The Story of Silence

by Alex Myers

  From the side, the queen entered. She wore white, a plain dress, and a white wimple that covered her hair entirely; she was transformed from magpie to dove.

  ‘Earl Silence,’ the king said at last. ‘You stand accused of attempting to force yourself upon my wife, and of battering her and beating her lady attendant as well. I have heard from the queen, who makes these claims calmly and clearly. I have heard from her lady, who remembers nothing of the incident. The only other witness is you, and you say you are blameless, tricked into the chamber.’

  The king paused. Silence stood still. He could hear the breathing of the guardsmen who flanked him, the shuffling and whispers of those behind him.

  ‘I have heard, too, from Sir Alfred and others about your character. Stainless. Unblemished. We all know of your unflinching honesty. And there is not a woman in this court who has a complaint against you. Not for a pinch, not for a lustful gaze.’

  At this, some in the hall tittered. Silence nodded in acknowledgement of what the king said. It was not shameful to be chaste. It might be peculiar, but it wasn’t shameful. Was not Gawain chaste? Was not Our Lord chaste?

  ‘But my wife the queen makes her claim. We all know women often deceive. To charm and hide truth. It is their Nature to do so. But we also know that women are weak, not given to blood and violence. How could the queen have bloodied herself? And this is no mere common woman, but the queen of the land. The best of all her kind.’ The king shook his head. He waved a hand towards the old men who stood to his right in the hall. ‘I have consulted with my priest and my counsellors. Many are of the opinion that you did violence to the queen. However, some dispute this.’ He swept his gaze across the hall, settling finally on Silence, who swallowed in a tight throat, forcing himself to stare back at the king, despite the dread he felt. ‘Because there is not consensus, you will not be put to death.’

  At this, the queen shrieked, ‘You must punish him! He is a wretched …’

  ‘Quiet, woman!’ the king said. ‘Hear the full sentence. Proclaim it forth.’

  The Count of Blois, who stood barely shoulder high to Silence, mounted the dais, turning to face the hall. He had a thin face and over-large, pointy nose. That, together with his drooping moustache, made him weasel-like – an appearance at odds with his deep and pleasing voice. ‘It is no light matter,’ the count began, ‘to sentence a knight and a nobleman to death. And yet it is no light matter to pardon someone who has done violence to a helpless woman, and to the queen no less. It is so weighty, indeed, and so clouded that the counsel and the king are unable to make a declaration, to either condemn or pardon. Instead, we set this sentence.’

  The whole hall leaned forward to listen.

  ‘Silence is to ride forth from Winchester and find the sole prophet who can discern the truth of this matter. It is well known that there is only one such seer in all our lands. Merlin.’

  Now the crowd let forth a babble of whispers. The chancellor banged his stick for order. ‘Hear now, why this sentence is just!’ the count cried, and then bowed to the king.

  King Evan cleared his throat and the hall fell quiet. ‘Everyone knows the story of Merlin,’ he said. ‘Who in this hall has not heard about King Vortigern, who, long ago, commanded that a tower be built? But every tower soon crumbled back to the ground. Neither King Vortigern, nor his advisers, nor the best masons in the land could see why their edifice could not take root.’ Though everyone had, indeed, heard this story many times, all of them listened keenly, and the king warmed to his tale. ‘Now the soothsayers who attended to Vortigern said that if they could find a child who had no father, then that child would find the power to make his tower stand, and so, though the task seemed impossible, they sent forth messengers to search out such a youth. And who did they find?’

  The king paused, and Silence could sense the answer on the lips of all who listened: Merlin. And when the king said this name, it was as if someone had dropped a stone into the liquid of Silence’s soul, sending out ripple after ripple. Merlin.

  ‘The son of a woman visited by a demon. A child with no father. Those counsellors ordered Merlin to come to them, but the wise child – though he was only a few years old – knew that they intended to kill him and use his blood to work magic on the stones. So instead Merlin approached the king, revealing their intentions and making a mockery of their plans. His death, he told them, would do nothing to help the tower stand. The real source of the tower’s weakness lay deep beneath the earth, where two dragons warred, shaking the ground and making the tower crumble. “But I,” Merlin told the king, “can rid you of those dragons.”’

