Chapter 2 Rhys #2
Due to the fear of the day, it may be unwise to write a wizard into your story.
Geoffrey of Monmouth may have done so, but he was a bishop and the times of the 1100s are vastly different than they are today.
I truly do not wish to censure you my friend before you have begun, but please heed my advice.
However, as I do remain your devoted friend, for your research I will be sending along a copy of Robert de Boron’s Merlin, along with translations for Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Prophetiae Merlini, Historiae Regum Britanniae, and Vita Merlini, as well as Nennius’ History of the Britons and the French materials we discussed.
I do hope your room in Newgate Prison provides minimal comfort and does not have a draft.
I was most pleased to hear you have a window this time and have been given access to the common areas including the library.
Perhaps prison with its lack of distractions will be the best place to write a novel.
I look forward to reading the adventures of King Arthur and his noble knights of the Round Table with utmost excitement when you are finished.
My regards,
Stuart
Rhys reread the letter, utterly flummoxed. “Is this letter really to . . . ?”
His father nodded, practically dancing with excitement. “Sir Thomas Malory.”
“The Sir Thomas Malory? And he was given a diary written by Merlin’s sister?”
“Merlin’s twin sister.”
For a moment Rhys grappled with the fact Merlin had a twin sister. “How did I not know Merlin had a sister?”
His father waved his hand in the air as if the question was ridiculous. “You know women are written as the supporting characters in history. Yes! Our most famous wizard had a twin sister. Isn’t it marvelous? And we have her diary.”
Legends abounded for the great Merlin. Stories had been written.
Tales told. The most famous being Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur, written in the fifteenth century.
Malory had woven together real history and mythical legends into his epic adventure, including legends of Merlin.
Yet the sister had never been mentioned.
Rhys picked up the book. “Where did you get this?”
“I’ve been safekeeping it for someone,” he dismissed.
“Can we sell it? Is that why you’re showing me?”
“No!” his father said sharply, taking it away from him. “We can never, ever, sell this book.”
“Why? Just think what a sixth-century memoir from Merlin’s sister would be worth.”
“This diary is priceless, and it is not ours to sell. It is tied to the labyrinth. To the stones. To our family.” His father laid his hand on the triskelion. “One day, a lady will arrive and you must give her this book. For it is hers.”
Now his father was talking in riddles. “What do you mean a lady will arrive? Whatever are you talking about?”
“I can say no more, for I fear I’ve already said too much.” His father twisted his signet ring on his finger, which he was apt to do when he was worried. “Keep the book safe, and give it to her when she comes. But first, you must translate it out of Old English.”
“Why? I’m sure you’ve already translated it.”
“Of course I have. That’s beside the point. You must read the original text. With your own eyes. Your own heart.” He tapped him on the chest. “You as my heir are a meticulous scholar. I have the upmost confidence in your ability to comprehend every nuance for yourself.”
“Thank you, Father,” Rhys said dryly.
“And do not marry Flora the potted plant until you have read this book in its entirety. Promise me.” His father gripped his arms with surprising firmness. “I do not jest in this matter.”
Rhys had never seen him so intent. “All right, I promise. I will read it before I do my duty and offer for her hand.”
It was not the answer his father wanted.
He seemed to be searching for the right words.
“Dear God. Is this the moment?” he asked himself and his eyes grew bright.
He took a moment to compose his thoughts.
“Let me tell you of your duty. Your duty is to live your life and to love with a full heart. To not die regretting that you didn’t.
Your duty is to be everything you were born to be.
” He searched his eyes, as if willing him to take in every word he was saying. “Do you understand?”
Rhys nodded, moved by his father’s conviction.
“Good.” His father physically relaxed upon his agreement and repeated, “Good,” as he patted his arms once more. “You will know what to do when the time comes. Have faith.”
Rhys didn’t know what he meant and was afraid to ask.
His father was in one of his moods. Instead, he watched him stow the diary back in the hidden drawer and made mental plans to read it soon, although translating anything from Old English would take time.
He would start when he returned from the house party.
The following day he did not go to the house party. His mother’s screams from the garden were what woke him.
Rhys heard her from the window calling for him hysterically. Without a thought to put on his robe, he dashed downstairs and ran outside where he found her bent over sobbing in the garden near his father’s laboratory.
He dropped to the ground beside her. “Mother?”
She threw her arms around him, holding him tightly and weeping “He’s gone. He’s gone.” She could not stop saying the words.
Rhys held her as his own heart shattered.
The whole household was roused, and someone rode to the village to fetch the town doctor, but it was too late.
His father had passed away in his laboratory in the middle of the night from one of his chemical experiments gone wrong.
Most likely a deadly combination of compounds in his quest to discover new elements.
On that day, the morning of October 24, 1827, Rhys’s life changed forever.