“Heaven forbid.” Nimue had not stopped chuckling. “But Merlin, we really should make this trip. We all need a change. And for once there are no crises demanding our attention. Let’s go.”
He sighed. “I will raise the subject with Arthur. If he consents…”
“Yes?”
“If he consents, I will give it some serious thought.”
“We can bring you around. We always do.”
The bird Roc flapped onto the worktable and scrambled around, pecking at everything it thought might be food.
Suddenly a thought seemed to hit Merlin and he turned to Petronus. “Should you not be in school now?”
The school Merlin had established for the squires and pages at Camelot had grown with remarkable speed. Two teachers had been imported, one each from France and Germany, to take the teaching burden off Merlin and Nimue. The students, required to attend by royal order, grumbled but learned. The knights they served complained to Arthur constantly; books were for clerks and women, not knights and squires. It was a source of constant friction. But over time Arthur had begun to see the advantages of having men who were educated, not just skillful in combat. Camelot would be richer for it.
Petronus sulked again. “We’re doing Sophocles today. I already know his writing-from you.”
“Even so, you should go. Truancy is never a good idea. Run along, now.”
The boy moped. “Yes,
“And do not be sarcastic. Oh-when you reach the top of the staircase, would you check and see if the water is boiling?”
Nimue chimed in, “I started the fire half an hour ago.”
“Even so. Now will you go, Petronus?”
Petronus jumped to his feet and ran to the door. “I’ll be back after I’ve dazzled the class with my erudition.”
“We’ll wait. It may take a while.”
Petronus left quickly. Once he was gone, Nimue’s mood turned more serious. “That boy is onto me. You heard him.”
“Sooner or later, it was inevitable. Do you not trust him?”
“After what he tried to do to Arthur last year? What do you think?”
“He was under duress. You know that. He has been tireless in helping me.”
“Besides, it isn’t that, Merlin. It’s just that it feels odd, having someone know.”
“Britomart knows. She has for ages.”
“Yes, and I’m always ill at ease around her. Having someone else in on the secret…”
“And his interest is erotic.” Merlin was amused by the situation. “You heard what he said. Women who dress as men excite him. And he likes you older women.” His eyes twinkled. “Imagine, having a youthful admirer at your tender age.”
“Be quiet. I want to go to the fair at Dover.”
“You are relentless, Nimue.”
“That is something else I’ve learned from you.”
From outside the room Petronus called, “Everything is ready, Merlin.”
“Thank you, Petronus. Now get to class.”
He turned back to Nimue. “I don’t know whether to be flattered by what you said. At any rate, if we are to go, I will have to get Arthur’s permission.”
She turned and pushed the window shutter open wide. “It’s going to be a lovely day, Merlin. And a lovely autumn, I think. Let’s not waste it shut up in Camelot.”
“It is too cool for my taste. Besides, the king-”
“You can handle Arthur. You always do.”
“He has this little crisis right now.”
“Is Guenevere on the loose again?”
“Nothing so dramatic, I am afraid.” He extinguished the flame he had worked over. “We are planning to issue new coins. He is fretting about which portrait of himself to use on them. He wants to show himself to best advantage.”
“Ah, the male ego.”
“Women, of course, are all quite modest. At any rate, if he is happy with his final decision, he will be in a good mood. That will be the time to ask him.”
“Do it, then.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Merlin’s study-cum-laboratory was on the top floor of what everyone called, to his annoyance, the Wizard’s Tower. When he reached the landing outside the door he stopped and looked down the stairway; more than a hundred fifty steps wound down to the main floor of the castle.
A steam boiler bubbled busily nearby; above it was an assemblage of wheels, gears and chains. One long chain hung down to ground level, connected directly to the mechanism, so that he could operate it from there. Merlin stopped to check a valve on the boiler. “Yes, perfect.” Then he walked to the spot where a metal chair hung suspended precariously. “Time to go down.” He smiled at Nimue. “Will you start the mechanism for me?”
He moved to the very edge of the stairwell and climbed gingerly into the chair. It swung giddily over the long drop, and he took tight hold of the chains to try to steady it.
“You’re going to kill yourself in that thing someday, Merlin.”
“I am feeling my arthritis today. The stairs would be… Besides, you know perfectly well this is safe if used with due caution.”
“Of course.” She did not try to hide her skepticism.
