1191

early in January, the Loc hwær told us that John was back in England. I sent a warning to Longchamp, but he probably knew from other sources before my note arrived. John was still bound by Richard’s ban against entering England without Longchamp’s permission, but if Longchamp wanted to enforce this edict, he would have to chain the king’s brother in a dungeon, and even he did not dare try that.

The justiciar’s new problem was entirely his own fault, because his tyrannical rule had gained John many friends in the land. Richard’s generosity had given his brother enormous financial resources, and few problems cannot be solved by gold. Soon he was parading around England, collecting castles like a ferreter netting rabbits. If Richard died on crusade, then John was going to seize the throne and baby Arthur could scream all he wanted. And if the rightful king survived and tried to claim his kingdom . . .

Plantagenet family squabbles kill a lot of bystanders.

One chilly evening in March, Lovise and I were sitting by a dwindling fire, reluctant to leave the warmth and withdraw to a cold bed. Lars had left home to live in residence, and the servants had all retired, so there were only the two of us old fogies in our empty nest. We were discussing those dark times and cursing Richard for neglecting his realm. In theory the Church’s Truce of God defended the lands of all crusaders during their absence and to molest them in any way was a major sin, but now John was stealing England, bite by bite.

And my dear wife said, “So what are you going to do about it?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Obviously, the Church is not going to do anything, and you are still enchanter general. I thought you swore loyalty to King Richard?”

At first, I thought she was joking. “So tell me what I can do.”

“I am not the one you should ask.”

“I thought you did not like me invoking that incantation.”

“I am more worried when it invokes you without being asked, but if you can think of anything better to do, then I think you should do it.”

She was not joking! I should have known her better, although she ought to have warned me when she expanded my responsibilities to include the political future of the empire. I rose, went down to my work room, and hurried back, shivering, with the Myrddin Wyllt scroll.

“It’s cold down there,” I explained, and made myself comfortable on the hearth rug, leaning back against a pile of cushions. The floor was one place I couldn’t fall off of when I went into my trance. I began the chant, but soon regretted my choice of position so close to the fire. I pressed on, ignoring the heat. Before I reached the end I heard singing and smelled a curious medley of scents, of which I was only sure of two—roasted meat, and the odor of a large number of unwashed men. I was hotter than ever in my winter clothing.

My eyes and ears seemed to be in a castle hall, filled with a large assemblage of warriors, many of them sporting crusaders’ crosses, red or white. Daylight, but not direct sunlight, was streaming in through wide unglazed windows, bringing a mid-summer heat that England never knew, especially in March. I was almost certainly looking at a crusader force, part of the English and French army led by King Richard, although I saw some unfamiliar surcoats and headgear that suggested other nations, possibly German. This host of two or three hundred had finished eating, but not yet drinking. A few brown-skinned slaves were moving among them, distributing wine or ale.

Some notables adorned a high table, but they were vague to my sight, as unimportant details always were in Myrddin Wyllt prophecies. What mattered was that this packed hall was strangely still, intent on a couple of minstrels, who were strolling around between the tables, as minstrels do. They were singing a Provençal ballad together and each carried a gittern, although only the younger one was playing at that moment. Obviously they were very skilled if they could hold that normally rowdy audience in thrall. They were both blond. The younger, larger one was Lars of Pipewell, and the old one with the limp was me.

If there was more to come I missed it, because the shock of seeing myself from the outside jerked me out of the trance. I probably cried out, because Lovise lowered her embroidery and demanded to know what was wrong.

I collected my wits. “I seem to be destined to go on crusade.”

“You? You’re not that sort of knight, Durwin. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It is prophesied,” I insisted.

“You’re far too old.”

“I wasn’t a warrior in armor. I saw myself as a minstrel, entertaining the troops.” I was not about to tell her that Lars was with me, or not until I had spoken with him, anyway. I was face-to-face with the basic paradox in prophesy: could I block one of the Myrddin Wyllt’s predictions? It was to be a long time before I plucked up enough courage to try.

