“Yes. Sight lines clear to Alauna. Has its own well, too. I could hold the north from here, if the Hen Ogledd kings would stop bickering and join me.” He released a long breath, and turned to meet Lance’s amused glance. “Thank God you’re here. My enemies won’t say yes to me, and my so-called friends won’t say no. You must be tired, though, after your journey. Come and I’ll show you your quarters.”
***
Lance, who had been ready to billet down among the soldiers, looked with pleasure around his bright-lit chamber. Coel had given Arthur’s retinue lodging in the keep, the only structure in the fortress with a stone-built upper floor. It was the best and least draughty of all the buildings, with cloudy blue Roman glass in its narrow windows: whatever his motives in asking Art here, the old king had certainly meant to do him honour. The rooms in the upper floor were not large, but they had plain, comfortable wooden-frame beds and even their own rough corner fireplaces. A good blaze had been roaring in this one when Arthur had left him, and it was crackling still, sending ruby and orange flickers to blend with the world’s-edge darkness beyond the glass.
Driftwood and sea coal, Art had said. A salty incense filled the little space. Unpacking his few possessions from a saddlebag, Lance knew he would never forget it—that fragrance, and the unseen, softly roaring sea-night.I put you on the seaward side,Art had said to him.It’s colder, but I thought you’d like it better. I have to speak to Garbonian now, curse him. See you at dinner.
Lance went to the window. A single pane, it swung outward from its latch, letting in a wild rush of air. Art was right—it was freezing in this depth of December, and he doubted it was ever truly warm on this far-flung seagull’s perch. But he did like it better.I love it, he realised, wonderingly.
The draught was making the fire smoke. Reluctantly Lance closed the window. He wasn’t tired, he thought, not really. He could have gone with Art, or at least done something useful with his evening, to begin to pay for his welcome. Well, he’d seen archery targets in a hall on his way up here, even a big, torchlit yard where men were doing their best to knock one another off horses with swords. He could go and practise drill. From the look of things, he could even use what Ban had taught him from his Roman army days to make a few improvements…
He turned back into the room and looked at the neatly made-up bed. A huge yawn shook him. It hadn’t mattered to him at the time, but now he came to think of it, he had hardly rested for days. He’d been like a loosed arrow himself, flying straight for Din Guardi, as soon as he’d known he was free.
The rough blanket smelled clean from its outside drying. Stretching out on his stomach, Lance tried to stay awake, long enough at least to feel guilty about falling asleep in his boots, barely an hour after the midwinter sun had gone down.
Chapter Eight
He slept on until late evening, only jolting awake at the sound of shouts and laughter down in the hall of the keep. A clench in his belly, and savoury scents in the air, reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since his snatched meal with Guy before the debate. He scrambled up, washed as best he could in the bronze bowl of water by the fire, and changed into his one clean shirt.
At the foot of the twisting spiral staircase he met Guy and Ardana, involved in a scuffle that was making them laugh like children. Ardana looked up blushing when she noticed him, and Guy let her go, still beaming. “Ah, Lance! Have you met my wife?”
“Not formally, no.”
“My Lady Ardana, I present to you Lance o’the Lough, king of the White Meadows and Vindolanda.”
Lance bowed. Ardana, who looked as if she’d have liked to bow back, dropped an awkward curtsey instead. “We’ve heard a lot about you,” she said, then caught Guy’s eye and smiled. “An awful lot.”
“I’m sorry about that. And I’m only the prince, I’m afraid. My father came back.”
Guy’s eyes widened. “He never did!”
“I’ll tell you all about it, but not now. It looks as though we’re going in to dinner.”
“Aye, and you don’t want to miss that. It’s a grand affair.”
“Every night?”
“Now Art’s up and about again, yes. He thinks he’ll make all these grumpy old men learn to get on, if he sits them down together every day and feeds them. Of course old Coel couldn’t afford it, and we don’t believe in billeting troops on unsuspecting landowners like that anyway, so we’re footing the bill.”
“Just as you did at Vindolanda.”
Memories chased across Guy’s homely face. “It was one of Ector’s first rules, and Art obeys it faithfully. I know you have doubts about our Merlin, Lance, but he came at the right time.” Before Lance could reply, he forged on, making an expansive gesture towards the dining hall. “Come, then! Your place awaits you. The king discourages talk of politics at the table, but all other subjects are safe. And he knows Coel is fond of music, so we’ll have fine melodies to accompany our meal.”
“Very well. I’m happy for you both, by the way.”
“You’ll never be as happy as I am,” Guy said gallantly, holding out an arm to Ardana, “for there aren’t two such women in the world.” He set off. To Lance’s amusement, Ardana held out her free hand towards him, and so they entered the torchlit space three abreast.
Looking around, Lance wondered if he was still asleep and dreaming. Coel’s court musicians were working away in one corner, coaxing wild old music from their instruments—one of them a bone flute-pipe attached to a pig’s bladder, three wooden resonating chambers strung with sheepgut—while a long-haired, blue-tattooed drummer, naked from the waist up, kept time.
There was a space at Arthur’s right hand. As soon as he caught sight of Lance, he brightened, and no sight could have been more splendid than the young king in his gold-embroidered robe, effortlessly holding court amongst his nobles. He looked every inch the warrior still, his swordbelt still strapped round his waist, Excalibur’s hilt gleaming. His hair had been twisted into a thick braid, and a richly jewelled torc lay at the base of his throat. Lance threw Guy an alarmed look. “Does he mean me to sit there?”
“Of course. No-one will think it strange—they’ve all been prepared for your coming. Anyway, see how Coel is seated at his left? That’s the true place of honour, according to Bryneich tradition, being nearest to the royal heart. Coel’s sons are lined up in order of importance after that, and the mob from Camelet are filling up the rest of the places any old how. They’re used to a round table, thanks to you.”
“Doesn’t the Merlin eat with you?”
“It’s a matter of conjecture whether he eats at all. No-one’s ever seen him. He feasts on air and starlight, they say.”