She pulled a third chain, and slowly the chair descended. Nimue followed along on the steps, chatting with Merlin as they went down. When finally the chair reached the main level, he stood, arranged his robes, stretched and headed off to see Arthur.
“Don’t forget Dover,” she prodded.
“Be careful. No one likes a nagging woman.”
“I am a boy, remember?”
Merlin had built his “lifting machine” from plans by the legendary Hero of Alexandria. His friend Germanicus Genentius, the Byzantine governor of Egypt, had found them in the Library of Alexandria and sent precise copies to Merlin. Everyone at Camelot thought it was a marvel, some for its ingenuity, some for what they took as its folly. Arthur and most of his knights had insisted on taking rides in it, and most of them were duly terrified; one of them, the French knight Sir Accolon, shrieked like a terrified girl.
“I hope,” Merlin had told Arthur dryly, “you will remember where the real courage at Camelot resides-among the scholars and teachers, not the knights.”
“It might do you well to think about the difference between being brave and being foolhardy. You’ll kill yourself in that thing. You’ll fall, or one of the chains will break, or-”
“Then Camelot will enjoy the pageantry of a state funeral.”
“You’re hopeless.” Arthur snorted and stomped away.
And so Merlin made his way to the King’s Tower, the tallest in Camelot.
The halls were, as usual, alive with activity. Servants and knights came and went. Women from the kitchen carried trays of food or packs of fresh provisions. Women carrying fresh linens for the living quarters smiled and greeted him.
At the foot of the King’s Tower he gaped up at the scores of steps and sighed. He wanted to build another lifting machine there but so far Arthur had not been willing to permit it.
The guards at their posts saluted him as he ascended the winding staircase, each of them in turn as Merlin reached their stations on the successive landings, and offered him a helping hand. At the top, quite out of wind, he found Simon of York. Simon grinned at him, plainly enjoying his fatigue. “You made it.”
“Do I not always?”
“Those steps are difficult, Merlin. I tend to come up here first thing every morning and then try and stay the whole day. When I’m lucky, Arthur doesn’t have anything for me to do anywhere else in the castle. You should have that boy of yours come along to help you up.”
“Petronus is in the schoolroom. He has lessons to learn. But I am surprised these stairs give you so much trouble. You are a generation younger than me.”
“My parents are both arthritic. As a result, so am I.” He rubbed his back. “I’m moving them here from Yorkshire, into a little room at the back of Camelot. I’m afraid wolves would get them otherwise. You know how bitter Yorkshire winters can get.”
“Indeed, what could be worse than a wolf from York?” The none-too-subtle barb was lost on Simon, but he narrowed his eyes, plainly suspecting he was the butt of Merlin’s sarcasm.
Merlin was slowly getting his wind back. Before Simon could decide how to react, he gestured at the king’s suite of rooms. “How is he today, Simon?”
“Still worried about which profile to use. It’s been a week, Merlin, and that is all he thinks about. We’ve gotten virtually nothing accomplished. Can’t you prod him to make a decision?”
“Just be happy things are so calm for the moment. And that he is not drinking. Is anyone with him?”
Simon shook his head. “Go in. He’s in the study, with those confounded portraits.”
Arthur’s study was large but simply furnished. There was a table and four wooden chairs, a few low stools, tapestries on the walls to kill drafts and enough torches to light the room but not terribly well. On stands were three large portraits of Arthur, one in left profile, one in right and one full face. The king stood before one of them, looking serious, rubbing his chin, when he noticed his advisor. “Merlin. Good morning. I think I like this one the best.”
“You said that yesterday, Arthur. Then five minutes later you preferred another one.” He smiled. “Good morning.”
“This is an important decision. I want to make the right impression.”
“Most of your subjects have never seen you and never will.”
“Exactly the point. I want them to know me, at least to the extent they can through a portrait.”
“A miniature portrait. On a coin.” Merlin sat down and arranged his robes. “I keep trying to learn how the Romans managed such excellent portraiture on their currency, but there is nothing about it in any of the libraries. But why worry about it? You could issue coins with a hunchbacked dwarf on them and it would hardly matter.”
“Now you know that isn’t true. My image must inspire confidence.”
“Then use a portrait of Emperor Justinian.”
Arthur snorted. “You think I’m being vain and foolish. I know that. But a king has a right to a certain amount of vanity.”
“A king has a right to rule, not to dither. Besides, this business of kings having some sort of inherent rights is an idea left over from ancient Egypt -a culture you always scoff at. I am not at all
