“No more rabble-rousing?” His father’s tone felt like ice pellets.
“No lashing out. Promise. I’ve had enough lumps for a while.”
“Tregeagle might put you on a galley.”
“I thought about that.”
His father grasped Merlin’s shoulders and shook him gently. “Not enough!”
“I need you, Tas —” Merlin reached out and hugged his father, who stiffened at first but slowly hugged back, gripping Merlin’s head and hair in his calloused hands.
“Not enough, son. Not enough.”
Merlin’s first meal of the day was a poor one: the milk was sour, and there weren’t enough oats for his liking. No one else complained, but he was glad when Mônda took the dishes away and his father asked him to go to the nearby smokehouse and buy fish for their evening meal.
And the best part was that his father considered him healed enough for such a job.
Merlin wrapped his harp in its leather bag, swung it over his shoulder, and grabbed his staff. As he had numerous times before, he went out behind the house, climbed the slope, swung over the wall, and carefully found the worn track leading to the docks and marsh beyond.
This was the perfect time to go, as the fishermen would be out on the marsh, and the docks would be clear. After buying the fish, he could sit and think for a bit. Maybe play the harp. He followed his nose to the satisfying smell of the smokehouse, which lay near the shore of the marsh, next to the docks. Here Megek, an elderly fisherman, dried and preserved the fish others brought in from the wetlands.
The smokehouse was an old stone building divided in two — one half for curing the fish that hung over smoldering wood, and the other for gutting and cleaning the fish. An iron-plated door separated the rooms.
Merlin knocked on the outside door and tried the latch, but he found it locked. He called, but no one answered. Odd; Megek was always there during the day. As Merlin walked away empty-handed, he heard a woman’s voice from uphill.
A man answered her in a demanding tone. “Give me! Offered a pay ya for all o’ yar eiskes. The ard dre said.”
“You can’t have them,” the woman said. “These are for guests, I’ve told you already. Let go!”
By the sound of her voice, the woman was young and from the moor somewhere, but the man? Merlin thought he sounded Eirish.
“Stops askin’,” said a man whose voice rattled, “an’ sticks her wit’ a blade —”
“Shame, McGoss! Ask, take, then pay. No hurtin’! So lass, give! The crennig man said ya’d just bought his last.”
The woman screamed.
Merlin strode up the hill but marred his entrance by stumbling on a root. A mass of men in multicolored garb surrounded the woman. How many? Six? Merlin started to raise his staff … then put it down. He prayed God would give him wisdom to help the woman, as well as protect himself.
“Is something wrong? May I help you, ma’am?”
“I … ohh,” she began but stopped short.
One of the men peered into Merlin’s face. Somewhere metal slid against metal — maybe a sword from a sheath. “He’s short o’ sight. Look at his scars.” It was McGoss, with the rumble in his voice.
“Are they stealing your fish?” Merlin asked the woman.
“No, no, it’s all right. Really. I’m fine. Believe me.” But he detected a shrillness in her voice that belied her words.
He struck his staff on the ground, gripping it to hide the tremor in his hands. “Leave her and her fish alone. And we say fish with a p here in Kernow. Pyskes.”
The men moved around, and Merlin couldn’t keep track of them. Had someone gone behind him?
A hand grabbed the back of his tunic and jerked him up so the tips of his boots barely touched the ground. He felt empty air in all directions.
“Put me down.” He wanted to lash out but prayed instead.
“Since ‘ee’s a lad o’ the tongue,” the giant of a man said from behind, “let’s see if ‘ee knows to say ‘pummel’ wit’ a p.”
“Let me stick ‘im first” came McGoss’s voice.
“McEwan, what’s that on his back? Some sort o’ bag?”
Merlin reached to snatch the strap but missed as they pulled it from his arm. The wooden peg clattered on a rock at Merlin’s feet, and the foreigners hushed.
A new voice spoke. “McEwan, let ‘im down. Yar roughin’ a shanachie, an’ here’s ‘is harp.”
“Who cares?” McGoss said.
“I do,” the voice spoke again. “An’ while I lead, we’ll