Merlin's Blade (10 page)

“McEwan, what's that on his back? Some sort o' bag?”

Merlin reached to snatch the strap but missed as they pulled it from his arm. The wooden peg clattered on a rock at Merlin's feet, and the foreigners hushed.

A new voice spoke. “McEwan, let ‘im down. Yar roughin' a
shanachie
, an' here's ‘is harp.”

“Who cares?” McGoss said.

“I do,” the voice spoke again. “An' while I lead, we'll nay break the laws o' our people.”

McEwan, the big man, dropped Merlin, and he fell on his feet, struggling for balance. Strong hands steadied him. He spun to defend himself, but the man had disappeared like a ghost. A blur of yellow moved below him. Was the big man on his knees?

“Forgive me, bard, for layin' me hands on ya.”

Was this a taunt? Merlin was about to explain that he wasn't a bard when another voice spoke.

“I'm O'Sloan, an' I lead this band. Forgive us for botherin' ya. An' lass, for the bard's sake, we bid ya well. Now out o' here, lads.”

They placed the harp in Merlin's hands — case, wooden peg, and all — and the colorful forms of the men disappeared.

“Who were they?” Merlin asked, hoping the woman knew.

She stepped forward, and the smell of smoked fish filled the air. “The question is, who are you? Every time I see you, Merlin, you surprise me. First you teach my brother a lesson. Then you're whipped for Garth —”

“Natalenya?” Had he really just faced those men in her presence?

“And last night, other than Brother Prontwon, you alone stood up to that horrible druid —”

“You saw it?”

She placed her hand on his tunic, over his heart. “And now these warriors bow to you as a bard.”

Merlin's face turned red. “It's
your
harp! If they'd asked me to play, they'd have beaten me with it
and
taken your fish.”

“Well they didn't, thanks to Jesu.”

Merlin nodded, his heart grateful. “Who are they?”

“Warriors. I've never seen their like — wild hair, armbands, jewelry, and beautifully embroidered jerkins over their tunics. The sides of their sleeves went down to their knees. Have you ever seen …”

Her words trailed off, and Merlin felt her staring at him.

“You're so brave.” She pushed away the curly black hair that partially hid his scars. “I saw you in chapel all those times, and I never knew you were so brave.”

His hands began to shake worse than before, so he put them behind his back. “What are Eirish warriors doing here? Are they from Lyhonesse?”

She took a deep breath. “I don't know, but they all had swords, and the one that picked you up was like a monster. When I saw it was you, I planned to just give them the fish.”

“But your father …”

“If it meant keeping you from getting hurt, I'd have been glad to let my father's guests starve. I don't care if they are the High King's men.”

Merlin almost jumped. “The High King's men?”

“Shh,” Natalenya said, stepping closer. “I shouldn't have said anything. There's war on the eastern coast.”

Merlin nodded. He had learned the news from an iron merchant who had come to their shop two weeks ago. “What have you heard?”

“A host of wild men have landed along the coast, pillaging whole towns. Rumor has it that even Lundnisow may be in danger before the year's out. High King Uther is coming through to raise troops from Gorlas.”

“Your father would've been furious if you'd given up the fish.” Her hair smelled like the heather that grew on the mountain near her home.

“I don't care. You've had enough happen to you lately.”

“Why didn't Megek help?”

“When they threatened him, he barred the door. He's very old, so I don't blame him. How's your head?” She touched the bruise where
Mórganthu had hit him. “You seem to be getting knocked about up there of late.”

“He hit me pretty hard, didn't he? Actually, I don't remember. Tas told me everything.” Merlin moved backward a step.

“Mother and I saw it. We prayed for you.”

“My tas is going to see the Stone at midday, and I have to keep an eye on him. But I want to sit on the dock and pray first. I like to listen to the birds.” His voice quavered a little. “Would you care to join me?”

She nodded, and he hoped it was a smile he'd seen on her face.