  Despite his fear, Silence found himself rapt. Dragons and Merlin. He thought of his father, of how the pieces of Silence’s own life had come together through these very same forces. His father killing the dragon with Merlin’s help; meeting his mother when Cador fell ill from the dragon’s vapours … Silence would not be here, would not be himself, if it weren’t for Merlin and for dragons.

  ‘And so, young Merlin ordered a hole to be dug. Lo! A pool was uncovered, and he ordered that pool drained, and another hole dug, and as the king began to despair at following the advice of a mad child, behold! a great roaring issued from the ground, and Merlin ordered the hole enlarged, and though the servants trembled to do so, they dug, and when the hole was large enough to fit three horses, Merlin spoke a word of power, and out of the clear sky, a thunderclap sounded, and two dragons rose through the hole, flapping and scrabbling. They took to the air, rising and falling as they clawed at each other, and all gaped in awe as they flew away. He is the greatest wizard the land has ever known. He proved then that he knows all.’

  The king let an appropriate amount of quiet pass before saying, ‘After many years, Merlin was banished to the woods. The details of his banishment remain a mystery. We know only that he is cursed to remain in those woods.’ Here the king gave a nod to Silence. ‘Many have tried to find him, to seek his counsel, or to bring him forth from Gwenelleth. But it is said that a maiden – fair, true, and chaste – will be the only one able to snare him.

  ‘This is Silence’s quest,’ King Evan continued, ‘to go forth and find Merlin, capture him, and bring him back to this court, so that the mage might discern the truth of this matter. No other prophet or soothsayer will do. I have so decreed.’ In these words, Silence heard the chilling truth of the king’s command – it was exile, plain and simple. The king had set him an impossible task … and why? For the honour of his queen? For his own honour? Or to seize Cornwall from Silence once Silence had failed?

  The king rose and swept past the queen, who glared for a moment at her husband before turning her baleful eyes towards Silence, who answered with a hard stare of his own. The sentence amounted to exile, but exile was better than death, was it not?

  Silence felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘Friend,’ said Alfred. ‘I would go with you.’

  ‘You heard the king,’ Silence said. ‘I must go forth alone.’

  ‘Go forth alone and I’ll meet you down the road towards Gwenelleth.’

  They shouldered their way through the crowd in the great hall, and Silence smiled at Alfred’s cheekiness. ‘That isn’t noble. I should be grateful that the king didn’t call for my head …’

  ‘You know the queen lies!’ Alfred said, indignant.

  ‘Hush. Such words could risk your own head.’

  ‘I said as much to him yesterday evening.’

  Silence took his friend by the arm and the two of them walked towards their chamber. ‘Thank you for your faith in me.’

  ‘This quest is unjust.’

  ‘It is less unjust than many a sentence or law our king has levelled,’ said Silence.

  ‘This punishment is as good as death. No one can capture Merlin but a maiden, and even that is doubtful. They say the maiden must be of the utmost purity and yet willing to venture into the forest of Gwenelleth – for it is told that no man can compel her there, but she must go of her volition. Impo
ssible! And how are you – out of all men – supposed to woo a virgin to such a task? Hopeless!’ He threw his hands up in despair.

  ‘Yet I must do it, or at least make the attempt.’ They had reached their chamber. ‘I am already packed, for today I had planned to go to Tintagel. Will you send word of this news to the Count of Nevers? And would you ask him to send word to a certain Lady Griselle, who lives at Ringmar? I hope to return soon.’

  ‘You have more faith than I,’ Alfred said. ‘Are you sure you will have no company from me?’

  ‘I thank you for the offer, but valour makes me refuse it. I pray I will see you soon.’ They clasped each other in an embrace, and Alfred took his leave.

  It was a final goodbye.

