought to you, then send her away, for she is the Doom of us, young Pendragon, our Doom.”

  Arthur gave no indication that his mage had counseled him. He seemed merely to be pensive, and not the least distressed, although his breast was pounding. He said, “Sir Balin is of the privileged circle, and has proven himself many times. Ask something other of me, Loathly Maid. Would you have a castle in Cornwall or southern Wales? Have you foes my captains can bring low? Would you have treasure? I warrant it is true, I owe you much.”

  “As you have denied me, I will go,” she said curtly. When she turned to leave, Balin drew the black steel anew, and laid it against her throat. He said, “As you cannot have my head, you will have me entire; and if you will not have me, then I will have your head.”

  “Sir Balin!” said Arthur. “Has that black blade charmed you to do evil? You are sworn, and cannot harm a lady.”

  Balin dragged her by her white throat, bruising her neck in his gauntleted grasp. As he backed to the gate at the far end of the hall, he excused his actions, saying, “But this is no Lady, as you can see by her armor. She is a Knight, so I exempt her from my oath.”

  When he left the hall, the clatter of hoofs told all the court Sir Balin had ridden away; and Arthur was disturbed to think one of his knights might ravage or behead a maiden. He stood from his throne and strode five steps, his visage clouded with uncertainty of action.

  “For love of Me,” said the hoarse voice of Merlin. “Let Balin have her. Let them go.”

  Arthur shook his head, wondering for the first time if there was not some sinister spark in the magery of his old counselor. Only Arthur heard the voice that spoke into his mind; and he realized he could not in that moment speak any word, for Merlin willed him silent.

  Sir Pellinore said, “Allow me, my king, to wrest the black sword from Balin’s fist, and restore it to the Loathly Maid, that she may use it to test others. I think her not so hard as she would play, and needs now a champion to save her. Perhaps it is my fate to bring her to your wedding, and be married to her when you wed Gwenhwyvar. Say but one word, and I shall chastise Balin for his misdeed.”

  Arthur still could not speak. Yet he waved his hand in dismissal, and Pellinore set out to assist the Loathly Maid.

  Merlin Ambrosius in a swirl of robes came out from behind the throne. Arthur spoke to him with a petulance unseemly for a king, “How could you ask that I let Balin molest her? Until now, I thought I could deny you nothing because I love you so, and because your counsel was good. Now I see that I am under the compulsion of a sorcerer. What truly is your design?”

  “Think not ill of me, young Pendragon. I am a creature, like yourself, in this material world. I live within plots and devices. I love power and treasure. But most of all, I love you, and if I have overstepped propriety this day, it is because I saw the death of me, and the death of you.”

  Arthur replied, “Until today, you have sown certainty in my bosom. And see how swiftly
I rise, assisted by your vision! Now I am to wed a queen whose royal lineage is Trojan and whose estates will treble the breadth of lands I rule. Soon all Britain will bow to me! What was there in the Loathly Maid that tells you your prophecies must change?”

  “Prophecies – and machinations,” the sorcerer confessed. “What makes them change is a desire I cannot name, let alone suppress. Gleefully would I follow that Loathly Maid to ruin. You recognized her, I know, as the Lady of the Lake, who until this hour I had never met. Yet when I saw her, even so disguised, I felt as though I had known her as of old, and that I owed her far more than simple mortal words can say. I knew at once that I must enter into my final dotage, wherein I will love her to distraction, caring nothing for what you and I have built together, let alone for anything remaining to be built.”

  There were tears upon the sorcerer’s cheeks, and Arthur could not help but forgive him.

  Merlin said, “It is best she be destroyed, for otherwise she will weep with mighty queens wailing on all sides of your funeral barge. If Balin kills her, I will grieve. Now that I have seen her, and heard her voice, the best I can hope is to waste away in a quiet place of the forest, surrounded by bards who will sing soothing lies of my greatness. So it is you I seek to save, young Pendragon, and not myself, for I cannot in any case be with you always.”

