Merlin's Blade (16 page)

Seeing her father's pleased face, she paused and then, with a silent prayer, sang out again, this time with a feel of sadness to her voice.

The warriors were silent and sober. With loud lament, she finished the song.

Natalenya let her hands fall away from her harp, and the strings resonated their last dying notes through the room. The men looked at each other somberly, their bowls of mead forgotten. Some even pushed the sop away.

Vortigern, however, appeared to have ignored the words of the song, and joking with Vortipor, he doused his throat with a long draught.

Her mother's face was radiant, but her father's lips lay stiff upon his face. Natalenya stood, placed her harp on the stool, and announced, “Such is ‘The Lament of Arllechweth.' ”

At that point her brother, Dyslan, chose to finish returning a stack of empty trenchers to the culina. His fast steps sped him behind a warrior who stood and pushed his bench backward. Dyslan tripped and crashed to the mosaic floor, sending dishes flying through the air.

Guffaws spilled out, and men slapped each other as Dyslan stood with chicken bones sticking out of his hair. In the confusion and enjoyment of the moment, her father and Vortigern walked down the hall to her father's private quarters.

Her mother stepped over to Natalenya. “Your father requested I bring him and Vortigern a sample of his best wine … but I need to help Dyslan. Would you serve your father?”

“Doesn't Father drink that
before
meals?”

“Too many guests.” And then her mother raised an eyebrow and whispered, “Vortipor.”

Over her mother's shoulder, Natalenya saw him stalking toward them. He'd taken off his cloak for the first time, and his gold-threaded tunic contrasted sharply with his unpleasant face.

“I'll delay him,” her mother said. “Quickly now.”

Natalenya cradled her harp and fled through the stone arch that
led to their sleeping area. As she turned the corner, she spied her wise mother step into Vortipor's path and greet him.

Having set the harp in her room, Natalenya entered through the culina's side door to find her father's wines. Squeezing past the bustling servants, she went to the rear and pulled two baskets of grain from a stone slab. She brushed away loose kernels and slid the stone cover to the side, revealing her father's cache of imported wine. From them she selected her father's favorite, the deep red Mulsum, took the small terra-cotta amphora out of the reserve along with a small crock of honey, and slid the cover back.

Although her father had forbidden her from tasting it, on more than one occasion she had sniffed its rich cinnamon, thyme, and peppery bouquet.

She walked down the hall to her father's quarters with the amphora and honey. She was about to knock on the door when she heard a voice say, “… so your daughter is uncovenanted. What would make you consider a match with my son? He'll soon be battle chief. Maybe more.”

Natalenya halted before the door, with the round wine jar cold against her frozen hand.

“Does Uther esteem him?” her father asked.

“Uther pays no mind. His attention is to his wife, his daughters” — Vortigern's voice turned scornful — “
his son
.”

“You do not like this new son? Is he unruly and spoiled?”

Vortigern cursed. “Just a whelp, he is, but he'll be like his father.”

“You speak against the High King?” Her father's voice had a hint of shrillness.

“I do not, no. But the blood of a High King flows in my veins as well. Why rejoice when Uther's line continues?”

Her father clicked his tongue. “But he is married to your sister. Your line and his have come together.”

“It is not as my grandfather would have wished.”

Natalenya could almost taste his bile.

“Surely Vitalinus would have been proud to have his granddaughter's son wear the High King's torc?”

“You know nothing of what Vitalinus wished,” Vortigern said, his words hissing as if through his teeth. “
I
sat in his feasting hall at Glevum.
I
saw his glory and the gold piled high. Your pottage from the Stone today was nothing compared to my grandfather's treasures!”

A fist clunked onto the table. “You think the Druid Stone a joke, do you?”

“Not a joke, no. It gave me
better
than coins.”

“I saw your face. I tried to show you the gold, yet you stared at the Stone forever, it seemed, and ignored me.” Her father's voice lowered to a whisper. “What did you see?”

Natalenya heard a chair creak and groan.

“Nothing! Nothing, I —”

“You smiled as if you could touch your grandfather's treasures again. I saw it on your face the whole time the Stone enchanted you. What would you do if his gold found you again?”

Vortigern hooted. “I? Reward my followers richly! Not like that tight-bagged Uther. Tell me, how much has he taxed out of you?”