  Little of what he had planned to take to Tintagel seemed necessary for his journey to find Merlin. He packed only clothes, a hauberk, his sword and a spear. He wore a plain cloak, leggings of boiled leather and a dark green cap. The groom saddled Bold for him, and Wind came along as a packhorse, carrying Silence’s shield and helm, and a basket of food. He had thought to slip quietly away, but a crowd had gathered near the stable. Squires and pages, knights and guardsmen. Men he had sparred and rode with, fought and drunk with. They cried out, Good fortune! We’ll miss you! Bring Merlin back! They wished him well, but all knew it a hopeless quest.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was easy to see why travellers skirted Gwenelleth. A track led into the woods, wide and easy to follow, but the woods grew thicker and darker than any forest that Silence had been in. Features that felt gradual and natural in other places occurred abruptly and without reason in Gwenelleth. He’d be riding along ground strewn with acorns fallen from tall oaks when, whoop, suddenly his horses would be sinking into the oozing mess of a swamp. Or the track would lead right to the base of a tumble of rocks, and he’d find himself at the foot of a mountain that he had no choice but to climb. Bold shied at noises that made the hair rise on Silence’s neck, and he often found it easier to lead the gelding than to ride. He spent two days in darkness when he followed a path so overgrown with briars that it seemed more of a tunnel than a road. After that, he rested for a day in a clearing, setting snares for rabbits, letting the horses eat their fill of the grass that grew abundantly.

  Lying in the sunlight (which he’d feared he’d never again enjoy) he went over the stories his father had told him, the stories he’d heard from Giles and Hob and other minstrels, everything he knew about Merlin. It wasn’t much. He was an old man with mysterious powers, now confined under a curse. He thought of the crow that had visited him on Cornwall’s battlements, bearing Merlin’s voice … but that was long ago, and perhaps, after all, it had been no more than the imagining of a lonely child.

  Silence roasted a rabbit that evening, the horses whickering softly in the twilight. Maybe he should look for a stag to hunt. That’s how his father had found Merlin. Silence thought again. Or had Merlin found his father?

  And how exactly did one capture a wizard? A mage of Merlin’s strength could escape any bond. No, the further along he got, the more impossible it felt, and as he threw the rabbit bones into the woods and prepared to go to sleep, he began to wonder if it wouldn’t be better to accept his exile. He could go back to France. The Count of Nevers would take him into his court … or maybe he wouldn’t, out of deference to King Evan. But he would certainly help Silence settle in some other court. But then the world would think Queen Eufeme in the right, and that would be unbearable.

  He woke to gnawing noises and sprang to his feet, only to find a man crouched near him, chewing bones … seemingly the very rabbit bones that Silence had chucked into the woods the night before. His heart pounding, his hand twitching towards his sword, he stuttered, ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  The man raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Just a goatherd.’

  ‘A goatherd? Where are your goats?’

  ‘Oh. Here and there.’ He waved towards the trees and Silence heard the clanging of a bell, saw the vague grey-white outline of what could have been a goat.

  ‘Odd place to graze your flock.’

  ‘Some might say so. You just did, in fact. But more important than goats are rabbits.’

  ‘Rabbits?’

  ‘Yes.’ He waved the bones he’d been chewing in Silence’s face. ‘Rabbits. Dead, cooked, tasty rabbits. I believe there is one – dead, that is, but not cooked and therefore not tasty – in your snare. Could you?’

  ‘Rabbits?’ Silence said again. ‘You want me to cook you a rabbit?’

  ‘Oh, no. I wouldn’t impose on you in that manner. I want you to cook the rabbit for yourself and give me some.’

  ‘Very well.’ Silence put on his boots and went to where he had set the snare, on the margin of the woods, not far from a stream. There was, as the goatherd had said, a rabbit in the trap. Silence skinned and gutted it and brought it back. The goatherd had started a fire or, more likely, he’d been carrying a brazier of coals with him, for the fire burned as if it had been going for hours, a warm nest of glowing coals with the spit waiting.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the goatherd said, licking his lips as Silence fixed the rabbit on the spit.

