Maxey Brooke (1913–1994) was a qualified research chemist but was perhaps best known for his books of puzzles and mathematical problems, such as 150 Puzzles in Crypt-Arithmetic (1963). He used this lateral thinking to write several stories featuring Merlin as a proto-detective, starting with “Morte d’Alain” (Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, December 1952), which I reprinted in The Pendragon Chronicles. Here’s the second of them.
And now at long last war had come to the realm. The court was in a turmoil. Many a knight, having waxed fat from five years of good living, found himself scarce able to don his cuirass. All night the fires of the armourer and the smith burned. All day provender was brought to the castle and packed in the battle-wains. And amidst the hustle and bustle I stood by useless. Wouldst that my father had apprenticed me to a knight, or even to a craftsman, rather than a sorcerer, I thought bitterly.
“Nay, my son,” quoth my master Merlin whom I had not heard approach. “Your time will come. And soon.”
I looked at him, taken aback. “Then you can read thoughts as ’tis rumoured.”
“Nay. I had but to look at your face. ’Twas written there as in great runes.”
“Oh.” Sorcery always seems so simple after my master Merlin explains it. “And when will that be?”
“Alas, I cannot read the future, although there are those who are convinced I can. I can only predict how future events are influenced by the past. Ere this conflicts ends, every man’s special talents will be used. Come, even now your skills are needed in the Council Chamber.”
The Council Chamber! ’Twould be the first time I had accompanied my master to his closetings with our King. And there was no man prouder than I in the length and breadth of England. My skills indeed! I would show my master that he did not err in having me accompany him.
We crossed the courtyard together, through the Great Hall of the Round Table and to a small chamber adjoining. Seated there was our King, his captains and chief stewards. King Arthur smiled when he saw us.
“Ah, my good Merlin and his young pupil. We were about to begin. Enter and be seated. There and there.”
We bowed gravely as befits magicians, and sat as ordered – my master at our King’s right hand and I behind him at a small table whereon were quills, paper, and ink – ink of my own making, from nut-galls and iron rust, though there are those who believe that I conjure it from a familiar.
’Twas then I learned I was not to be consulted on the conduct of the war but rather to keep an account of what transpired. For the knights, great men and brawny though they were, and full courageous and skilled in all arms, could scarce tell one letter from another. Even our good King could read and write but haltingly. As my master explained to me later, a king need not be scribe or magician when he can command the skills of those who are. Thus he can keep his mind free for the duties of state – even as I handled many of the details of his sorcery so that my master could concentrate on its use.
And though my council was not required I learned much about the conduct of a war. Scarce had I realized how many details were needed.
Nor was it the last council I attended and kept records thereof. But when the army marched off and quiet once again settled on the court, no longer were the captains and stewards present – but only our King, my master, and I who listened each day to the reports from runners and thus followed the battle from afar.
Far to the north was the wall built across Britain by the Romans. Even though King Arthur’s domain extended beyond the wall, few sons of the nobles of that part of the realm were sent to the Court to become Knights of the Round Table. Clannish they were, and harsher of speech and darker of skin than was becoming an Englishman. And they were banded together under the leadership of one Sir Brian, who now called himself King Brian, and were challenging the authority of King Arthur, Ruler of Britain by the Grace of God.
For some days the reports were neither good nor bad. Our army had established itself near the great wall. Sorties had been made to seek out the enemy and try his strength. But as the day passed, the reports became increasingly bad. Our sorties were ambushed. Outposts were ridden against in force. And always when our forces made contact, ’twas against superior numbers though ’twas known that they did not have as great an army as we. And at last our King could contain himself no longer. His great red beard bristled and his mighty fist crashed down on the table. He roared in a voice of thunder.
“By the Almighty! Do we have an army or a rabble! Why do they not move on that infernal Brian and crush him once and for all? Why, I ask you? Why?”
My master faced him calmly as I did try, though I confess I was quaking inside.
“They have moved time and again, Sire, but always Brian eludes them.”
“That I know. But how? Is he a greater warrior than my knights? Is he a greater warrior then I?”
“Nay, Sire, nay. But long have I studied the reports and at last I think I see a pattern.”
“Speak on, man. Speak!”
“No matter where we move in strength, there he is not. But where we leave a weak garrison, there he attacks. He could do that only if he knew our plans.”
“Mean you there is a traitor in our midst?” The King’s words were low and intense – more frightening even than his roar.
“That I doubt. Your men are trusted. But a spy . . .”
“A spy! How like that black-hearted scoundrel to use so un-British a device.” His anger quieted and he toyed with his beard. “But how, Merlin? How could a spy learn our secret plans?”
“That too, I think I know. Were I but with the army I could seek him out.”
“Then you shall be with the army. Come, Merlin. Come, Alaric. We ride at dawn.”
And at dawn we rode. Our King, my master with full saddlebags, a dozen squires and men-at-arms. Hard we rode, and fast and long. At night I could scarce sit to eat my meal. And at last we reached the army unannounced as night was falling.
Our King strode into the great tent where the captains were assembled. He pushed up his visor and glared at them.
“What manner of knights are you? Unable to crush an army half your strength.”
They leaped to their feet, looking for all the world like a group of stable-boys caught gaming at dice.
Sir Launcelot spoke: “Your Majesty, if there be fault it is ours. The men are full brave and eager. But fighting this Brian is like fighting a flea. Where you strike, there he is not.”
“So,” roared our King, “I must travel across half of Britain to teach you how to catch a flea.”
“Nay, Sire, I did not mean . . .”