“What does it matter how much I am taxed?”

“Seen any of it again? How much?”

“Two priceless gold coins for each year of his reign,” her father said. “Thirty-two have I paid him, but not all from this dirty village.”

“And has he ever sent you even a rusty
coynall
to keep up the fortress?”

“I'd keep the gold if I were Uther.”

“Tregeagle, you have expressed it properly.” Vortigern said, and his voice dropped to a whisper so that Natalenya barely made out what followed. “If
I
were Uther … reward those who helped me. No taxes … share my great wealth. We'd … rich
together
. I'd even promote my supporters … away from outposts … this place … forsaken by the gods.”

“If
you
were Uther,” her father whispered back, “then
I
would … you. And … son.”

“
If
is the key word.
If
I were Uther. The men are loyal. If anyone, mind you, if … even snorted about the … like this, they'd … an arrow in their chest faster than …”

Silence.

Back around the bend of the hall — where the feast was finishing up — Natalenya heard voices. And footsteps.

T
he footsteps grew louder, and Natalenya almost dropped the amphora. Either she had to enter now or she'd be caught listening in on her father and Vortigern.

Putting on her cheeriest face, she knocked on the door with the hand holding the crock of honey.

A pause. “Come in,” her father called.

She opened the door and found the two men staring at her.

“Well … Natalenya,” her father said. “I expected your mother.”

“She had to help Dyslan with his mishap.”

“I see you have brought the Mulsum. Here, let me get my celebratory goblets.”

Her father went to a cabinet at the back of the room, unlocked it with a small key, and opened the left door. Reaching to the back, he pulled out two very small goblets of cast gold, each with intricate scenes of Roman battles. Her father always brought out this pair
when serving company. Only when drinking alone would he take one of the larger goblets from the other side of the cabinet.

He locked the doors again and made sure they were secure. Satisfied, he turned and walked back, carrying the goblets. He smiled at her. “Did you know we were just talking about you?”

“Really? Whatever about?” She feigned a smile.

“Oh, your harp playing. You've become skillful in the past few years. Your selection of ballads could be improved, however.”

Natalenya set down the honey and then bit her lip while she worked loose the stopper sealed with pine resin. Her hands trembled so much as she poured the wine that her father quickly steadied her.

“Let's not spill what I have paid good coinage for.”

“I'm sorry, Father.”

She finished, replaced the stopper, and then stepped back.

Her father stirred some of the thick honey into each glass and then held up one of the goblets. “My friend, you won't find anything even remotely like it casked here in Britain. One sip and you will feel ten years younger.”

“Will there be anything else, Father?” Natalenya asked.

“All is well. Just make sure you return my costly cargo to its place of safety.”

Natalenya nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her. She walked a few paces from the door, shuffling her feet a bit to create a ruse of steps; then, turning, she tiptoed back. For a while she heard nothing but silence. Then the two spoke again.

“Fantastic,” Vortigern said, then belched. “Haven't tasted the like since campaigning on the continent seven years ago. Not so good as a Falernian, mind, but still excellent.”

“Very astute. I had it shipped from southern Gaul. No one else in the house is allowed any. Not even my wife.”

“You don't think your daughter sipped it on the way?”

“Natalenya wouldn't dare. She saw what I did to a servant who tasted it once. Caught him with the smell on his breath. He paid dearly for that drop.”

“Then why was she nervous? Do you think she overheard us?”

“Oh, no. She's always like that when handling expensive things.”

“Are you sure that's it?” Vortigern asked.

“It is just a sign that she knows the value of true luxuries and will manage her future household with care.”

Silence followed, then Vortigern said, “About that household. Vortipor is smitten with her. In no time they will be in love.”

Natalenya stiffened.

“I have thought long and hard about whom to promise her to, and when,” her father said. “Certainly none of the oafs around here are proper suitors. Not that they haven't tried. I have to keep myself from laughing each time one makes an offer for her hand. They all smell like billy goats and have as much money to their names.”

A chair creaked. “Vortipor will hold great power one day.”

“You are sure he will succeed you?”

“He's already one of the war chieftains, and I will arrange things. I'm near forty winters, and the road is hard. Soon I will … I will rest, yes. And if I rest, then my sister, Queen Igerna, will agree to Vortipor's advancement.”

