by Alex Myers
Silence let the last note of the song hang there, transfixed by the image he had created.
The goatherd sat up and yawned. ‘Very nice, very nice. Best I’ve heard in many years.’
Silence doubted the goatherd had been in the presence of many minstrels – how many musicians stumbled through Gwenelleth, after all? But he said, ‘My pleasure,’ the words making him aware of how hoarse his throat was. He reached for the skin that held watered wine and pressed the sides. Realizing to do otherwise would be rude, he passed the skin to the goatherd, who took a mouthful, then another, and would have taken a third had Silence not held his hand out for the return of the skin. A glance at the sky told him that morning had long since passed, that noon approached – had he, too, fallen asleep?
‘I must be on my way,’ he said. But as he tied the covering tightly around his harp, he recalled that he had no sense of which way to go. ‘Have you ever seen an older man in these parts, possibly quite naked, and perhaps raving like a lunatic?’ He knew this wasn’t a good description, but it was all his father had ever said of Merlin.
The goatherd licked his lips. ‘The wizard? I can tell you how to catch him, without a doubt.’
Silence gaped at the goatherd.
‘Oh yes, I can tell you. That’s a fair trade for one rabbit and one song, to tell you how to snare Merlin.’ The goatherd leaned close to Silence. ‘Just be careful that in so doing, you don’t snare yourself. Yes, yes.’ He tilted his head back. ‘To snare Merlin. Get a fine piece of salted meat. A big hunk. Tender. And very salty. Also, find a comb full of honey. Rich and dripping, hmmmm? Procure a jug of milk, yes, and a jar of wine.’
All of this was possible. ‘Meat, honey, milk, wine,’ Silence said, ticking them off on his fingers.
The goatherd smiled rapturously. ‘Roast the meat. Make it good and salty. Roast it here in the forest, and Merlin will surely smell it. Surely. He will come and eat it. He is greedy and hungry and nearly wild, now, and he will eat it all. You must place the honey nearby. When he finishes that salty meat, he will be so thirsty he will drink anything. He’ll pour that honey down his gullet, but it will only make his thirst the worse, poor fool! Wise Merlin! He’ll drink it anyway, sticky sweet. Then, then, you must put the milk beyond the honey, so that he spies it next and lifts the milk to his lips and glugs it all down, umph, umph, umph. Oh, he’ll be a bloated sack of wind! And you know what happens with milk – at first it takes your thirst away but in a moment, it returns it a dozenfold. Oh, how Merlin will groan, but he’ll see the wine you’ve laid out and he’ll seize upon that and drink it all and, heavy with meat and bloated with milk and honey, and beguiled by the wine, he will fall into a deep sleep and see, you will have trapped him.’
‘I can do that,’ Silence said.
‘My goats!’ the goatherd cried. ‘I must be off!’ And he scampered into the forest.
Wind and Bold and Silence watched him go, and Silence scratched Wind’s ears. ‘Strange man,’ he said. ‘Meat, honey, milk, wine. Do you think it will work? It seems stupidly simple to catch one as crafty as Merlin.’
Wind lifted his nose and whuffed at the air. ‘Yes, let’s be going.’ He scattered the ashes from his fire, packed his harp, and mounted Bold.
He rode west for two days, following as straight a track as Gwenelleth provided. On the evening of the second day, the trees thinned, and the track wound along a creek, and soon Silence could hear the steady hammering of a blacksmith’s forge. The smith stood at a crossroads, shimmers of heat radiating from the banked coals. Silence paused to watch the smith work, and then rode on from the crossroads towards the chimneys and thatched roofs of some village. He dismounted at the inn, which sagged in the shade of a massive oak tree. No stableboys came to assist, so he led Wind and Bold into stalls before venturing into the common room, which sat empty, but not quiet, as voices from the kitchen volleyed about.
‘Not in my inn!’
‘It’s the law! And it ain’t your inn anyhow.’
‘Oh, so when you need something, it’s your inn, but when the roof needs fixing it’s my inn …’
Silence peered through the doorway as a horrible crashing sound replaced the yelling.
‘You put that down, I tell you …’
‘I’ll tell you!’
Silence cupped his hands to his mouth and called, ‘Hello?’
