Merlin's Mistake

by Robert Newman

“All right, yes. I’m sure.”

  “Lianor …”

  “Are they still there?” asked Tertius.

  “Yes,” said Merlin. “And will be for some time yet.”

  “It seems odd.”

  “Why odd?”

  “Well, we’ve been together constantly for quite a long time now, Brian and I. I’m sure you understand.”

  “That’s one of my troubles. I understand everything. It can become very tiresome. Now what were we talking about?”

  “You were explaining the difference between a cantrip and a spell.”

  “There’s very little difference.”

  “There must be some.”

  Merlin looked at him impatiently. “Nimue wanted it all quickly. ‘Never mind the theory, the details. Just tell me how to do it.’ But you! All right. I’ll tell you, if you’ll tell me more about those stars—explain the difference between a quasar and a pulsar.”

  Turn the page to start reading the sequel to Merlin’s Mistake

  1

  If it is true that no one knows how things will end—and they had to accept this since it was told to them by the White Lady herself—it is also true that beginnings are rarely recognized. But in this case, they both knew it at once. For no matter where or when it actually began, it began for them that afternoon.

  “Could it be the weather?” asked Brian. “Because there’s a storm brewing?”

  “Does it look as if we’re going to have a storm?” asked Lianor.

  Brian looked up and around, but except for a few high clouds that moved slowly over the hills beyond Meliot like grazing sheep, the sky was clear and blue.

  “No. Besides, you say you’ve felt this way for some time.”

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “Almost a week.”

  He nodded. It had been about then that he had first become aware of her strangeness, and he had thought at first that it was because of the wedding. For her twin sister, Alys, was soon to be married while he and Lianor had agreed to wait for at least another year, until Brian was eighteen, before they were wed. And though Lianor had denied that she cared about this, he was not sure he believed her. That was one of the reasons he had suggested that they go hawking—to get her away from the palace where all the activity seemed to center around Alys and the preparations for the wedding.

  He had been wrong about that, it seemed. But coming out here into the fields had at least made her speak more openly about what was troubling her.

  “And that’s all you can tell me?” he said. “That you’ve been feeling anxious?”

  “I’ve been having dreams, too, ones that I cannot remember.” Then, somewhat defensively, “I’ve never dreamed lightly. Usually my dreams mean something.”

  “And these?”

  “How can I say what they mean when I don’t remember them? All I am left with is a feeling of dread—a sense that somewhere not too far off something is happening that threatens us all.”

  Again Brian nodded. During the year or so that he had known her he had learned to respect these feelings of hers. For she had often known or sensed things that there was no reason for her to know.

  The peregrine, standing hooded on his left hand, shifted her grip slightly and, without thinking, he stroked her breast feathers.

  “Talking about it will not help,” said Lianor. “See if she’s ready to fly.”

  “I’m sure she is,” said Brian.

  He dismounted, tossing the reins over Gaillard’s head, and the huge white charger moved off a few paces and began grazing.

  Pulling the peregrine’s jesses free of the leash and varvel and twisting the ends so they would not interfere with her flight, he unhooded her. Almost at once, she roused. Gripping his gauntlet even more tightly, she raised all her feathers, shook herself and then fanned her long, pointed wings.

  This was an important sign. When they had gone to the mews to get her, Wellias, the king’s falconer, had been unwilling to let them take her for she had been in moult. But while they were arguing with him—every falconer is convinced that only he truly understands his falcons and can fly them properly—she had roused for the first time. And so, still reluctantly and with many unnecessary instructions, Wellias had hooded her and handed her over.

  Now, having roused again, she looked around with alert, dark eyes. Her name was Garym, and she was a haggard, or passage, falcon who had been taken wild when more than two years old and been manned through many sleepless nights by Wellias.

  “Sha-hou!” cried Brian, casting her off into the wind.