“I suppose if the king sends for you . . .” Lovise glared at me as if this trance session had been my idea, not hers. “But he’d want you as a sage, not a minstrel.”

“No chance. Richard will never send for me unless he needs someone to clean up after his horse.”

“What nonsense! Why in the world do you say that?” Even a wife as skilled as mine must still depend on her husband’s status to establish her own place in society, and so must needs defend it.

“Because I forced him to study Latin when he was a child. Because I stole his thunder when his father died—Queen Eleanor heard the news from me a week before his letters arrived, so he suspects me of spying on him. I am right at the bottom of his list of approved people.”

“The queen, then, perhaps? Can you think of any reason why she might want to smuggle an enchanter in somewhere by passing him off as a minstrel?” When anyone in England said, “the queen,” they still meant Eleanor. If Berengaria ever made it back to the west and bothered to visit England, we might have to change.

“No, dear wife,” I said. “I cannot imagine that, but I can imagine a disgraced sage losing everything and having to sing for his supper.”

The next day I went out and bought a gittern. I began taking lessons from a hungry-looking youngster who scraped out a living in the taverns and brothels of the town. With my experience in singing, I progressed well, although I often wished my fingers were younger.

What Lovise and I had not known that evening was that help would soon be on the way. Queen Eleanor was already in Italy, and close to meeting up with her absentee son. Without doubt, she gave him a lambasting for putting that avaricious, overweening, despotic, idiotic, et cetera, Longchamp in charge of England.

After delivering Queen-designate Berengaria to Sicily, Eleanor waited only four days before starting her return journey, and this time she traveled with Walter Coutances, who carried royal warrants intended to settle the English dispute. They traveled slowly, dallying in Rome to witness the enthroning of Pope Celestine III, and it was not until June that Walter landed in England, Eleanor having remained in Rouen, the capital of Normandy. Heaven knows, she deserved a rest after such a journey.

I knew Walter well, for he had served as Archdeacon in Oxford for years. Although born in England, he was now arch-bishop of Rouen, and one of Richard’s most trusted familiares.He arrived just as Longchamp completed his siege of Lincoln Castle, whose constable—husband of my old friend Nicholaa de la Haye—was a fervent John supporter. Longchamp had imported mercenaries to besiege one of the royal castles. England was very close to civil war.

Walter came with a royal warrant naming him as co-justiciar. He promptly called a parley, to meet in Winchester on July 28^th. He negotiated a settlement between John and Longchamp. He could rein in the latter because he had brought another, secret, warrant from the king, allowing him to depose Longchamp. He did not reveal this publicly at that time, although I am confident he showed it to Longchamp, and the threat was enough to bring him to heel. Controlling John was harder, because everyone knew that the crusade was going badly, and the king was repeatedly reported to be at death’s door with fever. More than once this was actually true. More than likely, Richard never would return.

I had begun some serious research into foreseeing. Merlin had left many prophecies, most of which made no sense until the predicted events had occurred. Or, as disbelievers would say, until something happening that could be twisted to fit the words. We had several prophetic incantations in our archives, but I had always discouraged students from dabbling with them. For one thing, foreseeing can be dangerous and has been known to drive users insane. For another, the Church regards it as blasphemous, an attempt to bind God. Only astrology was grudgingly approved, perhaps because it was never specific enough to make much difference.

Time is like a mountain torrent, one commentator had written in the margin of one of my grimoires, and we stand on a boulder in it, trying to see what the flow will bring down next. Another hand had added, Until we fall off the boulder.

The ancient Greeks relied on the oracle at Delphi, which is no longer in business, or on the entrails of animals, especially the liver, which has a mysterious appearance for a few minutes after being exposed. They, and the Romans also, relied heavily on viewing the flight of birds. Crystal balls and fire gazing, inhaling the smoke of burning herbs, prayer and fasting—there seemed to be no limit to the means, and very little to the ends.

What I could not find was any guidance on what happened if you tried to circumvent a prophecy.