  The man must be mad with hunger, Silence thought. The goatherd stared at the meat, which left Silence free to study him – and what a study he was. He had bright blue eyes and wore a goatskin hat on his head; it stood in a triangular peak and covered his ears. His cheeks were obscured by a patchy beard, red-auburn whiskers that grew in such fluffy piecework that he appeared younger than his otherwise roughness would suggest. His hands and cheeks were red from wind and weather, though Silence knew the same was true for him, and he wore a brown tunic and goatskin leggings, beneath which his bare feet jutted out. Such toenails Silence had never seen – yellow and thick as eagle talons. He tried not to stare.

  ‘Do you often herd in the woods?’ Silence asked. Granted, he had not studied goatherds much, but he had never encountered one in the woods and, now that he considered the matter, it seemed rather a foolish idea. Though leaves and vines grew abundantly, there was scarcely the open forage that flocks preferred.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the goatherd said, through a mouthful of rabbit. He was nearly down to the bones.

  ‘I suppose you know Gwenelleth well.’

  ‘Better than any alive. ’Cept some of the deer. Maybe. They stick to their paths, and I wander all about.’

  Silence waited for the goatherd to proceed with the conversation, perhaps to ask Silence who he was or what he was doing here, as would be not only polite but also helpful, but the man just smacked his lips and gnawed the bones, then sucked on his fingers. ‘Good,’ was his only additional contribution, and it didn’t add much.

  ‘Have you seen others around here?’

  ‘A deer over that way.’ The goatherd pointed. ‘Big bear up the hill …’

  ‘I meant any people.’

  ‘You. Me. That’s all.’ The goatherd examined all the bones, as if he might tell a fortune by studying them, before tossing them over his left shoulder. He smacked his lips once more. ‘Good rabbit. Thanks.’

  ‘Of course,’ Silence said, with all the gracious nobility he could muster. He couldn’t fathom why the goatherd, who must know more about the forest than he did, couldn’t set his own snares.

  The goatherd broke into a massive yawn. ‘May I?’ he asked, and pointed to the cloak that Silence had lately been sleeping in. Though in truth Silence would strongly have preferred to say, you may not, he merely nodded, thinking that it was good and Christian to share, and he had no need of the cloak at the moment, while the goatherd clearly had need of any additional clothing he could lay his hands on. ‘Will you?’ the goatherd said, once he had wrapped the cloak around his shoulders, pointing to Silence’s harp, which was covered in canvas.

  Silence lifted the harp and said, ‘A pleasure,’ with only some sarcasm. He doubted he’d get his cloak back soon, wrapped up as the goatherd was, his eyes drooping towards sleep.r />
  ‘“The Lei of Graevont”,’ the goatherd said, and stretched out on the ground.

  An odd request: an older song, not one with much a goatherd might be interested in. But Silence played it, and in this clearing in the middle of this strange forest, his harp had never sounded better, nor his voice more sweet. Even Bold and Wind came over to listen. The goatherd slept – Silence could hear soft snores – and he knew he could put down his harp, could sharpen his sword, could climb a tree and try to get a sense of the forest, could do anything that he wanted, but all he wanted was to play this song.

  Unlike most of the songs Silence played, this one told the story of a wanderer who wasn’t a knight – just a wanderer looking for a flower. When he’d played it before, he’d thought the flower stood for a lady that the wanderer desired, but now, as he plucked the notes in Gwenelleth’s woods, he imagined that the flower was needed for a potion, to complete a spell. Moreover, the song’s wanderer was no simpleton, as Silence had thought previously, no lost romantic fool, but someone striving for power, on the cusp of completing his quest. And how did it end? With the flower before the wanderer, ice-white petals beckoning him, and him bending low to pluck it, and the petals changing from white to red. Silence saw it as he sang, saw the wanderer’s delight, the shock as the petals shifted, and a ripple of shifting in his own body, as if in answer.