  She was away at once, swinging around in wide circles to gain her pitch. Up and up she climbed with both Brian and Lianor watching her with held breath, for there are few things as beautiful as a gyring falcon.

  Finally, when she was waiting on, soaring with outstretched wings so high above them that she looked no larger than a lark, Brian signaled the page who had ridden out with them, and he loosed the hounds who set off for the hedge that bordered the field. But before they reached it—and long before they had flushed out any birds that might be hiding there—Lianor exclaimed and, looking up again, Brian saw that Garym was stooping. Wings almost closed and feet extended, she was diving down.

  For a moment, they could not tell what her quarry was. Then suddenly, it appeared—a pigeon flying low over the hedgerow to their right and toward them.

  “Brian, call her off! The pigeon’s hurt!”

  Brian had seen it too; that the pigeon was flying, not merely low but heavily, uncertainly. He grimaced and groaned softly, for it is no easy matter to call off a stooping falcon. But he unwound the lure and began swinging it and whistling shrilly.

  Garym checked, hesitated. And as she did, a partridge, put up by the hounds, rose on the far side of the field and made off downwind. Again Garym checked, then turned slightly and came on once more, the wind whistling in her bells. She struck the partridge in midflight like a thunderbolt. There was a puff of feathers, and the partridge fell like a stone.

  As Brian ran across the field, he looked back and saw that the pigeon, instead of flying on, had gone straight to Lianor and that she was holding it against her bosom and stroking and comforting it.

  He reached the partridge, which Garym was holding with her foot. He let her feed for a moment, then made in to her, taking her on his glove and hooding her again. He put the partridge in his bag; then, with Garym on his fist, went back toward Lianor.

  She was still holding the pigeon, but there was an odd expression on her face.

  “Is it much hurt?” asked Brian.

  “No. More weary than hurt. But look.” And she held something out to him—a small piece of parchment rolled so tightly that it was no thicker than a skewer. He unrolled it carefully, for it had been scraped so thin that it was almost transparent, and saw that it was covered with a strange kind of writing—all straight or slightly slanted lines.

  “Where did you get it?” he asked.

  “It was tied to the pigeon’s leg.”

  “A message of some sort. Can you read it?”

  “No. It’s Ogham, the writing that the Druids use. But turn it over.”

  He did, and there was more of the strange writing. But above it, in letters that were small but still clear and legible was written: To Merlinus Ambrosius. Urgent!

  “Merlin!”

  “Yes.”

  “Could it have anything to do with what we were talking about—this feeling you’ve had?”

  “That I still have. It might.”

  They looked at one another for a moment. Then, calling to the page and telling him to follow with the hounds, Brian swung up onto Gaillard, and he and Lianor set off back to Meliot at a gallop.

  2

  The window of the solar overlooked the palace garden, and through it, they could hear the twang of a harp as Sir Uriel tuned it and then began singing a chanson to Alys. It was one they had not heard before, and they listened to it while King Galleron examine
d the small roll of parchment, looking at both sides of it.

  “You say it was tied to the pigeon’s leg?”

  “Yes, Sire,” said Brian.

  “You know how a pigeon will always return to its cote,” said Lianor. “Merlin must have given it to someone—a friend or agent—to use in time of need.”

  “You need not explain,” said the king. “I have heard of such things before. I take it neither of you can read the message.”

  “No, father,” said Lianor. “But it must be important. It says urgent.”

  “I don’t doubt that it is,” said the king. “What did you do with the pigeon?”

  “We gave it to Wellias,” said Brian. “He said he would tend it for a few days and then release it.”

  “And where is Merlin? Somewhere in Northumberland, is he not?”

  “Yes, Sire,” said Brian. “In his tower on the coast. He told me how to reach it.”

  “Then you intend to take the message to him?”

  “I thought I would,” said Brian. “As you know, my good friend, Tertius, is with him, and I would like to see him again.”