As they walked, colorful blurs waved in the sunshine to their right. He reached out and picked one — a wildflower, orange — then gave it to Natalenya. She put it in her hair, and he smelled its sweet fragrance as she guided him over a muddy spot and onto the first plank of the dock.

They sat at the end of the dock, where birds twittered and chirped among the tall sedge grasses that seemed to grow out of the morning fog. A few boats tied nearby bumped each other on the dark water.

“Did you say your tas wants to see the Stone?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“Yes, but I need to somehow stop him from going, or else help him while he's there.”

She was quiet for a while. “It made me want to look at it. There's something spiritual about that Stone. It grabs your heart and twists it.”

“But I don't understand. How can it do that?” Merlin asked. His throat felt suddenly dry as he realized how near Natalenya sat to him.

Natalenya put a hand on his shoulder. “It's dangerous. Don't let your father or anyone you know get near it. Prontwon did and is deathly injured … I hope he recovers.”

“As do I.” Merlin splashed the water with his feet. “The Stone does seem to command attention. Last night after the druidow left, some villagers were touching it. Even two guards from the Tor were there. Hopefully your father wasn't angry.”

“He will be if he hears that. He dreams of piles of gold and lots of men serving him. I … I pray for him. He's changed since I was young.”

“My tas and Kiff fixed the wagon, so hopefully he's happy with it.”

The sound of soft, slow paddling floated to them across the marsh. They stopped talking and listened.

“Who's that?” Natalenya asked.

“A fisherman. Do you see him?”

“No. The fog hasn't fully lifted … Wait … I see a boat.” She got up on her knees. “It's not like the others,” she whispered. “It's like a floating island with grass and mushrooms. If it wasn't moving, I wouldn't know it was a boat at all.”

Merlin stood, one hand on his dirk. “Who's in it?”

“A man. He's paddling toward us.” She rose as well and stood close. “He's old … and
wild
. Gray hair down to his waist, and he's in rags. Let's leave.”

“Muscarvel. The wild man of the marsh,” he whispered back. “Have you heard the tales?” Merlin bent down and put on his boots, but before they could leave, the boat gurgled past them toward shore. He felt Natalenya's hand take hold of his arm.

“Where's he going?” he asked. “Did he ignore us?”

“No, he's on the dock! He's holding a sword, and his eyes —”

Dripping footsteps creaked toward them, and the dock swayed beneath the man's feet.

They were trapped.

Merlin stepped forward to face the stranger.

D
ybris paused before opening the chapel door. Had he heard someone calling?

Brother Crogen puffed up the path behind him. “Hou, there!”

Dybris turned to greet the pear-shaped little man but could barely keep his eyes open.

Crogen stopped short and studied him up and down. “Before you go in, be aware our heavenly Father is very close to taking Abbot Prontwon home.”

Dybris stepped away from the door. “What do you mean?”

“Look at you: dirty and soaked to the bone.”

“You know where I've been.” He couldn't keep the weariness from his voice. Where could that boy be?

Crogen plucked numerous pine needles from Dybris's hair. “Yes, and while you've been scouring the woods all night like you'd lost your best quill, Prontwon's near death.”

“I knew he wasn't well, but —”

“Think he's illuminating a manuscript in there?” The man's eye's bulged out at Dybris.

“I —”

“Think he prefers to sleep here instead of at the abbey?”

“Of course not …”

“Then what in the name of all that is holy
do
you think, Dybris?

“Everything I know is coming to an end.” Dybris leaned on the chapel wall and covered his face.

Crogen patted him on the shoulder. “Well, then, go in and see if your prayers can do more than your muddy feet. I'm off to get some herbs to help him breathe.”

Their eyes met, and Dybris saw compassion on Crogen's face. The man truly cared, and that gave Dybris strength.

After Crogen left, Dybris entered the chapel, closing the iron-banded door behind him. The darkness engulfed him, pricked only by the light from two small windows. A silver cross sat on a table, along with a candle that had sputtered to almost nothing.

