We took ship for Britain out of the same river where I had once prayed that Bel and Manawydan would see me safe home. We found Culhwch in the river, his overloaded boat grounded on the mud. Leaner was alive and so were most of our men. One ship fit to make the voyage home was left in the river, its master having waited in hope of making a fat profit from desperate survivors, but Culhwch put his sword to the man’s throat and had him take us home for free. The rest of the river’s people had already fled from the Franks. We waited through a night made garish by the reflected flames of Ynys Trebes’s burning and in the morning we raised the ship’s anchor and sailed north.
Merlin watched the shore recede and I, scarce daring to believe that the old man had really come back to us, gazed at him. He was a tall bony man, perhaps the tallest I ever knew, with long white hair that grew back from his tonsure line to be gathered in a black-ribboned pigtail. He had worn his hair loose and dishevelled when he pretended to be Celwin, but now, with the pigtail restored, he looked like the old Merlin. His skin was the colour of old, polished wood, his eyes were green and his nose a sharp bony prow. His beard and moustaches were plaited into fine cords that he liked to twist in his fingers when he was thinking. No one knew how old he was, but certainly I never met anyone older, unless it was the Druid Balise, nor did I ever know any man who seemed so ageless as Merlin. He had all his teeth, every last one, and retained a young man’s agility, though he did love to pretend to be old and frail and helpless. He dressed in black, always in black, never another colour, and habitually carried a tall black staff, though now, fleeing from Armorica, he lacked that badge of office.
He was a commanding man, not just because of his height, reputation or the elegance of his frame, but because of his presence. Like Arthur, he had the ability to dominate a room and to make a crowded hall seem empty when he left, but where Arthur’s presence was generous and enthusiastic, Merlin’s was always disturbing. When he looked at you it seemed that he could read the secret part of your heart and, worse still, find it amusing. He was mischievous, impatient, impulsive and totally, utterly wise. He belittled everything, maligned everyone and loved a few people wholly. Arthur was one, Nimue another and I, I think, was a third, though I could never really be sure for he was a man who loved pretence and disguises. “You’re looking at me, Derfel!” he accused me from the boat’s stern where he still had his back turned towards me.
“I hope never to lose sight of you again, Lord.”
“What an emotional fool you are, Derfel.” He turned and scowled at me. “I should have thrown you back into Tanaburs’s pit. Carry that chest into my cabin.”
Merlin had commandeered the shipmaster’s cabin where I now stowed the wooden chest. Merlin ducked under the low door, fussed with the captain’s pillows to make himself a comfortable seat, then sank down with a sigh of happiness. The grey cat leaped on to his lap as he unrolled the top few inches of the thick scroll he had risked his life to obtain on a crude table that glittered with fish-scales.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It is the one real treasure Ban possessed,” Merlin said. “The rest was mostly Greek and Roman rubbish. A few good things, I suppose, but not much.”
“So what is it?” I asked again.
“It is a scroll, dear Derfel,” he said, as though I was a fool to have asked. He glanced up through the open skylight to see the sail bellying in a wind still soured by Ynys Trebes’s smoke. “A good wind!” he said cheerfully. “Home by nightfall, perhaps? I have missed Britain.” He looked back to the scroll. “And Nimue? How is the dear child?” he asked as he scanned the first lines.