The yelling and scuffling sounds stopped. A few footsteps and a diminutive woman appeared. Her brown hair hung in two braids and, despite rounded pink cheeks, the woman’s figure was slight. She would have been waifish and innocent, if it hadn’t been for the splintered bit of wood – what might have been a table leg – that she held in one hand. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said, her voice gracious and warm. Spotting Silence’s sword, she dropped a low curtsy. ‘How can I help you, m’lord?’
Silence, though by rank he didn’t need to, bowed. ‘I would like room and board for the night, and need certain provisions secured by first light tomorrow.’
‘Of course, m’lord.’ She seemed to realize that she was holding a somewhat threatening club, and hastily chucked the table leg through the doorway behind her. ‘I’m Milissandre, but everyone calls me Milly …’
‘Sir Maurice,’ Silence replied. He couldn’t say why he didn’t offer his real name or title, and before he could puzzle much on this, Milly had already taken control of the conversation.
‘I’ll get your room ready and hear what provisions you need. Wine while you wait?’
‘Are there oats for my horses? I set them in the stable …’
Milly turned her head and bellowed, ‘Thomas!’
‘I’m busy!’
‘Guest here!’
Silence had the sense that this might have continued for some time had Milly not stomped through the doorway. More muffled yells and Milly reappeared. ‘A moment,’ she said, all smiles, and headed up the stairs. Soon enough, a man emerged from the rear doorway, shaggy-bearded and with longish hair hanging lank to his shoulders. He held a rope in one hand that stretched behind him. Looking weary, the man introduced himself: ‘I’m Thomas. You’ve horses, then?’ Silence kept shooting glances, trying to figure out what was at the other end of the rope.
‘Yes, two. I can tend to them if you tell me where the oats …’
‘Nah. Milly’d have my balls if she found out you fed ’em.’ He tugged the rope. ‘Come on, you.’ Thomas crossed the room and pushed the main door open, yanking the rope along. At the end of the line a little man lurched, his hands tied together.
Silence followed after this odd procession, hand on the hilt of his sword, which struck him as prudent in an inn where one of the keepers escorted bound individuals about, and the other wielded table legs.
Thomas turned his head and caught Silence’s gesture. ‘Don’t worry now. I’m new appointed sheriff and this is my first thief. Don’t have a place to keep him. Old sheriff’s place burned down, and Milly won’t let me put him in the root cellar, says this one is likely to make the roots go rotten.’
In the stable, the thief plonked down on a pile of straw, but Thomas jerked him to his feet. Silence unloaded Wind as Thomas unsaddled Bold. ‘Sheriff must be a great responsibility,’ he said.
‘Aw. Yeah. I think I was appointed because I have the biggest root cellar in the village. It used to be the squire, on top of the hill, he had a proper dungeon, before it burned.’
‘It was a hole in the ground, not a dungeon,’ the thief piped up.
‘Shut it,’ Thomas growled and jerked the rope.
‘A dungeon has stone walls. Squire’s was just a hole,’ the thief continued.
‘Spent a lot of time there, did you?’ Thomas asked as he scooped oats into the troughs.
‘Enough.’ The thief smiled, showing three blackened teeth.
‘Things are going to change in this village. There’s a new baron, just appointed by the king, and from all I’ve heard he’s noble and upright. They say he led a charge against those five rebels …’
‘They say he’s buggering a fellow knight and that’s why he ain’t married,’ the thief interrupted.
‘Quiet!’ Thomas yanked the rope; the thief stumbled, fell into the hay, and stayed there, settling himself comfortably.
Milly poked her head around the stable door. ‘You’re both fools and idiots. I’ve heard for a fact that our new baron is up to his neck in boiling oil, having acquired debts from gambling. And that might be better than buggering other knights, but it certainly means he isn’t noble and honest.’ She pointed a finger at her husband. ‘In other words, he’s just another man.’ She dropped a curtsy to Silence. ‘My pardon, Sir Maurice. Your room is ready.’
Silence took his harp and his saddlebags and followed after her. The sounds of a whispered struggle indicated that Thomas and his thief were close behind.
‘Now, what provisions do you need?’ Milly asked as they walked up the stairs.