  Sir Pellinore, Lord of Horn Castle, forgot at once his purpose of rescuing the Loathly Maid, for Merlin’s thought raced forth to make him neglectful of this goal. He recalled, instead, that all the vassals of Arthur’s court were sent forth to find worthy damsels, then rally together on Candlemas, in Trinobantes, for the collective wedding.

  Pellinore set out, therefore, to find a bride. Within a few days, he came to a castle ruled by young Queen Ettard, who inherited a throne from an enfeebled father. She refused ever to wed, lest power pass out of her hands.

  Wintry clouds ringed about Ettard’s mountain stronghold. Indeed, the whole of her country seemed to float on cloud. On the parapet of a castle tower was a man playing mournfully upon a bagpipe, with such a look of sadness about him that Pellinore shuddered to see him standing there so straight and strong and full of woe.

  Pellinore was received at court. No sooner had he set eyes upon Queen Ettard than he knew he loved her more than his life. He put forth a poetic plea for her hand, naming sundry islands whose inhabitants knew him as King Pelleas. He boasted of the diamond of his realm, the Glassy Isle, where stood the glorious Castle of the Horn of Amalthea, alluding to rare treasures not wholly of this earth. And he begged that she come with him on Candlemas to be wed along with all the vassals that belonged to Arthur, so that the High King’s marriage, together with their own, would make the whole land fruitive.

  Despite the sincerity in his voice, and the beauty of his ruddy face, there was nevertheless something weird about such an intense and instantaneous affection. Although Ettard thought him irrational, she did not despise him immediately. Many had proposed to her on former occasions, each unable to disguise his obvious designs, gazing not so much at her as at the strength of her vassals and the breadth of her lands. But this knight who presently knelt before her was like a holy fool requiring nothing for himself, while offering all.

  For one moment she considered, mayhap, she need not rule alone, but might do well to wed her fortunes to the Lord of the Glassy Isle.

  She was swift to suppress such sentimental weakness, suspecting as she did that some witch was playing her a joke, having fed the foolish knight potions of love before sending him, in this bewildered state, to Queen Ettard’s fastness. Therefore she spoke to him as though in a rage, and commanded her vassals strip Pellinore of his armor, beat him savagely, and throw him naked from the battlements.

  He lay on a slope below the battlements, spread out in winter’s brittle scrub. He was unable to move for a long while, not because of any injury, for he had none, but because his heart was broken. Come evening, he roused himself from depths of ennui, and said to himself, “I must eat, to build my strength for tomorrow’s encounter with Ettard, fairest of all queens.”

  A stag wandered into sight. Pellinore leapt upon its shoulder and twisted its head in his arms. With knifeless hands he skinned the beast and, while meat roasted over a pit, sat scraping the skin with a stone, until he had for himself a rude garment.

  At dawn, feeling restored and hopeful, he bathed beneath the frigid waterfall, then wrapped the deerskin about him and affixed the antlers to his head. The forelegs of the skin still had bones within, so that a stiff leg hung at each of Pellinore’s shoulders, giving him, in silhouette, the look of a four-armed man. In a like manner, he dragged behind him the unboned hindlegs of the stag. And near his buttocks hung the white flag of the stagskin’s tail.

  Having made himself as presentable as he could – and he did look like a handsome mountain priest of a hunter’s mystery cult – he went to the portcullis of Ettard’s fastness. When none would open it for him, he raised the portcullis by brute strength, causing damage to the cogs of the wheel, and inducing guards to rush about in confusion.

  Once more he stood before Ettard’s throne. She saw that he lacked the least bruise from his beating or from the far plunge from the battlements. She was cunningly eager to test the limits of his tremendous strength. Because he loved her greatly, he was willing to submit to all abuse. She berated him for breaking the fastness gate, and charged him with sundry minor crimes of offense before sentencing him harshly. He was bound tightly into his deerskin garment so that he looked like a cocoon of something part stag, part man, that might in the springtime hatch into an even more monstrous being. Then he was tied with a long rope by his feet to the saddle of a horse. One of Ettard’s vassals dragged him out from the fortressed castle and down a mountain road.

