Free Merlin's Booke by Jane Yolen

though it was one of the prettiest places in all Britain. And if the countryside is in tatters, the duke’s coffers are worse. That is why he has made up his mind to marry the Lady Renwein. She has as much money as she has had lovers, so they say, and that is not the British way. But the duke is besotted with both her counte and her coinage. And even I must admit she has made a difference. Why, they are building a new great house upon the site of the old Roman barracks. The duke is having it constructed on the promise of her goods.”
    Viviane made no comment but kept eating. Ambrosius, who always ate sparingly before a performance, listened intently, urging the cook on with well-placed questions. Following Viviane’s actions, Merlin stuffed himself and almost made himself sick again. He curled up in a corner near the hearth to sleep. The last thing he heard was the cook’s continuing complaint.
    â€œI know not when we shall move into the new house. I long for the larger hearth promised, for now with the red guards to feed as well as the duke’s white— and the Saxon retainers—I need more. But the building goes poorly.”
    â€œIs that so?” interjected Ambrosius.
    â€œAye. The foundation does not hold. What is built up by day falls down by night. There is talk of witchcraft.”
    â€œIs there?” Ambrosius asked smoothly.
    â€œAye, the Saxons claim it against us. British witches, they cry. And they want blood to cleanse it.”
    â€œDo they?”
    A hand on his shoulder roused Merlin, but he was still partially within the vivid dream.
    â€œThe dragons …” he murmured and opened his eyes.
    â€œHush,” came Ambrosius’ voice. “Hush—and remember. You called out many times in your sleep: dragons and castles, water and blood, but what it all means you kept to yourself. So remember the dream, all of it. And I will tell you when to spin out the tale to catch the conscience of Carmarthen in its web. If I am right …” He touched his nose.
    Merlin closed his eyes again and nodded. He did not open them again until Viviane began fussing with his hair, running a comb through the worst tangles and pulling at his cotte. She tied a lover’s knot of red and white ribbands around his sleeve, then moved back.
    â€œOpen your eyes, boy. You are a sight.” She laughed and pinched one cheek.
    The touch of her hand made his cheeks burn. He opened his eyes and saw the kitchen abustle with servants. The cook, now too busy to chat with them further, was working at the hearth, basting and stirring and calling out a string of instructions to his overworked crew. “Here, Stephen, more juice. Wine up to the tables and hurry, Mag—they are pounding their feet upon the floor. The soup is hot enough, the tureens must be run up, and mind the handles. Use a cloth, Nan, stupid girl. And where are the sharp knives? These be dull as Saxon wit. Come, Stephen, step lively; the pies must come out the oast or they burn. Now!”
    Merlin wondered that he could keep it all straight.
    The while Ambrosius in one corner limbered up his fingers, having already checked out his apparatus and Viviane, sitting down at the table, began to tune her harp. Holding it on her lap, her head cocked to one side, she sang a note then tuned each string to it. It was a wonder she could hear in all that noise—the cook shouting, Stephen clumping around and bumping into things. Nan whining, and Mag cursing back at the cook—but she did not seem to mind, her face drawn up with passionate intensity.
    Into the busyness strode a soldier. When he came up to the hearth, Merlin could see it was the same one who had first tendered them the invitation to perform. His broad, homey face was split by a smile, wine and plenty of hot food having worked their own magic.
    â€œCome, mage. And you, singer. We are ready when you are.”
    Ambrosius gestured to three large boxes.