‘A large hunk of salted meat, enough to feed three men. A jar of honey. A jug of milk. A big skin of wine.’ He paused. ‘And a length of strong rope.’ The thief’s plight had reminded him of this. If he wanted to bring Merlin back to King Evan, he’d surely need to truss him up.
Milly pushed the door to the room open and gave him a gracious curtsy that was at odds with the sceptical expression on her face. ‘And what a feast that will be,’ she said. ‘Beg your pardon, my lord. It isn’t for me to question what you want with such strange fare.’
Silence set his belongings down.
‘I’ll only say to use caution with such a meal, as it seems likely to cause the eater severe distress.’
‘I’m certain I’ll find much better at your board,’ he said.
That evening he brought his harp and played for Milly and Thomas and the thief, who declared this the finest dungeon he’d ever been in. Milly and Thomas argued over the use of the root cellar, until finally Silence stopped his playing. ‘If I may suggest,’ he said loudly enough to be heard over their dispute, ‘you could set this man’s punishment as having to dig out a new cellar hole – one that could serve as a dungeon or as overflow for the inn’s stores, should need arise.’
‘That lazy lout wouldn’t dig if you lashed him,’ Milly said.
‘Keep him prisoner, sleeping in the hole until it is done to your satisfaction. The faster he works, the sooner he’s free,’ replied Silence.
Thomas cast a glance at his wife. ‘That’s reasonable,’ he ventured.
Milly appeared to be searching for some defect in the scheme, but finally said, ‘So long as I may watch over the labor.’
‘Thanks,’ the thief said to Silence, raising his bound hands in a rude gesture.
‘You can get digging now,’ Thomas said.
‘But it’s dark,’ the thief protested.
‘Dig down. You don’t need to see to do that.’ He tugged the thief through the back doorway.
Milly rose, shook out her skirts and said, ‘Very wise. You ought to be a judge.’
‘Isn’t the judging done by the baron in these parts?’
‘If you call that judgment. Takes what he wants. Gives it to his friends.’
‘But you said you have a new baron. Perhaps he’ll be better?’
‘He may be new, but he’ll be the same as the old. Begging your pardon, but the best thing to do with nobles is stay out of their way and hope they pay you no mind. It’s amazing you haven’t already tried to get your hands up my skirts. I’m almost offended that you haven’t made the attempt.’
Silence jumped to his feet. ‘Mistress … I would never!’
She shook her head and cast a glance at the rear doorway. She pushed Silence back onto the bench. ‘There’s three types of men in the world. There’s the common man, that’s my husband, Thomas. And probably that fool of a thief he’s got tied up. Common men care mostly about food and warmth and getting a woman when they want one. Then there’s the high-and-mighty men. Like our earl and our king. They don’t need to worry about food, since it’s always there for them. So they spend their time sniffing out riches and women – or women and riches, depending. The third type, that’ll be the mystical and the mad. They care little for riches, food, women, or warmth. And because of that, you might think they’re the most noble. But I’m telling you, the mystical and the mad are the most dangerous of all.’
‘Why?’ Silence said, shifting uncomfortably, for Milly had settled herself squarely on his lap as she delivered this sermon.
‘Because what they want, no one knows. And the key to governing a man is knowing what he wants and controlling his ability to get it.’ She patted his cheek. ‘It is most unfortunate that a handsome and wise fellow like you belongs to that third type.’
Silence succeeded in getting a firm grip on her belt and stood up, depositing Milly on her feet. ‘But, good woman, I have told you what I want: a hunk of salty meat, a pot of honey, a jug of milk, and a skin of wine … enough for three men. And a length of rope as well.’
‘Yes. I know what you want, but I have no idea why you want it. There’s no reasoning with mystics and the madmen.’ She made as if to sidle close to him again. ‘Are you certain there’s nothing else you’re wanting?’
Silence stepped back. ‘Good night, mistress.’ What was it with women? In his time as a minstrel he’d heard tavern girls and kitchen maids complaining about how men put their paws all over them. But here he was, leaving them well enough alone, and what happened? They had their paws all over him! Alfred had it right: there was no figuring women out.
The goods he requested awaited him in the common room the following morning, and in no time he had saddled Bold and loaded Wind with the provisions. He led the horses past the thief, who snored at the end of his tether in a shallow indentation. The man would likely be digging for days; no doubt Milly would want a cellar at least twelve feet deep.