In July Lars received his green cape as a qualified sage, having graduated from the College with the highest commendations on record—which outsiders might think was just sycophantic flattery because he was my son, but I knew had been well earned. We had a splendid family reunion to celebrate. Harald and his wife, Hilda, came from Pipewell; Iseut and Royse were brought by their respective future in-laws.

A year earlier Lars would have been clamoring to go off and help the brave crusaders. Now, like everyone else, he had lost enthusiasm for the cause, and the subject was not mentioned. But on the day after everyone had gone home again, as soon as his mother had left to visit patients, he accosted me in my workroom. He sat down and eyed me quizzically.

“My lord Father?”

“I am not God, Lars.”

“Of course you are, to me, anyway. You always have been.”

“Gramercy! I never noticed. You want someone smitten with a plague?”

“I’d rather you’d find me some generous and benevolent lord anxious to employ an eager, witty, hardworking, and incredibly sapient young sage.”

“Dear boy, such sages are even rarer than are generous, benevolent lords and I don’t know any of either.” I gestured to the couch. “I do think I have a serious job for you, if you want it. It will drive your mother into hysterics, but it will be lot more interesting than mixing laxative potions in some damp and gloomy castle. Move over there. Now see if this agrees with me.” I handed him the Myrddin Wyllt scroll. He unrolled the first part and scanned it with a glance.

“What does ‘Myrddin Wyllt’ mean?”

“I’ll tell you later. Chant it, and it will surprise you, I promise. I’ll bring you back in a few minutes.”

He lowered the scroll and regarded me with suspicion. “You’re telling me that my chanting will put me into trance?”

I nodded, unable to resist a smile, because this was against everything he had been taught in the College. It was the cantor who should be entranced, not the enchanter.

“Carnonos? That’s the horned god? What’s the melody?”

“I find All My Days works well.”

Faced with a completely unfamiliar lyric, Lars set a slow pace, but he sang without a fault. I was fascinated to watch the spell in action. I knew roughly where it usually put me into a trance, but he continued without a break, all the way to the end. Even then, while his arms gradually sank down with his hands still clutching the scroll, his eyes stayed wide open, and mobile. The rest of him lay corpse-like, his breathing barely visible, but he was watching something. I allowed him a few moments before I called his name and shook him.

He blinked a few times before focusing on me. “Where are we going?”

“You tell me.”

He peered around, steadying his wits. “We were on a ship. You were vomiting over the rail.”

“And you, I suppose, were finding that funny?”

“Um . . . I looked sort of greenish, too. I was taught that magic couldn’t work over the sea.”

“I’m a little ahead of the College there, son, but this is still a big secret.”

“I’m thirsty . . .”

I fetched the wine and two beakers. Then I told him the story—Myrddin Wyllt, who was Merlin of the Wilds, the scroll, and the visions I had seen. He listened with amazement.

“Now you can see why I have kept this a secret,” I said. “This ship you saw—did you notice any details, how many masts it had, or if it was a galley? Any scenery, landmarks? Members of the crew?” Lars shook his head. “Just you and me and the sea . . . and what you were doing.”

“That means a prophecy. It must, since we are not at sea right now, and never have been so far. When the details are not yet determined, then they cannot be prophesied. It was telling us that you and I will go on a voyage and you will be a better sailor than I am. Everything else is still undecided.”

“But you saw us as troubadours in the Holy Land?”

“The Holy Land, possibly. Somewhere hot and sunny, yes, so not England. Troubadours yes, performing on a hot day, somewhere. And an appreciative audience. We were both singing. You were playing, I was just carrying my gittern . . . and maybe a hat, for gratuities. I’m not sure.”

“It would be hard to tune two gitterns perfectly together and keep them that way.”

At that moment, Lovise swept in. “Durwin, we must remember—what are you two up to?”

“Drinking wine before noon,” I said, as Lars and I stood up. She eyed us as if she had just been appointed Senior Recording Angel for England. “No, you look too guilty for that.”

“We were just planning a journey, Mother.”

“A journey to where?”

Knowing that I would have to break the news to her sooner or later, I said, “To entertain our gallant fighting men in Outremer.” She lost color, looking from son to husband and back again. “Both of you?”