  “It’s a long journey to Northumberland,” said the king. “It will take at least ten days and perhaps longer. Even if Wellias kept the pigeon for a week, it would still get there before you would.”

  “But it might not get there at all,” said Lianor. “It might be attacked again by a falcon or a hawk, and this time it might not escape.”

  “You seem strangely anxious to have Brian go,” said the king, looking at her shrewdly. “Won’t you miss him?”

  “No, father,” said Lianor. “For I thought I would go with him.”

  “So I suspected,” said the king. “Why?”

  “Because if he went without me, I would miss him. And because I’d like to see Tertius and Merlin again myself.”

  “And those are your only reasons?”

  “Aren’t they sufficient?”

  Sir Uriel had finished the chanson and now, through the open window, they heard Alys laughing.

  “Perhaps,” said the king, studying her. “I’m not sure how your sister will feel about it. You know how she depends on you.”

  “The only things she has ever depended on me for are things she does not want to do herself.”

  “And what about me?” asked the king. “It may be that I have asked too much of you these past few years. But ever since your mother died.…”

  “Please, father,” said Lianor. “I trust you will always count on me. But if it’s the wedding you’re concerned about, the plans for that have all been made, and we will be back long before it is to take place.”

  The king continued looking at her as affectionately as she was looking at him, and Brian knew that he was thinking what he himself had thought: that it was because of the wedding that Lianor wanted to get away. Finally, he nodded.

  “Very well,” he said. Then to Brian, “When would you like to leave?”

  “I think it should be as soon as possible,” said Brian. “Tomorrow?”

  Again the king nodded. “I will speak to Sir Amory and have him select the men-at-arms who will ride with you.”

  “Thank you, father,” said Lianor.

  And so, early the next morning, they gathered in the courtyard: Brian, Lianor and ten men-at-arms, three of whom led sumpter mules carrying clothing and provisions. Brian held Gaillard by the reins while Lianor stood beside Gracielle, the yellow mare that had served her so well in the past. The king had come out to bid them farewell.

  “When Sir Uriel arrived,” he said, “he brought word that our liege, King Arthur, was on his way to France. It may be that the message concerns him. If it does, and if either he or Merlin needs me, let me know at once.”

  “We will, Sire,” said Brian. “As for the princess.…”

  “If I had any doubt that she was in good hands, do you think I would let her go? But I will still not be easy until you are both home again. So go safely, and return as quickly as you can.”

  He embraced Brian, kissed Lianor and then they mounted and rode out of the courtyard, through the narrow streets to the town gates. From there they took the road to the ford, crossed it and started northeast through the forest toward Northumberland.

  The king’s guess as to the length of their journey had been a good one. Though they rode hard, starting at sunrise each morning, it took them ten days to reach the Humber. They crossed it on a ferry, a large, clumsy barge with four men at the sweeps, and then rode almost due north along the coast.

  The weather had been settled, clear and sunny, ever since they left Meliot. But once they crossed the Humber, the sky darkened and became heavy with clouds. They spent their first night in Northumberland in a manor house a few miles from the coast and, when they left in the morning, the bailiff told them they would have a wet ride for it was sure to rain before noon.

  For a time, it looked as if he were right. The clouds moved down from the north and became heavier and darker and a few raindrops fell. But when they paused for their midday meal, the sky cleared directly overhead, and they were able to eat in comfort. As they rode on, however, the clouds closed in once more, and the sky became more threatening than ever.

  “I wish it would make up its mind,” said Brian impatiently.

  “It may be that the weather is like that here,” said Lianor. “On the other hand, there may be another explanation for it.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Brian.

  “Tertius,” said Lianor. “I don’t know how long it takes to learn to control the weather, but he’s only been studying with Merlin for about a year.”

  “You’re right,” said Brian, grinning. “It could be Tertius.”