Prontwon, sleeping, labored for breath.

“Oww —” Dybris muffled an outburst as his knee hit a bench.

Prontwon stirred, turned his head, and then closed his eyes again. “Crogen?”

Dybris sat beside the abbot and took his hand, clammy and limp.

Prontwon's chest rose and fell in small gasps, but it soon passed, and with renewed strength he squeezed Dybris's hand and peered at him out of the corner of his eye. “Ah … it is you. Did you find Garth?”

“No.”

The dark sleeve that Mórganthu had ripped lay open. Dybris cringed as he glimpsed the scarred and tattooed flesh underneath.

“You are wondering … why I hadn't told you?” Prontwon asked.

“Yes.”

“All the brothers know, but I needed to discern your spirit and was waiting for the right time.”

“Tell me now.”

“The youngest son of a farmer, I despised my father's simple ways. I … wanted to see the world. How foolish.” Prontwon studied the distant reaches of the thatched ceiling. “I met Mórganthu's older brother, Mogruith. He taught me, and I … became a druid. Gave my all, I did.”

“How old were you?”

Prontwon thought for a moment and then spoke with labored breath. “Seventeen winters. Mogruith in his late twenties. Missionaries came from Padraig and … brought Christianity. I hated Jesu because … the people turned away from us. They neither needed our protection from witches … nor our gods and holy days. Christianity was too simple … or so I thought. How could there be only … one God? How could there be no more need for … sacrifice? How could water wash away … guilt?”

Dybris wiped sweat from Prontwon's forehead. “As many thought.”

“Oh, but I was … naive. Thought I held the secrets of the ages when I … didn't even understand to ask the right questions.” A tear streaked across his face. “Then my poor mother grew sick.” He swallowed. “She was dying … as I am now.”

“No, you're not. Rest a few days.”

Prontwon wiped his tears and shook his head. “I tried my druid arts to heal her … but she only ailed the more. My father told me in his simple way … I should call on the Christian God. Oh, I laughed in his face. But as my mother … fell into death-sleep, I wept.” He smiled now as the tears streamed down. “There, with Father's arm around me … I prayed to Jesu, and told him I'd … follow him if he would heal my mother.”

“Was she healed?”

“No. She died that hour. But beforehand … she opened her eyes, reached to the heavens, and — with the most pure joy on her face — called, ‘Jesu, I come to you!' My father, he told me … about the monk, Guron, who brought the true worship … of the Lamb to the
moor and founded our western abbey. After my time of … grieving, I went to Guron. Mogruith never saw me again.”

Dybris studied the old man's eyes. “Why have you hidden the druid scars from me? From the people of the village?”

“Ashamed … of my past, mostly.” Prontwon shook his head. “Even afraid … of leading astray. Were any more from the abbey deceived last night?”

Standing up, Dybris gave Prontwon as reassuring a look as he could. “None! None of the brothers followed Mórganthu. Just Garth.”

“It is … sufficient, we will pray.”

The door to the chapel opened, and Brother Offyd stepped in. “A word with you, Dybricius.” His face was ashen.

Dybris tried to let go of Prontwon's hand, but the older man gripped his wrist. “Don't leave me … alone.”

“Only for a moment. Brother Offyd needs to speak with me.”

“Ahh …” Prontwon let go.

Dybris followed Offyd outside and closed the creaky door. “What is it? You look sick.”

“It's Brother Herrik. Crogen had just arrived at the abbey when he found Brother Herrik in the scriptorium.”

“And what? Doesn't Crogen want us working on the parchments?”

“That's just it. He wasn't copying Scripture. He was drawing a … a diagram of sorts.”

“A diagram of what? Speak plainly.”

“Of the Stone. The Druid Stone. He was drawing it.”

Dybris shut his eyes tightly. “Dear God, give us strength.”