“It seems that way, dear. Tell me, where in Oxford can we buy silk?”

With the firm hand of Walter Coutances on the tiller, the country retreated from the brink of civil war. Indeed, the struggle degenerated into farce. Geoffrey the Bastard, who preferred to be known as Geoffrey Fitzhenry, now Archbishop of York, returned to England although, like John, he had been forbidden to do so by the king. He landed at Dover, where he was accosted by Longchamp’s sister, wife of the constable of Dover Castle. She demanded that the archbishop swear an oath of loyalty to her brother. Geoffrey refused and sought sanctuary at the local priory, but the next day he was literally dragged from the altar and thrown into a dungeon.

This was far too reminiscent of the murder of Thomas Becket, and the entire country erupted in fury. Longchamp had to take refuge in Windsor Castle. With clerics on both sides, interdicts and excommunications began to fly to and fro like bats.

In September John took it upon himself to summon a great council at Reading, which I of course attended. The barons were all reluctant to offend John, because they knew that word of the Richard’s death might arrive any day and no one seriously expected the infant Arthur to succeed. Offending a future king would be dangerous, but likely less dangerous than foreswearing the reigning one. In effect, everyone was sitting along the fence like swallows planning their migration. I guessed the part I would have to play, and it would put me right between those legendary crashing rocks of the Symplegades, so I had my answer ready. I sat and said nothing until the call came.

After several hours of bickering, cursing, and droning, it was John himself who jumped up and pointed straight at me.

“Your graces, my lords, why don’t we consult the ultimate expert on all things, Baron Durwin? Arise, Merlin Reborn, and prophesy for us! Will our beloved King Richard ever return from the Holy Land?”

I waited for a moment in the silence, and then stood up. I bowed to Walter, who was in the chair. “Your graces, my lords, I have never claimed to be Merlin Redux. It was our Lady Queen Eleanor who dubbed me that, and she spoke in jest. I do not claim to prophesy—but . . .” I said quickly before another wave of tumult could break over us, “I can quote the great Merlin himself. In one of his prophecies, he proclaimed: ‘When the lion returns to his den, the dogs go back in their kennels.”’

The loyalist barons cheered uproariously as I sat down. Merlin had never said anything of the sort, so far as I knew, but he could have done. One thing I did know about prophecy is that it is much safer when attributed to somebody else.

I left it to the council to decide whether “Merlin’s” reference to dogs included John, King Philip, and Longchamp, or just some of them. The majority settled on Longchamp and voted to depose him. Walter, revealing his authority as supreme justiciar, agreed, and that settled the matter. John, triumphant, marched into London and summoned a public assembly, which likewise agreed that the justiciar must go. The idea of letting the common mob determine state policy is not only crazy, it is extremely dangerous. The rabble are totally unpredictable.

According to numerous reports, probably too good to be true, poor little Longchamp attempted to escape from England disguised as a woman, until a raunchy sailor received an unexpected disappointment and shouted for his friends to come and look at this. The humiliated Longchamp did, in fact, go into exile. John proceeded to travel up and down the land, seeking to gather support, predicting his brother’s death, and claiming to be his successor. I was continually pestered by people anxious to know if the king was still alive, so I had to keep insisting that I was not, and never could be, Merlin Reborn.

Once in a while Walter would come by Oxford, and from him I learned the true news, stripped of its usual bodyguard of rumor. By November, King Philip was back home in France, spreading lies about Richard—that he had accepted bribes from Saladin to stay away from Jerusalem, had tried to poison Philip, had sent assassins to kill him, and so on.

Philip wanted his sister Aalis returned to him—with her dowry of Vexin County—but Eleanor refused to release her. Two cardinals, sent by the Pope to interfere, tried to enter Normandy and Eleanor would not allow them into the duchy. The war in the Holy Land had become a stalemate, with little fighting, much negotiating, and both armies in winter quarters. King Richard had been within twelve miles of Jerusalem and hoped to leave the Holy Land by Easter, 1192—so Walter told me.

“God send him good speed!” I said, and we drank to that.