Merlin

He eyed me curiously, but ordered the raw skin to be rolled up and tied behind my saddle. While this was being done a stablehand arrived leading a horse for the woman. When she had mounted, I handed the child to her; and, taking the reins of her horse into my hand, led my horse and hers out through the gate and down the narrow causeway. Several caer-dwellers watched us from outside the walls, but nothing was said and no one followed.

As daylight struggled into the sky, staining the eastern clouds and snow-covered hills crimson and gold, we rode back through the clefted valley and into the smooth, empty hills beyond Tintagel. And seagulls wheeled above us, keening in the cold winter air.

I did not like the idea of a winter sea voyage. But we must reach Dyfed as quickly as possible. The road is no place for a newborn, and in winter even those who make the road then-home stay inside. Crossing Mor Hafren was necessary, though the prospect was far from welcome. Enough men lose their lives in winter seas that most boatmen refuse all commerce in that treacherous season.

Be that as it may, there are those who can always be bought. A flash of gold and they will go against all natural inclination, risking life and limb to an enterprise they would not consider otherwise. Consequently, we had little trouble finding a boat to takc us across. Still and all, we waited four days for calm weather.

I was uneasy the whole time. But, if anyone marked our passing, we learned nothing of it, for we saw no one else on the road, nor did the boatman take an interest in us. Once the price was settled, he asked no questions and went about his business with silent efficiency.

If he thought anything, he no doubt supposed the woman to be my wife and Pelleas to be my servant. I helped this impression as much as possible, hovering over the lady and the baby with protective authority, seeing to their comfort. The woman, an unfortunate whose husband had been killed when his horse stumbled on Tintagel's murderous causeway, and whose own babe had taken the wasting fever and died only days before, was not as old as I first thought.

As the journey went on, such beauty as she possessed, ravaged by grief and care, began returning to her. She smiled more often when she held the child, and thanked Pelleas and me for the small kindnesses performed for her. The woman, Enid by name, suckled the child readily, and cradled it as lovingly as any natural mother would. And I surmised that the closeness of the babe, its helplessness and dependence, had begun healing the wound in her heart.

The day of crossing came at last. It was wet and cold – the kind of wet cold that goes to the bones and stays long – the wind gusty and dagger-sharp. But the wind did not raise the seas against us, so we made good time and landed safely. I paid the boatman double his price, and was glad to do it.

Upon crossing Mor Hafren, we quickly entered Tewdrig's realm, sheltering the first night at the little seaside abbey at Llanteilo where the renowned Bishop Teilo had built his church and monastery. The next day, frosty cold but with a sky clear and high and bright as a flame, we rode the remaining distance to Caer Myrddin.

The sun sets early that time of year. Dusk was well upon us and the first winter stars already in the sky by the time we reached Tewdrig's stronghold. The market town stood a sad reminder of another age, abandoned now – perhaps for ever.

We urged our horses through the ruin and turned up the hill trail to the caer. Silvery smoke from many hearth fires drifted into the still night air, and the aroma of roasting meat reached us as we neared. Our arrival was foreseen, of course, and we were met at the gates by a young man with a sparse brown beard. 'Greetings, friends,' he called to us, taking up a place in the centre of the path. 'What business brings you to Tewdrig's house this cold winter's night?'

'Greetings, Meurig,' I told him, for it was Tewdrig's eldest son who confronted us. Others were gathering round, watching us with polite, but undisguised curiosity. 'You have become a man I see.'

At my use of his name, Meurig stepped closer. 'I am at your service, sir. How do you know me?'

'How should I not know the son of my friend, Lord Tewdrig?'

He cocked his head to one side. I think that my escort – a woman with a babe in arms – confused him. But one of the onlookers recognized me, for someone whispered, 'The Emrys is come!'

Meurig heard the name; his head whipped round and, laying a hand on my bridle, he said, 'Forgive me, Lord Emrys. I did not know it was you -'

I cut short his apology with a wave of my hand. 'There is nothing to forgive. But now, if we may go in – it is getting dark and the child will be getting cold.'

'At once, my lord.' He motioned some of the others forward to take our horses as we dismounted. Another ran to the hall to announce our arrival, so that Tewdrig himself met us as we crossed the yard.

'Your son has become a fine man,' I told Tewdrig when, after our greetings and after Enid and the child had been seen to, we were settled before the hearth with a steaming bowl of mulled wine in our hands. 'I did not remember him so well grown.'

'Oh, he has grown indeed, that one.' He smiled, pleased with the compliment. 'He was married a year ago and will have a babe of his own before spring.' He laughed suddenly. 'But I did not know you had taken a wife.'

'Alas, I have been too busy.'

That I can easily imagine. So tell me, what is happening in the Island of the Mighty that I should know about?'

'You will have heard of Gorlas' death,' I replied. 'A bad thing that, very bad. I was sorry to hear of it. He was a strong battlechief.'

Then you are also aware of the High King's marriage. As for the rest, you will know more than I – I have been at Ynys Avallach these many months.'

'Not with the Pendragon?' Tewdrig raised his eyebrows at this.

'Uther has his own advisers,' I explained simply. 'Perhaps, but you are -'

'No, it is better this way. I have Uther's ear when I need it, and he has mine. I am content.'

We sipped our sweet wine for a moment, feeling the warming draught thaw the cold places within. And Tewdrig waited for me to tell him why I had come. 'As it happens,' I began, setting my cup aside, 'I have come on an errand for the High King.'

Tewdrig leaned forward. 'So?'

'A matter of some importance, Lord Tewdrig. Your confidence is enjoined.'

'Whatever can be done, that I will do. For you, Myrddin Emrys, as much as for the High King. Of that you may be certain.'

'Thank you, my friend. But the thing I have come to ask will not be easily granted, and I would have you consider it carefully – perhaps discuss it with your counsellors before agreeing.'

'If that is what you wish. Although, if you deem it a virtue to come to me, I can tell you that I will refuse nothing you ask. For it is in my mind that if I could not help, you would not have come to me.'

Had he already guessed why I had come? Tewdrig was shrewd; his next words confirmed my suspicion. 'It is about the child, yes?' I nodded. 'It is.' 'Whose child is it?' 'Aurelius' and Ygerna's,' I told him. 'I thought as much,' Tewdrig mused. 'Not Uther's flesh, yet the same noble blood in his veins. So, the Pendragon did not care to have the poor babe in his house reminding him that his own brats stood no closer to the throne.'

'That is the pith of it,' I agreed. 'Yet the babe must be kept safe, for -'

Tewdrig nodded gravely. 'For he will surely be the next Pendragon of Britain!'

I assure you I can be as blind as the next man. And here is the proof: until Tewdrig said those words, I had never seriously considered that likely. Nor did I believe it now. To me, the child was merely that: an infant who must be protected from the overweening ambition of others, not the future king. My blindness was complete.

The deeds and doings of the present, I confess, occupied me more than that one little life. I saw no further. That is the simple truth, and there is no pleasure in the telling of it.