“Enough! If we cannot win by force, then we must win by sorcery. Merlin, take charge.”
Dark were the flushes on the cheeks of the fighting men. For in the past most of them had matched wits with my master, and had always been the loser. But ere long their resentment died, for Merlin spoke to them softly and reasonably. And they were men of great courage who could listen to reason.
“In this tent you plan your campaigns?”
“Aye.”
“And ’tis well guarded that none may eavesdrop?”
“Aye. ’Tis not well that our men know of the plans too early.”
“Do these plannings last long?”
“Surely, good Merlin. One does not map out a battle in a moment.”
“Then during these plannings you must need refreshment?”
“Aye. ’Tis a dry business.”
“Who, then, furnishes the refreshment?”
“Why, the serving-men, of course.”
“Then others are present while the battles are being talked of?”
The light of understanding came into their eyes. Our King spoke softly.
“The serving-men. By the Saints, ’tis one of the serving-men who betrayed us.” Then in his great voice, “Ho! The guards! Fetch in the serving-men. And the chief steward!”
And in a trice they were brought. Six lads clad in leather jerkins, with the white napkin which was the symbol of their rank at their belts, and behind them a little fat man whose belly was enough to denote him chief steward.
They lined up before our King with eyes downcast. He looked at them full long.
“One of you has betrayed me. One of you has eaten my salt and betrayed me to my enemy. Speak! Which of you is the Judas?”
There was a tremor in the line, but none spoke. King Arthur turned to the chief steward.
“Bare their backs. A taste of my riding crop and we shall know the guilty one.”
Merlin touched his elbow.
“Sire, under pain they will all confess. And we will be none the wiser.”
“Then hang them all! We will rid this camp of vermin.”
“And you will carry to your grave the killing of five innocent men.”
Our King sat down heavily. He put his hand to his eyes.
“Then how? How will we know which to hang?”
“Allow me, Sire. Alaric, my saddlebags.”
I brought them to him with haste. He took therefrom a jar, in the likes of which good wives store treacle. He poured from it on the ground, forming a circle about the six serving-men.
“And now, remove the torches.”
When this was done, the tent became not dark as would be expected. But the circle about the serving-men glowed green, filling the tent with a fearsome light. I could see fear on the faces of all. But they could not know, as did I, that the magic circle was but foxfire mixed with honey.
My master said slowly, in deep tones, “There you stand within a circle of fire. And the spirit of fire will seek out the guilty one . . . Hold out your right hands!”
Six trembling hands were extended. Into each Merlin dropped a white stone the size of two thumbs.
“Clasp the stone tightly. If you are innocent you have nothing to fear. But the spirit of fire will have no mercy on the guilty one. Tightly, I say, more tightly!”
For full a hundred heartbeats they stood clasping the stones. Then great drops of sweat began to form on the forehead of one. He clenched his teeth as in pain. The fingers of his hand slowly opened, as though against his will. The stone fell to the ground and there in the palm of his hand was a great blister, as though he had been holding a red-hot coal.
“Bring in the torches,” cried my master.
This was done. The lad stood there staring at his hand in disbelief.
“Who is this wretch?” asked our King of the chief steward.
“He is one Richard Dale, Your Majesty.”
“And where did he come from?”
“He was assigned me by Sir Marvin.”
“Then call Sir Marvin and let him explain.”
“That he cannot do. Sir Marvin was killed in the first day of fighting.”
“Then you know not that Sir Marvin truly assigned him?”
“He came to me saying that. I was in sore need of serving-men and took him.”
“You could not know,” said our King. Then wearily, “Take the lad to the hangsman.”
Then for the first time the lad spoke. He squared his shoulders and looked our King full in the eyes.
“Nay, Sire. Condemn not Robert dhu Brian to so base a death.”
“Robert dhu Brian? Sir Brian’s nephew. Very well, then. Execute him with honor at dawn.”
They took him away. Could I but say that after his death the war was quickly over! But ’twould not be so. True, Sir Brian’s army met with defeat, and soon, but many weary months were to pass ere all his followers were searched out and found.
On the way home, naught was spoken of the events that had transpired. ’Tis not well for sorcerers to discuss their art before those not versed in magical lore. But at last we were alone in our chambers. Merlin was leaning back in his great chair, staring at the ceiling.
“Master, you have not taught me to control the spirit of fire.”
He looked at me.
“There is no spirit of fire.” He thought a moment. “No, I am wrong. There is a spirit of fire, but not a supernatural one. You know the natural spirit full well.”
“I do?”
I tried to remember all he had taught me, but I remembered not that. He reached into a box beside him and tossed me a white stone.
“Hold that in your hand. Tightly.”
I grasped the stone. In a moment I felt it becoming warm. Then hot. In alarm, I dropped it. My palm was already red.
“Examine it.”
I picked up the stone carefully. It was now cool but my palm was still hot. ’Twas but a piece of sandstone. I smelled it and understanding came.
“Mustard,” I exclaimed. “The spirit of fire is naught but the spirit of mustard which burns the skin even as fire.”
“Aye. One stone was soaked in oil of mustard and I had but to drop it into the hand of the guilty one.”
I smiled to myself at having been able to riddle the secret. And ’twas minutes before I realized that I had not riddled the full secret.
“The guilty one, Master? How could you tell to which servingman to give the stone?”
Merlin smiled.
“As I gave the stones, I examined their hands. That of a serf or even a freedman is horny with toil. Only a noble could have had a hand as soft as that of Robert dhu Brian.”