“Does Vortipor have an
annulus pronubus
?”

Vortigern coughed. “A troth ring? You want to do this Romanlike, eh? Why not a handfast? We could bind their hands — and lives — together tomorrow if we wished.”

“It is my way. If you don't like Roman customs, we can call it off —”

“No, no. Your method just takes so long.”

Her father's voice became demanding. “So … you are saying he does not have a ring?”

“Ahh, he could come up with one.”

“Do you require a dowry?”

Vortigern snorted. “From you? In exchange for your timely support, I require only the things to make a home proper for a woman. Of gold, nothing. Vortipor has won much spoil. He already owns a large house on the coast near Regnum.”

“It is agreed, then,” her father said, sending a shiver down Natalenya's spine. “A
sponsio
before you leave. How long will you stay?”

“A day, maybe two. But why have a formal betrothal ceremony? Just let him ride away with her!” He laughed.

Natalenya fumed at this. What a swine!

“That is not our way,” Tregeagle said. “An agreement now and a proper ceremony later. The most propitious would be after Vestalia. Maybe the second half of Junius?”

“Come, Tregeagle … it would save you the cost of a wedding.”

“Her mother would not agree —”

“Who says she has to agree?”

Both men laughed.

Natalenya chose that moment to leave, her heart racing three times faster than her quiet feet could take her. Back down the hall she flew, past the bend, and to the culina, where she put the wine back and slid the stone slab over the enclosure.

Turning around, she nearly collided with Vortipor, who towered over her, his face in deep shadow. He raised his arm threateningly above her.

She flinched and tripped back, knocking over a basket of grain.

Dybris sighed as he placed his last rock on Abbot Prontwon's cairn, which stood on the very top of the mountain. If he'd thought that losing Garth's allegiance to the druidow had been hard, this was worse. How could Prontwon have died like this?

This worship of the Stone had to be stopped — changed. Somehow.

The sun set as Brother Crogen's soft voice chanted over the new mound, calling out for God to guard the dead abbot's body, soul, and spirit. The other monks echoed his words. At the base of the cairn, Brothers Nivet and Migal placed a stone marker carved with the cross of Christ.

Dybris gazed at the cross a long time, remembering how he'd met Prontwon when the old man had visited their abbey on the coast. Brushing a tear from his cheek, Dybris recalled the abbot's firm hand grasp and friendly smile. His call for Dybris to join them at the mission up on the woodland moor. His counsel. Laughter. Sternness. Teachings. Hard work. Care. Someone coughed, and his memories fled. The cairn stone with the carved cross came into focus again.

In that moment an idea sprouted: a way to defeat the druidow and bring the villagers back to Jesu. It was dangerous, and Dybris knew it might fail. He looked out to the bleeding sun sinking in the west — and smiled for the first time that day.

Yes … he would dare it.

Merlin and his father smithed together for the first time since Merlin's flogging. While they worked, his father described to him how the blade's bevels became smooth and straight. How the tip formed a more graceful arc and the tang was lengthened.

During each heating, Merlin worked the bellows while his father tended the coals. The bellows were positioned near the window so they could suck in the extra fresh air and feed the fire. More than once Merlin reached out and touched the new iron bars his father had fit in the window.
No more wolves will get through there
, he thought contentedly.

The oversized forge required constant attention to spread the heat around the blade: cooler for the tip, hotter near the guard, and the tang out of the coals. His father had an expert eye to know when the blade's color meant it was ready for the hammer. And as this was best judged in the dark, his father preferred swordsmithing after sundown. Too hot and the metal would spark and ruin its strength. Too cold and his father would tire from excess hammering.

Merlin found peace in the rhythm of heating and hammering, heating and hammering. Some of his happiest times were working
with his tas after dinner. No farmers impatient for a tool to be fixed. No horses to shoe. Just him, his father, and a blade.

Once the color was true, his father would clamp onto the handle a special pair of tongs he'd made that would allow Merlin to hold the sword without getting burned, as well as maneuver it without losing his grip. Timing was critical, and his father's forearm burns testified he didn't want the blade slipping in the tongs.

