Chapter 3—The Journey South

Merlin bounced on the rough wooden seat of the wagon, his right hand clutching the side rail of the bench while his left rubbed the bruise forming on his knee. Pain radiated from the spot and he winced, frowning. “That hurt!” He leaned over the side of the wagon, peering back at the cloud of dust that drifted away on the gentle breeze formed by the churning wheels. “Did you have to run straight over the rock?” He straightened, pushing back the dark strands of hair stuck to his sweating forehead.

The woman who sat beside him was middle-aged, her long hair tucked into the hood of her dust cloak. Wisps of amber sprinkled liberally with grey curled around the opening, escaping to frame a smiling face punctuated by a sunburnt nose. “Merlin, you should know by now that the wagon is no place to practice your spells. You need to keep your full attention on the road, the forests, and on our cargo.” Merlin frowned. “We are making good time. We will be to Camelot soon.”

“I don’t need to watch the forests, Mother. I can sense the bandit’s intentions before they can get close enough to bother us. How many times have I saved our bacon already? Eight? Nine?”

Huddel laughed, the sound a high-pitched chime. “Yes, at least that many times.” Her amusement faded as she gazed at her gangly son. His seventeenth birthday was barely a week ago, and already he seemed much older. He was maturing into a man. Yet he knew so little of the world and understood its dangers even less. She reached over with one hand and tousled his hair, running fingers through its silky waves. “But you cannot use magic in Camelot, Merlin. You cannot even think about it. Magic is forbidden by Uther’s command. You must forget all about your powers. Please promise me that you will not do anything to draw attention to yourself?”

Merlin’s face scrunched into a scowl. “What is the use of my abilities, if I cannot practice magic? You said it was a gift.”

Huddel turned her face away, studying the road ahead of them. “It is a gift, Merlin,” she said softly, “but a forbidden one. Uther would have you executed, by decree of the church. Witches and wizards are burnt at the stake. Some are even guilty of witchcraft, but most who suffer this fate do not possess a shred of magic. You must never display any form of magic where it can be witnessed, or sensed, and especially not in Camelot, where the guards are ordered to watch for evidence of the gift and the people paid to report any sign of it. They are given a reward for turning in those who are suspected of practicing the craft. Five shillings, gold.”

Merlin gaped at his mother. “Five shillings? That is as much as a lord or lady’s ransom. What keeps them from turning each other in?”

“Uther has decreed that the person who is claiming the gold must administer the sentence. And there must be three witnesses to corroborate the report. But still, there have been…mistakes made.” Her face hardened, as she shot a quick glance to Merlin. “I’d rather not become embroiled in a trial for witchcraft, seeing as the purpose of our journey is to obtain a royal patronage.”

She clucked her tongue to the team of rouncies, their heads bobbing in tandem as they pulled the heavy load. Black manes bounced against their glistening chestnut necks, accompanied by the jangle of their traces. Thick of shoulder and wickedly strong, they were Huddel’s prized possessions, even more so than the heavy kegs that they hauled. The kegs could be replaced, but the matching pair had cost her dearly. Few horses could have hauled their cargo so far, over such rough terrain. The trip from Northumberland had taken well over two weeks, and they had met with difficult weather and many foes along the way. Merlin had had cause on more than one occasion to discourage the interest of bandits with the aid of his magic.

“Merlin,” she said softly, her sharp gaze sweeping over her only son. “You are about to apprentice yourself to the church. That is what this trip is all about. You will be teaching the monks of the abbey how to brew our prize-winning beers. You will be living not only within the walls of Camelot, but within the very belly of the church—a church that condemns magic, that hunts people like you. If I could figure out any other way to get you into the castle, I would take it, but…this is all I can think of, to put you within reach of a Pendragon patronage.” She blew a strand of her wind-tossed hair off her face. “Can you do this?”

The cart lurched to the top of the hill. Huddel raised a weary hand to shield her eyes as she drew rein, the wagon swaying to a halt. The steady incline they had been traversing for the last half hour crested, and a great city was revealed, spreading through the base of the valley. The road snaked down the sparse hillside to be joined by three lesser roads, blending together into the main stone paved highway. Carts, horses and people on foot flowed in both directions. The wide road led straight to a set of arched iron gates, thrown open to receive all who traveled the smooth stretch of road. Whitewashed limestone walls rose two stories tall and snaked across the land, winding in and out of the hills to encircle Camelot. Heat haze covered the valley, making the walls shimmer and flutter like sheets hung to dry on a good wife’s clothesline.

