CHAPTER 3
THE TRIAL
Merlin’s hand paused on the latch of the magister’s front door. “Open it,” his father, Owain, said. “You’ve got to face up to what’s happened.”
Merlin swallowed and pushed the door open, feeling upon it the bronze Roman eagle. Was it this very morning he’d had such high hopes of talking to Natalenya? And now here he was, about to stand trial before her father, Tregeagle, because Garth had stolen the wagon and lied about it.
How could the boy have been so thoughtless?
Merlin’s father led him into the great hall. Pine logs blazed on the open hearth, scenting the air. Despite the warmth of the room, Merlin shivered, and it wasn’t from the lingering chill of their evening walk. Judgment waited for him in the next room.
Merlin felt such shame for trusting Garth’s lies … hah! As if Natalenya would have given permission to take the wagon. As if she’d ever want to talk to him … the only young man in the village with a face full of scars.
Merlin felt his father’s thick hand pat him on the back. “You’ll get to tell your story first, since Abbot Prontwon hasn’t brought that troublemaker yet.”
“Garth is my friend. Right now he’s my only friend.” Merlin’s back tensed, and even without clear sight, he could imagine the anger furrowing his father’s brow.
“Not anymore,” Owain said.
A servant acknowledged their presence and went to alert Tregeagle.
Merlin followed his father over to the fire. If his chances of talking with Natalenya had been remote this morning, tonight they seemed hopeless.
His heart like lead, he listened to the sound of the servant girl as she marched down one of the hallways, then knocked on a door. Tregeagle’s gruff voice answered, and moments later, the servant returned to them, her footfalls across the stone floor sounding to Merlin like a drum announcing his doom.
“The master is ready to see you.”
Merlin tucked his hands under his legs and felt the hard edge of the seat. Never had he been interrogated like this. If only Tregeagle’s words were as pleasant as the smell of coriander and honey that filled the magister’s room.
“My sons tell a different tale. Why should I believe you?”
Merlin’s father — his tas, as all fathers were called in Kernow — coughed nearby, and his presence brought Merlin a small measure of comfort. He sat up a little straighter and placed his hands in his lap. “Because, sir —”
“Because you stole my property?” Tregeagle interrupted his pacing and rapped his knuckles on the wooden table between them. “Because you marred the fine coats of my horses?”
“Because sir, if —”
“Because you knocked my son down and kicked him?”
Actually, Rondroc had knocked Merlin down first, but Merlin had already established that Tregeagle didn’t want to hear anything of that sort. Maybe if he apologized for the wagon. “I’m sorry for —”
“So you admit it!” Tregeagle resumed his pacing, his tunic a white blur wrapped with a shining golden belt.
“Be fair, Tregeagle,” Merlin’s father said, his deep voice echoing in the room. “He said nothing of the kind.”
Tregeagle raised his hand. “If you insist on speaking, Owain, tell me why your filthy charcoal filled the leather seats of my painted coach? Was this your clever idea?”
Merlin’s father sighed. “You know it wasn’t, magister. Our horse is lame, and my char-pile got low at the smithy. So the abbey sent Garth to help guide Merlin to fetch charcoal with my wheelbarrow —”
“For the record, what is this new boy’s proper name?” Tregeagle sat down, slid a parchment onto the table, and scratched ink across the page with his quill.
Merlin spoke up. “His name is Garthwys, sir.”
“Which would that be in Latin, Garthius or Garthwysus?”
“Either, I guess. He got impatient and thought —”
Tregeagle coughed. “He thought? Obviously there has been precious little of that from either of you. Three wheels broken, the sides damaged, and one of the axles bent. Is this friend of yours incompetent?”
Far from it, Merlin thought. Garth was good at most things. He could play his bagpipe. He could fish, as that had been his father’s trade before Garth was orphaned. And Merlin knew he could drive horses well enough, at least when he wanted to.
Tregeagle stood again, shoving his chair into the wall with a bang, and leaned over the table. “Use your tongue, boy, or I shall call my lictor in to cut it from your mouth.”
“Garth knows how to drive a wagon, sir.”