During each hammering on the anvil, Merlin held these tongs with both hands. Despite his blindness, he had learned from his father over the past five years to lift the sword slightly off the anvil between hammer blows. This was important to keep the heat from escaping into the anvil. By doing this the visits to the forge were reduced and each blow strengthened.

Now and then during the hammering, his father would call “Trelya,” which meant that Merlin should flip the sword. This was tricky because Merlin had to lift the sword, flip it, and set it on the anvil at the correct angle in time for the next hammer blow.

In this way father and son worked together as one man: lifting, dropping, hammering, lifting, turning, dropping, and hammering. But the part Merlin liked best — when his father wasn't sullen or angry — was heating the blade, because there was time to talk while Merlin worked the bellows. Maybe tonight he could get more answers from his father than he had been privy to these many long years.

“Tas, how'd you decide to become a blacksmith?” Merlin asked.

“It's a long story.”

“I'd like to hear it. We have time.”

His father paused, and when he spoke again, it was so quiet Merlin barely caught his words. “The truth is that I stumbled into the craft. When your mother and I traveled to Kernow, I needed work, and a monk at Isca Difnonia told us this village's blacksmith needed a helper. So we came to Bosventor.”

“Was that Elowek, who owned the smithy before us? I hardly remember him.”

“That was he. I learned the trade without planning on it, swordsmithing and all. When he died I bought the shop and house from his widow, and we've been here ever since.”

Merlin's father used a poker to shift the coals around the blade. “A little more air … That's it. Funny how life changes you. Now I'm the one known as
An Gof
, ‘the Smith.' I can still hear the old man whistling.”

“Hadn't you ever thought about being a smith?”

“Oh, like most boys, I was fascinated by the heat, sparks, and ringing of the anvil. But no, I hadn't thought about it. You see I … You don't know this, but I was the youngest son of a chieftain.”

“Really? My grandfather was a chieftain? Where?”

“Rheged, north of Kembry. The fortress of Dinas Crag. I hear my oldest brother, Ector, rules there now. My father wanted me, as the youngest, to be a leader in the church and had me trained for it.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” All the years his father was unwilling to visit the chapel surfaced in a fresh light. Fear sank like a rock into Merlin's stomach as he waited for the typical lash from his father. But this time it was different.

Owain stepped away from the forge and walked over to Merlin, who kept working the bellows, but slower now.

“Part of my life has been locked up, for I don't know how long.” He placed a hand on Merlin's shoulder.

Merlin's fear ebbed away.

“But now I'm free, and my soul can move. For the first time my father's faith, and my son's faith, is now mine.”

“When did Grandfather leave the old ways?”

“I don't know, but he was the first in our family. I prepared for the church because it was expected. Ah, but I failed him in that! I wanted to be a warrior like my brothers and spurned his desire for me to be a monk and serve the church. I told the abbot and left.”

“Was he angry?” Merlin asked.

“As a churchman, he understood. I'd —”

“No, Grandfather, was he —”

“Ahh … very angry, yes,” Owain said. “But he didn't disinherit me at that time.”

The light from the forge dimmed, and Merlin pressed the bellows faster to keep it going. “In leaving the abbey, did you reject God?”

“Not really. Just being a monk.” His father returned to the forge and scooped fresh char-wood around the edges. “As the son of a chieftain in Kembry, I had certain privileges, among which was meeting others of my rank. And higher. One became a fast friend. He was a lad three years younger than I, named Uthrelius, the son of High King Aurelianus.”

Merlin dropped the bellows handles. “You and Uther are friends?”

The smithy was deathly silent, until his father said, “Not anymore. But I served in his war band before we parted. And a bitter parting it was. He was just a prince then. Now a score of years have gone by.” Owain turned away from the forge, and his voice became wistful. “Many years … and he is High King and I am nothing. Nothing but a blacksmith.”

“But you're
more
than that, Tas,” Merlin said. “And you
can
be more. It doesn't matter what you do with your hands. It's your character and faithfulness. Your honesty.”

“Sometimes I doubt it. Uther certainly won't think so.”

Merlin hadn't considered what Uther would think. “Will he even remember you? Does he know you're in —”

“Bosventor? No. He doesn't expect to see my face tomorrow. Nevertheless, he won't have forgotten. But I hope time will have lessened his rage at me for deserting the war band.”