LITMIR.BIZ

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gave the horses to Tom, and ordered the guard back into the small village in the valley, where they could shelter from any storm. ‘I just found you, I’m not leaving you.’

      ‘My love,’ said Merlin, fondly. ‘You have your syrinx?’

      ‘I have,’ said Phillip.

      ‘Then we shall play such a song as the winds will answer,’ said Merlin, and raised the staff, beginning to sing in a low, rumbling monotone. Phillip followed the notes, shrill and high, and, summoned, a wind began to rise.

      It rose and roared, and over it the guard heard, piercing, the notes of the syrinx, and the low notes under it, as the gale picked up and the waves responded. Into the song was woven the grinding of sand on shoals and the crashing of the flood on cliffs and rocks, and even from the village they heard the screaming of sailors and the smashing of ships. There would be a fine harvest of broken keels tomorrow, for the gleaners to feed their fires.

      Sometime later – the moon had gone down – the guard ventured up onto the cliff. They found their master and his strange guest, locked in each other’s arms, lying soaking and freezing on the rocks. They carried them home in the pelting rain.

      Phillip woke, warm and dry and cosy, in his own bed. At first he wondered if he had been fevered and dreamed, but then he sneezed and brushed a tress of oak-bark hair from across his nose. Merlin was there, deep asleep.

      Someone had brought them home, dried and put them to bed. The fire in the room was just burning down. It was late afternoon.

      ‘Master?’ asked Tom, who was bringing in more logs.

      ‘Tom, my boy, how goes the day?’ whispered Phillip.

      ‘The Armada is mostly wrecked, Master,’ Tom told him. ‘It was that God-given storm, Master, that’s what we are all saying. That you prayed to the Lord and our Heavenly Father, He sent the storm. And Saint George. Some people are saying they saw him, marching over the waves.’

      ‘That’s a good thing for you to say, Tom,’ said Phillip.

      He looked around the room. Merlin’s staff and his syrinx lay shattered on a purple cloak. That did not matter. Both could be replaced. And Merlin was lying beside him, sleeping, his leaf-green eyes closed; a lover who would not leave and would not die. That oak tree still had a good hundred years left.

      It was probably just a coincidence (though there has never been a better-informed monarch than Elizabeth Regina) that when My Lord Phillip of Doveton was awarded a Royal Mark of Favour for his readiness and defence during the Great Armada, it was a medallion with Saint George on the face, and, on the obverse, an oak tree.

      RUMPLESTILTSKIN

      Paladin sat in his chair. He had no choice, being tied to it with regrettably competent knots. His hands were free, he had a spindle in one and a large heap of straw at his side. They hadn’t taken his sharp knife which hung from his belt, but even if he could get free, he was a very long way from the ground in this tower and had always been deathly afraid of heights.

      It was such a pity that his father was a fool. As a miller’s third son, Paladin had been allowed to please himself as to profession. He had perfected a way of spinning flax into good, strong thread. This involved the use of a glue made from the retted reeds themselves, which when slicked along the worker’s fingers allowed the threads to combine seamlessly. He could spin two ells of linen thread without a lump or knot.

      So his idiot father had boasted of him to the king, and the king had decided that if he could spin reeds into linen, he could spin straw into gold.

      And if he didn’t manage it, he would be dead in the morning. And if he ran away, his father would take his place.

      It was also a pity that the king was a fool.

      There was a scrabbling at the window, and two paws appeared on the sill. A second later a battered orange tom cat was sitting on the floor in front of Paladin, having a brief wash to smooth his ruffled fur before engaging in conversation.

      ‘Your father is such a fool,’ said the cat.

      ‘I know,’ sighed Paladin. ‘And the king. Any suggestions?’

      ‘You could get out and I could take you down the wall,’ said the cat, flicking an ear. ‘But that wouldn’t save your father.’

      ‘No,’ sighed Paladin. He put down the spindle and brushed his brown hair off his face. ‘Much as I blame him, he is my father.’

      ‘I could ask for some supernatural help,’ suggested the cat diffidently. ‘But it comes with a price.’

      ‘What sort of price?’ asked Paladin. ‘If it’s organs or body parts, I might as well jump from the tower.’

      ‘No, no, probably just your jewellery,’ said the cat. ‘Make up your mind, I’m just borrowing this cat, and he has other things to do - kittens to father, male cats to fight, you know how it is.’

      ‘Oh, my dearest Tuatha, I wish you were here! I wish I could touch you, kiss you, if this is to be the end.’

      ‘Paladin, my lamb, you know you can’t touch me,’ soothed the cat. ‘Not until you - decide. And I’m not taking you out of human to save you; that never works, they all end up wishing they could die and hating their Tuatha. So, shall I call on a gnome?’

      ‘Call,’ decided Paladin. Making a private vow that if he did get out of this, he would find the Fae and fling himself at his immortal feet and beg for an embrace.

      The cat jumped into Paladin’s lap, ran a purring nose along his jaw, bit his earlobe, then jumped down and leaped out the window.

      There was a flash, a puff of peppery smoke, and a small cross man stood before him. He was wearing a red gown and had his slippers on the wrong feet. His pink nightcap was crooked.

      ‘What?’ he growled. He had obviously woken up on the wrong side of his mushroom.

      ‘Spin straw into gold,’ said Paladin, indicating the heap.

      ‘That king,’ said the small man, with a grin, ‘is such a fool. All right, standard fee.’

      ‘What’s the standard fee?’ asked Paladin warily.

      ‘Your ring,’ replied the gnome. He leaned forward and licked the gold ring on Paladin’s finger, showing long pointed teeth, and suddenly he wasn’t at all comic. Paladin wrestled the damp ring off and dropped it into the gnome’s hand. He really didn’t want it any more.

      ‘Right, out of the way,’ said the gnome. He snapped the ropes with thumb and forefinger, shoved Paladin out of the chair, and he sat amazed on the cold stone floor as there was a blur of motion, the spindle rocked, the wheel whirred, and the pile of straw diminished as the spool of gold thread grew. It couldn’t have taken more than ten minutes.

      ‘Simple,’ said the gnome. He approached Paladin and thrust his face close to the young man’s neck. ‘You smell delicious,’ he said.

      ‘Thanks!’ squeaked Paladin. There was another flash and more of the peppery smoke, and the gnome was gone.

      Paladin curled up in his cloak and slept uneasily until morning. He had a feeling he wasn’t out of this situation yet.

      He was, of course, right. Presented with a spool of undeniable gold thread, the king locked him in another tower, with a much bigger heap of straw. This time he was not bound, and even provided with supper and wine. He had not been allowed to speak to his father, who was - horribly - boasting of his son’s amazing skills even now, when the said son was running out of bijoux to bribe the gnome.

      ‘Again?’ sighed the cat.

      ‘Again?’ asked the gnome as Paladin sneezed in the peppery smoke. ‘That king is a greedy moron. There’s a limit to how much straw even I can spin. Luckily he hasn’t reached it yet. Usual fee?’

      ‘Which is?’

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