“I can do this, Mother.” Merlin frowned down at the people scurrying toward the open gates. “I am meant to do this. You said it yourself. Have you changed your mind?” Merlin reached over and placed his hand over her fist where she held the reins. He gave her hand a squeeze of comfort. “What choice do we have?” he said, his voice bitter. “The plague wiped out our stores. We would have starved to death this winter. This way, I can provide for our needs.” Merlin reached up and smoothed back the dusty strand of hair that had strayed from its confines under Huddel’s hood, tucking it behind her ear. Their eyes met. Huddel’s glistened with unshed tears. “I am a man, Mother. I can do this. I am of age to apprentice. Together we can make this happen.”

“But what about the lie? They will be looking for an older man, not an older woman. Women cannot receive commissions from the church.”

“We already worked that out, right? It’s a lie of omission. We will tell the abbot that the master brewer was slain while we traveled to Camelot, when we were set on by bandits. The bandits are certainly true.” He gestured to the side of the wagon, where multiple arrows were embedded in the dense wood. “I am as much father’s apprentice as yours. Did you not work together? I will force them to accept me for the appointment. If they need persuasion…well, I know how to do that, too.”

“You can’t use magic within the abbey walls,” Huddel said in a fierce whisper. “You will be discovered! You mustn’t ever use magic within Camelot, Merlin, not ever. How many times must I say this? Promise me right now, you will do no such thing.”

Merlin grimaced. “Mother—” he began, but Huddel cut him off, her voice sharp and commanding. “Enough. I forbid it. Are you going to go against my wishes?”

“No, Mother.”

“Promise me right now.”

“I will strive to not use magic, except in the direst of situations. I cannot promise to abandon my gift, Mother. Without it, who am I?” He stared into her eyes, pleading. He saw the fierceness of her gaze, soften.

Huddel nodded acceptance. “It is enough for now.” Her eyes returned to the study of the road ahead of them. “See that spire? With the gold-tiled roof? There,” she pointed, “to the right of the gates.” Merlin followed the direction of her finger and nodded. A narrow, pointed tower rose above the wall, blazing with reflected sunlight. A bronze crucifix graced the peak. “That is the abbey. It’s time we were on our way.” She clucked to her rouncies, gave the reins a jiggle, and they started down the long slope, following the faint path. The wagon’s wheels flattened weeds and ferns, leaving a clear trail behind them.

It was obvious, seeing the smooth road ahead, that few people traveled north into Northumbria. The wagon bounced and clattered over the rough stones lining the road before swinging in behind a wagon loaded with mounded hay. The road smoothed as they joined the steady stream of carts, riders, and people on foot heading for the main gates, but their merging did not pass unnoticed. Suspicious stares were cast in their direction, and a wide space opened around them as though they were the very bandits they had escaped on the perilous journey.

Merlin did not mind the bubble of space. He found the crowd of wagons unnerving. His mother’s tavern, the only home he had known, had been located in a tiny crossroad village called Tweed. Build of sturdy black oak and stone dragged from the surrounding rugged hills, it had housed a half dozen tables. They’d considered it a full crowd when half of those were occupied. An equal number of narrow rooms, tucked under the eaves and a kitchen barely big enough for a stove and a prep table made up the entire log building. Many a time, Merlin had given up his bed for guests and slept curled up by the giant hearth’s warming fire. His earliest memories were of the soft sounds of his mother’s voice, the delicious smell of baking bread, and the yeasty aroma of stale beer. If his father had been present during those early years, he could not remember it. Not even a vague mental image remained.

As Merlin had grown, he had taken his father’s place, learning the running of the inn and more specifically the brewing of the Tweed dark ale for which their tiny pub had been famous. The recipe was a family secret, handed down over the generations. It was not written down anywhere. Many a merchant had tried to get his mother to do so, but she told them that she did not know it, only her husband did, and that he was “away on business.” The lie had sufficed for any travelers who passed through. There were few locals as it was, and those that lived in the area knew that to betray the lie would place them all in danger of highway men, or worse. A woman could not legally own a business in Northumbria.

The lie had held as Merlin grew out of childhood, and they’d lived comfortably for many years. But the last couple had turned ugly. In a strange twist of fate, the sturdy tavern had burnt to the ground a year prior with Merlin and his mother barely escaping with their lives. The fire was so intense that Merlin suspected the fire had been deliberately set. The notion had firmed in his mind after a particularly nasty exchange with the local tax collector, who had been pressuring his mother to pay what he called “a security tax.” His mother had refused. The tavern had gone up in flames two nights later. Merlin did not believe in coincidences.

Tad Hillinger, their widowed neighbour invited them to stay with him. As he was twice Huddel’s age, she had refused the offer of lodgings inside his home as “improper” and instead insisted on leasing a portion of his cow barn. They had set about converting one room into rough living quarters the same day.

