I hadn’t seen him for years, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to see him now.  Merlin was never good news as far as I was concerned, forever casting doubts about Sir Lancelot and me in my lord and master, King Arthur’s ears. 

As he was ushered into the throne room by Sir Gawain, he shuffled forward in his old travelling cloak and misshapen boots, his wild hair almost completely white now.  His piercing blue eyes that had unnerved me so during my early years at Camelot had lost their sparkle, and along with it, their ability to intimidate me.

He was limping badly, and I instinctively knew that he had walked many miles to reach Camelot, proving the urgency of his business here.

I allowed myself to be gracious to him, and offered him a stool below the dais, dismissing the attendants, who shuffled reluctantly from the room, not wishing to miss the prospect of a good bout between myself and the old wizard.  Ignoring the stool, he flung back his dusty cloak and leaned heavily on his wooden staff, and glared at the opulent gilded thrones with their royal purple cushions.  I was seated, as was proper, on the lower of these, but rose just slowly enough to show him who was in command here.

“Merlin, welcome back to Camelot, and have you been well?”  I began, holding out my hand, which he ignored.  I felt my temper rising, but beat it back before I responded to his rudeness.  After all, I did not want my husband, the King, to have any cause to question my treatment of his old mentor.  “I’m afraid the King is out hunting today, but I can send for him.  I feel sure His Majesty would be happy to interrupt his hunt to return to the castle to see you.  How many years has it been?” 

So much for his inability to intimidate me.  I was prattling along, almost scared to let him speak.

He raised himself to his full 5 feet 2 inches, and said in a quavering voice, “I shall speak with His Majesty later.  It is you whom I have come to see, My Lady Guinevere.  I need to speak with you about an unsettling vision I had, deep in my cavern under the Isle of Avalon.”

So that was where Merlin hung out when he was not mischief making.

“And how is my cousin, our dear Lady Nimue?”  I asked.

“I have not come to talk about the Lady of the Lake,” he growled.  “I have come to talk about you.”

“To me, or about me?  Well, what is it this time?”  I asked, abandoning all pretence at civility, and sinking back onto my throne.

“I come from a future time,” he intoned in his hollow prophetic manner.  “I saw future generations stretching down through the long years.  And all those generations revile your name, and the name of Sir Lancelot du Lac.  Strumpet and whoremaster, they call you, and other names you would not understand, as they have not yet been introduced into the language. 

All throughout future history the great King Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon, will wear the horns of a cuckold, all because you and your partner in treason can not keep your hands off each other.”  With his last words, he thumped the end of his staff on the floor three times.

“How dare you accuse your Queen of such infamy?”  I spat.  “You can never prove anything of the kind to my Lord the King, because there is nothing to be proven!  Yet you and others fill his ears with poison against me and against his true friend and best knight.  If you do not desist from these lies, then of course all future generations are going to believe them.”

Looking back, I suppose it seems strange that I did not once question his bald statement that he could travel through time, but Merlin had the capacity to make the wildest statements sound like the purest truth.

He continued.  “Mordred himself told me that he found you two locked in a passionate embrace last Midsummer eve.”

“Mordred lies.  Mordred would say anything.  Mordred wants Arthur’s crown for himself.  And you believe this usurper against your lawful Queen?”

“Mordred only corroborates what others whisper in private.”

The bitter accusations continued until I lost patience completely, and summoned an attendant, telling him, “See that the exalted Merlin receives food and drink before leaving Camelot in one hour.”  I deliberately turned my back on him, and swept from the throne room, leaving him standing there, a little wild man in his dusty glory.

Later in my bedchamber, as I related the interview to my childhood companion Elayne, she rubbed my shoulders until my anger at Merlin had subsided a little.

“’Tis a great pity you cannot tell Merlin the truth,” she murmured, then lapsed into unseemly giggles.  After a second I joined in, and for some minutes we were helpless with laughter.  A lady in waiting poked her head round the door in curiosity, and was promptly dismissed with a sharp wave of my hand.

“Merlin has a wild imagination.  Has he smelt Lancelot lately?”  I demanded.  “He stinks of sweat and wine, of horses and battle.  His beard is scruffy, and his jokes are crude and offensive.  His only interest is the joust.  Why on earth would I choose such an oaf as a lover, when I have all I will ever need right here?”  I stroked her sweetly scented silken hair.  “No my dearest, Merlin and his future generations must never know the truth.”