He felt a strangeness settle on him as he sat atop Bold, and he tried to focus on the task at hand. Trapping Merlin. But he kept thinking of Milly’s words, and Thomas’s words, and even the thief’s words about the new baron. Should the time come that Silence himself might rule … how would he fare? Despite his years at Ringmar, at Tintagel, Silence had little sense of what a good earl should do, apart from keeping careful records of taxes. True, he had spent years at his father’s court, and years at the Count of Nevers’ court, but these years had focused on his own training in warfare, not in the nature of being a ruler. The tales he had learned as a minstrel taught him what a foolish ruler was. He knew what a wise and good ruler looked like. But did he know how to be one?
He had many examples to choose from: his father, the Count of La Marche, King Evan … but none embodied the full nobility of the stories. Was it impossible to be honest and courageous, to be righteous, and to rule? Was this yet another place in the world where being both was impossible yet was being asked of him?
He turned back and checked the load Wind carried. Pot of honey and jug of milk on one side, taut skin of wine on the other, the salted haunch of venison in the middle. Wind whuffed and shook his head as if to ask: what, you don’t trust me with this stuff, when I carried you into battle?
‘This is battle of a sort, old friend,’ Silence said, nudging Bold to move on. He’d never lost the habit of speaking to his horse. By dawn, they’d reached the forest of Cwenelleth.
The goatherd hadn’t said where this feast should be laid, but Silence thought the whole affair would be marred if the milk had spoiled, so he pressed into the forest only until midday, and searched for a likely clearing. Thinking of his father’s story, he looked for oak trees and, though he didn’t find a circle of them, he did locate a nice grove, where once a stream must have run, though now it had dried up, leaving the smooth sandy stones of the bottom. Silence dismounted and unpacked the food before leading Wind and Bold into the woods to tether them. He built a fire and skewered the haunch on a spit. The goatherd had said meat first, with honey right beside. Hide the milk at a distance, and secret the wine furt
her away. Silence followed these directions, turned the haunch a few more times, and set up watch, sword drawn and rope at his feet, behind a tree.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
For a time, he heard nothing but bird calls and the pop and sizzle of the haunch. The air grew heavy with the smell of the meat, so that Silence felt his hunger stirred. The blue smoke wreathed around the little clearing. He stretched his shoulders and his back and waited.
Across the clearing, a naked man streaked out from the trees and towards the fire. The man – with tangled white beard and dirty grey hair that clung in matted knots to the middle of his back – seized the spit in both hands and began to tear at the venison with his teeth, whuffing with his mouth and hopping from foot to foot as he tried to swallow the roasting hot meat. The old man was impossibly skinny; Silence could count all of his ribs and every knob of his backbone. Overpowering him would be simple. No, patience. He had to allow him to eat everything.
The naked man grunted and cried as he ate – ooo, ow, hot, hot, umm – ripping at the meat, which steamed and smoked. In no time, the entire haunch had been devoured to the bone and Merlin stood, hands greasy, tongue out, panting. He turned about on the spot, bouncing up and down, until he saw the honey. He threw his hands up, as if in gratitude, and ran to the pot, which he lifted to his lips with both his oily hands, and poured the contents down his throat. Some of the honey ran into his beard and dripped to his chest. He ran his fingers inside the jar, licking what was left, before letting the pot fall to the ground. For a moment, he simply smiled, and he stroked his now distended belly with one sticky, greasy hand. Perhaps he was content and wouldn’t eat any more, Silence worried, crouching and readying himself to pounce.
But the old man smacked his lips, once, twice, waving a hand in front of his mouth as if he’d just eaten something spicy. He ran over to the dry stream bed, shook his fist at it, ran back to the pot of honey and peered into its empty depths and, aha! He spotted the jug of milk and seized it, greedily gulping it down, rivulets of white streaming from each corner of his mouth, glug, glug, until it, too, was empty. Now he smiled. And then groaned, taking a few staggering steps. Silence felt certain he would fall to the ground, but the old man managed to stay upright. Uuuuoooo, he moaned, and rubbed his belly, which had to be four times its previous size. He lurched to the right, to the left, let out a mighty fart, and moaned some more before falling to his hands and knees and crawling around like an animal.