Merlin heard the slashing of the sword as it whirled dangerously near. He pushed Natalenya behind him and faced the madman.

“What do you want of us?” Merlin demanded.

The man did not speak but swung his sword in another arc. This time it swept a rush of air past Merlin's cheek.

With a loud, vibrating jolt, the sword jammed into the wood between Merlin's feet.

“He's bowing,” Natalenya whispered.

The man's damp hair smelled like wet peat. With his heart pounding, Merlin asked, “Are you Muscarvel of the marsh?”

“I am that I was. Thy glucking servant, scarred one. I am poor Musca, now old and frail, but this fish longs to bite the fetid trunks, does he not?”

“What would you have? Do you need food? Coins?” Merlin reached for his bag and pulled out a few brass ones. He held them out.

The man slapped Merlin's hand, and the coins plinked into the water.

“Need not the janglings of men!” Muscarvel shouted. “Marsh feeds poor Musca. I hunger and eat the flesh of evil birds, chew the foul frog from its hole. Thirst and drink water where the rooted rushes seize the clay. Suffer cold, and the banks of the sun-bit bog bring fire for my hearth. Poor Arvel needs naught but what Christ provides!”

Natalenya tapped Merlin's shoulder. “Let's leave.”

“Wait,” Merlin answered. Muscarvel had some reason for coming. “If you need nothing, Arvel, tell us why you're here.”

“Poor Musca has naught but what my Father above has given. This I nurtured and shaped for you through long years of cold and heat, biting flies and sliming mud. This I give to you, great lord, that the weight of its angry darkness may be gone from my soul.”

What had Muscarvel said? He
was
crazy to think that Merlin was a lord.

Muscarvel fell prostrate on the dock, reached between Merlin's feet, and grasped the blade of his own sword, stuck there in the wood. With halting words he shouted:

Muscarvel clambered up with his rags flapping, and their green reek smote Merlin. The man grabbed Merlin's hands. He had the grip of a biting turtle, yet his fingers were so thin.

He shook as if an invisible creature tore his back. The final words came out in agony:

Muscarvel's words fell away from him in the grief of tears. As he spoke again, a calmness, if not a saneness, returned to his voice. “Great lord, besides a few final tasks, I am now free. But you … you shall bear these words as a dark burden until your death. I merely carried them. You must live them.”

A shiver ran through Merlin. The man was mad — but nonsense though his words sounded, he said them with such sincerity and
conviction that they somehow rang true. Why had Muscarvel spoken these words to him?

Natalenya, now holding Merlin's arm, whispered in his ear. “He's crying as he pulls something from a moldy pouch. Oh, Merlin, it's beautiful.”

Merlin could see the gleam of gold in the man's hands.

“Great lord, this also I have kept for the day of your rising. The Christ hid it in a bog, and I found it! A great chief of men died I know not when, and I wrenched it from his leathern neck.”

Natalenya pulled Merlin closer. “It's a torc of fine workmanship. Made from thick braids of gold. On its ends are crafted what look like the heads of falcons.”

Reaching up, Muscarvel placed the torc upon Merlin.

He felt the cold, heavy weight of it on his neck and collarbones, and he reached up to touch the ancient curves of the torc with his fingertips.
I don't deserve this. Who am I? No one. Just the blind son of a blacksmith. Why had Muscarvel done this? And who was he?

Muscarvel plucked his sword from the plank and yelled, “I'm free!” He ran down the shaking dock and jumped into his boat. His paddle sloshed through the water swiftly, and his parting words called back to them through the mist.

“Lost the meat! I'll find it, Father. I'll find it yet!”

For a long moment Merlin and Natalenya stood side by side, speechless. When the sounds of Muscarvel faded, Merlin listened instead to Natalenya's breathing, so close beside him.

All at once, she turned toward him. “I should go. Here.” She rummaged in her bundle, then pressed a smoked fish into his hands. “It's no golden torc, but it's the least I can do after you saved me from those men.”