  How he shouted as his body bounced and scraped along! But the words he bellowed were all devoid of complaint; rather, words of adoration echoed against the cliffs and through the valleys so that peasants far and near raised their heads from their plows and wondered whether it be fairies or divinities upon the mountains courting.

  When the bounding horse rounded a curve, Pellinore was flung over the high road’s ledge, and hung head-down two hundred feet in air. The queen’s knight dismounted and peered from the ledge, laughing at the pendulous Pellinore and, with one sweep of the sword, cut him loose.

  For several hours he struggled at the base of the cliff amidst bits of broken antler, striving to get out of the stagskin. His fruitless effort was overheard by a knight journeying on a lower road that circumvented the country of Queen Ettard.

  It was shy of dusk when the knight climbed onto the crag and unbound Pellinore. The two men looked at one another face to face in mutual surprise.

  “I am grateful for my release, Sir Gawain! Good fate that you were passing by!”

  “Who has done this terrible thing to you?” asked Gawain, deeply alarmed; and Pellinore told of his love for Queen Ettard, and his willingness to suffer all indignity, if only to see her a few moments every day.

  “But this cannot be!” said Gawain. “How I could lash her with my tongue for her unfeeling deeds!”

  “Do not think ill of her, I beg you; think, rather, of what high regard I feel.”

  “Then you must allow me to intercede in your behalf. I will visit this terrible queen who has enticed your heart so cruelly, and beg that she treat you with goodness and reason, giving better consideration to your suit.”

  Pellinore’s highest optimism was restored by Gawain’s promise. He said, “Even if you fail to melt her snowy heart to my favor, I will nevertheless be in your debt forever, because you strove sincerely.”

  When Gawain regained his horse and started for the higher road to Ettard’s castle, Pellinore sat alone on a rocky crag as night fell and stars winked score by score into existence. He listened some while to the distant, mournful Piper of the Parapet, until at length Pellinore began to sing of his love for Queen Ettard. From cliff to cliff his song echoed into d
arkness, and all the countryside heard the tragic rhyme.

  At dawn he came again to Ettard’s castle, this time clad in a grass mat salvaged from the floor of an abandoned wattle hut; and for his girdle, a frayed rope was hung with bits of broken antler. His hair was wild, and his repulsive garment crawled with lice, but still his face was beautiful as he set his doting gaze upon the immovable queen.

  “In that you have come to me like Samson,” she said, “you must be seeking your Delilah. Therefore tell me the secret of your invulnerability, that I may finally destroy you.”

  “As I love you well,” said Pellinore, “I can deny you nothing. Take the bejewelled dagger from off your thigh and plunge it just here, into the white spot on the right side of my throat. If you can do so without regret, I will die.”

  “Come forth, then,” she said coldly. He obeyed, going upon one knee. She drew forth the dagger and held it ready to stab his throat. For one long moment she gazed into his innocent eyes. Then she struck swift as an adder. He fell to his side with the blade deep in his neck.

  He was tossed from the rear wall of the castle, where it was supposed wolves would clean his bones. He lay quietly all that day and through the night, with only the rotted garment of woven grass to defend him from the cold. His glassy eyes watched the track of the gauzy moon behind the clouds. Before the sun arose, it began to snow, and soon he was dusted over with whiteness. He knew that he was dying. Assuredly Gawain would hear what had happened, and come seeking him; but it would be too late.

  The knife in his neck was perturbing. With an effort such as exceeded all his valorous deeds in service of King Arthur, he raised an arm, drew the dagger out of his neck, and kissed the jeweled hilt where Ettard’s pretty hand had held it.

  An anchorite came down from the higher mountain to look for edible bits of garbage that were commonly thrown over the castle’s rear wall. He saw Pellinore and stood by him a long while, wondering if he were living or dead. The anchorite wore a ragged cloth no better suited to the temperature than Pellinore’s cloak of grass and snow. And though the hermit was thin to the bone, he was strong even so, and lifted Pellinore onto his back, carrying him upward to a hermit’s cell in the face of a cliff.