  The weather continued to be uncertain as they rode up the coast—the sky lowering threateningly, then clearing briefly. About the middle of the afternoon, they saw a lonely tower on the edge of the cliffs that bordered the sea. As they approached it, a single horseman came out of it and rode toward them—a rather small, slight, gray-haired man who looked dignified but by no means solemn.

  “A very good day to you,” he said when he reached them. “I am Stokely, Merlin’s steward. I have come to welcome you in his name and in that of Master Tertius.”

  “They knew we were coming?” asked Brian.

  “They have known it for some time.”

  “The pigeon,” guessed Lianor.

  “She arrived here safely several days ago. With the message you left with your falconer. But Merlin did not need that. He has his own ways of knowing things.”

  “I’m sure he has,” said Brian. Then, as the steward turned his horse, escorting them back toward the tower, “Is your weather here always so changeable?”

  Stokely looked up at the dark clouds that were hanging over them again and smiled.

  “No,” he said. “Not when Merlin has it in hand. But of course Master Tertius is still learning.”

  “That’s what we thought,” said Lianor, smiling also.

  There was a stone platform at the base of the tower with a parapet around it and steps leading up to it. As Lianor and Brian dismounted, Merlin and Tertius came out of the tower and stood at the top of the steps waiting for them.

  Merlin was unchanged. His gray eyes were as keen as ever and, with his long, white beard, dark robe and small cap embroidered with cabalistic signs, he looked as imposing as he always had. Tertius, however, had grown in the months since Brian and Lianor had last seen him and was both taller and thinner. And while he was still rather sober and serious, he did not look quite so self-assured. In fact, he seemed both awkward and uneasy. And since Merlin was frowning and pointedly ignoring him, the reason for it was fairly clear.

  “Greetings, Merlin,” said Brian politely. “It’s been a long time. I trust you’ve been well?”

  “Of course, I’ve been well,” said Merlin testily. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “All I meant was.…”

  “I know what you meant. All right, Tertius. Sa
y hello to them and get it over with.”

  “It’s good to see you both again,” said Tertius.

  “It’s good to see you,” said Brian, wringing his hand.

  “How was your journey?”

  “Long, but not unpleasant,” said Lianor.

  “And your father and sister?”

  “Both well.”

  “We bring you greetings from them,” said Brian to Merlin. “Especially from the king.”

  “I hope that’s not all you’ve brought me.”

  “You mean the message? Of course, we brought that, too. As we explained in our note, we were afraid to trust it to the pigeon again.”

  “Yes, yes. Very sensible of you, though she got here safely. But I wish you had hurried. The message must be from my old friend and master, Blaise. I’ve been expecting it for weeks now and.…”

  The sky suddenly opened, and the rain that had been threatening all day came down in torrents. Brian and Lianor quickly raised the hoods of their traveling cloaks, but Merlin and Tertius merely stood there, Tertius looking shocked and Merlin furious. They continued to stand there for a moment, the rain drenching them. Finally:

  “You!” said Merlin, glaring at Tertius.

  “I’m sorry, Merlin,” he said. “I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “How much attention does it take? Or intelligence? Or knowledge?” Then, looking up, “Stop!”

  At once, the rain stopped. Muttering something under his breath, Merlin waved his hand. The clouds parted, and the sun came out, shining more brightly than it had since they had crossed the Humber. Glaring at Tertius again, Merlin went into the tower.

  “Stokely!” he called. “Get me another robe!”

  Brian and Lianor dropped their hoods, neither of them daring to look at the other.

  “It’s all right,” said Tertius. “You can laugh if you want to.”

  He sounded so woebegone that Brian lost all desire to.

  “Don’t you want to change also?” he asked.

  “No,” said Tertius. “But let’s go inside. There’s a fire there.”

  They followed him in through the arched doorway and found themselves in a circular room that took up the whole first floor of the tower. There was a large fireplace opposite the doorway, and near it were the stone stairs that led to the floors above. Brian and Lianor took off their cloaks and sat down on benches in front of the fire.