“Then why did the fool crash it at the abbey?”
Merlin fidgeted in his seat. “Something scared us, sir. We were bringing the coal back when we smelled roasting meat. Garth was hungry—well, he’s always hungry — and he ran off into the woods and left me holding the reins.”
Tregeagle retrieved his chair and sat down again, the wood creaking loudly. “So who was roasting meat in the woods? Some vagrant?”
“I don’t know, sir. I followed Garth, and we must have been near the old stone circle —”
Tregeagle clicked his teeth together. “The stone circle? It’s been a long time since any of the druidow” — his voice betrayed a sneer — “dared show their faces around Kernow. So you held the reins. Did you try to drive the horses?”
Merlin clenched his fists under the table. “I’m half blind, but not half stupid. There were two men, and they had something strange with them, something heavy and dark. There were flames … blue flames. And the men drew blades on us. Garth and I ran back to the wagon all spooked. He drove the horses hard till we neared the abbey.”
What appeared to be a knife flashed before Merlin, and Tregeagle’s deft hands played with it. “Scared of a blade, you say? Tell me what happened at the abbey. Any monks involved? Did anyone damage the wagon on purpose?”
Merlin swallowed, for the blade gleamed in the evening light that slanted through the shutters. “Nothing of the kind, sir. I thought we would crash, so I tried to get Garth to stop the horses. Only we left the road and —”
“How did the dear abbot react?” Tregeagle sharpened the knife, sliding and scraping it against a rock.
“Prontwon was irate, but Dybris calmed him down —”
Tregeagle slammed the rock on the table. “And who is this Dybris who ignores my loss? His name is not on the tax register.”
“He’s a priest who has been at the abbey only a month, sir. He brought Garth along with him.”
Tregeagle sat for a while, drumming his fingers pensively on the table. “In my opinion, what you have told me is a preposterous lie.” He bit off some cake and leaned forward, fresh honey on his breath. “Tell me. What really scared Garth?”
“I’ve already told you, sir.”
Tregeagle raised his hand as if to strike.
Merlin flinched as the shadow drew close.
His father stood. “Leave my son alone. He’s told you what he knows. Get your answers from Garth.”
Tregeagle pulled his hand away. When he spoke again, something in his voice made Merlin’s stomach clench with fear for his friend. “Since both of you are of no further use, I plan to do exactly that. Send the urchin in, and expect my judgment soon.”
Merlin sighed as his father guided him down the hallway to the great hall. The voice of Abbot Prontwon echoed from the room ahead. “When it’s our turn — Garth, listen up — what will you say?”
Garth mumbled something, but Merlin couldn’t make it out.
“Are you ready to confess what you have done?”
“Must we put him through this again?” Dybris interrupted.
“Yes, we must. The falsehoods shall stop.”
A harp sounded from some other room, and both monks quieted.
Merlin stopped walking, his heart thumping. Natalenya played the harp, but it was possible her mother, Trevenna, played as well.
“That,” Prontwon said, “is the sound of heaven, which I want Garth to hear one day in our Father’s feasting hall.”
“He has told the truth. What more can we ask?”
“We love and forgive. But the magister renders justice.”
Owain prompted Merlin forward once more, and he entered the hall just as Prontwon, moving more nimbly than his bulk seemed to allow, slipped out of his chair and fell on his knees before Garth.
“Garth, hear me.” Prontwon’s voice almost broke. “We will uphold you, but you must love the truth no matter the price!”
Merlin’s father coughed loudly, and at the same time the harp music quieted. Merlin turned his head, trying to discover where it had come from.
Prontwon and Dybris stood. “How did it go?” the abbot asked.
In turn, Merlin took hold of their hands and gave a quick kiss to the back of each one. Then he shook his head.
“Tregeagle’s in a foul mood,” Merlin’s father grumbled.
Prontwon placed a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “I guessed as much. We are all sorry for the difficulty this has caused.” He turned to Garth. “Come on, boy. It is time.”
Dybris pulled the boy’s arm until he stood. Garth’s feet scraped down the hall as he followed the two monks.