The close proximity to their fields had allowed them to continue their livelihood of beer making. Their brewing hut had survived the fire unscathed. It was a separate stone structure located a good distance away from pub. Due to the odours of soured mash and the copious quantities of water required for brewing, they had built it beside the brook for easy draw of water. The high ceilinged thatched roofed hut contained large wooden vats with mash in various stages of fermentation. Merlin and his mother grew all their own beer making ingredients, and the fields of hops, the signature ingredient in their brew, had escaped the inferno untouched. Thankful that they could still produce and sell their beer, even with the pub gone, they sold their brew from the hut itself. The locals had always brought containers of their own. Soon a steady trade had been re-established with them constantly filling orders. But it was not enough to allow them to rebuild their home.

The winter that followed was bitter cold and snowy, and their lodgings cold and uncomfortable, despite the stone fireplace built in the outside wall. Winter winds whistled and roared, cold tendrils seeping through every crack in the walls built for cattle, not humans. Then late last winter, just as the weather began to warm, they had received news of a brewing competition in Camelot with no entry fee and the prize, a small purse of gold and an invitation to join the abbey brewers who supplied not only a large portion of the taverns in Camelot, but the king’s table, too. After a hasty discussion in which Merlin argued vigorously to go, Huddel traveled alone by horse back to Camelot to enter a small keg of their best beer.

Their dark ale won first place, and Huddel decided then and there to accept the offer, on behalf of her “husband.” She’d hurried back to their village with glad tidings. They’d sold the majority of their brewing equipment to Tad to pay for their stay in the barn, and with their winnings, Huddel bought her prized rouncies and sturdy covered wagon. When the last stopper was hammered into place in the final steel bound barrel, they rolled the kegs onto the wagon, packed their meager possessions between the staves and set off on the two-week journey to Camelot.

Huddel’s wagon slowed to a crawl, the nose of their team jammed tight against the lashed canvas of a merchant’s wagon, bulging with goods. Merlin craned his neck to see around the bulging load. The crowds had thickened with as many on foot as rode. Immediately outside the walls of Camelot, a shanty town of hastily built wooden stalls sprang into view, spreading east and west along the outer stone wall, for as far as the eye could see. The Foregate was filled with patched tents and rough pens for animals, squeezed hastily constructed booths selling every kind of ware. To Merlin, it seemed like the spring and fall fairs when the peddlers visited, bringing an exotic collection of goods from as far away as Saxon shores, except he doubted that this one ever ended.

The smells of cooking wafted from open cook fires. Merlin stared at a pig roasting on a slowly turning spit, the fat sizzling on the coals as a boy a few years younger than him tended the fire, both hands grasping a wooden handle to turn the spindle. Over a second fire, flat iron cages were suspended over low coals and trapped between the metal plates, a variety of meats roasted. The odours wafted into the air, stirred by the passing wagons. Hungry travelers crowded the stalls, purchasing hot food to warm their bellies.

The smell of the meat sickened Merlin, and he paled under the onslaught. He could not eat meat, ever since he came into his powers. The Druids believed it to be a natural thing, a result of his special brand of magic that was in touch with nature even more strongly than their own. Merlin believed it to be that he simply didn’t like to see anything or anyone hurt.

The shanty town fell behind as they slowed to wait in line to enter the gate to Camelot. Merlin reached under the seat for the waterproof leather satchel where they had stored the invitation to the abbey. He undid the ties and pulled out the parchment, unfolding it. He laid it flat on his lap and smoothed it nervously as they waited for their turn. The carts moved up and suddenly a guard stepped up beside his mother.

“What is your purpose in Camelot, miss?” he demanded, eyes roving over the wagon and the broken arrow shafts. “You appear to have had a rough journey.”

“We have, sir. We have come from Tweed at the invitation of the abbot. My family are brewers and won the Camelot Wassail contest last fall.” Merlin handed the summons to his mother, who showed it to the guard. He glanced at the missive, then handed it back. “Where is the master?”

Huddel’s eyes teared up at the question. “My husband fell in battle at the hand of bandits on the journey here. We buried him on the roadside. My son, Merlin, was his apprentice. He is now the master of our house, sir.”

The guard’s eyes swung to Merlin, who nodded confirmation. “Very well. Take the right ring road just after you clear the drawbridge. It will take you to the abbey.” He stepped back from the wagon and waved them through, his focus already on the next wagon in line. Huddel snapped the reins and the wagon lurched into motion, rolling across the drawbridge.

Ten minutes later, they arrived at the abbey. Huddel guided the team to the side of the grand structure, away from the main entrance where pilgrims moved up and down the majestic staircase, and around to the back where a stable could be seen. She entered the compound and pulled the team to a halt. A man in plain brown robes tied at the waist by a length of rope, got up from a table placed in the shade of a deep portico, and approached the wagon.

Huddel reached over and squeezed Merlin’s hand. “Here we go, Merlin. Remember your promise.”

Merlin smiled reassuringly at his mother, heart beating fast.

He could sense magic in the air.