Merlin

Gwendolau proved an amiable companion and undertook to keep us all in as good humour as the dreadful weather would allow. He sang wonderfully absurd songs, and recounted long, maddeningly intricate tales of his hunting exploits – to hear him talk there was not a beast alive that did not fear his extraordinary skill. He also told me all he knew of what had passed in the world of men since I was taken by the Hill Folk. I liked him and was not sorry that he had come with me.

Baram, on the other hand, was a man to keep his own counsel, quietly expert in his ways, a sure hand with the horses, a keen eye for the trail ahead. Nothing escaped his notice, though one would have to ask him directly to find it out. Often, when I thought he was far away in his own thoughts, I would turn to him to see a smile on his broad face as he enjoyed Gwendolau's jesting.

By evening of the fifth day we reached Luguvalh'um, which the men in that region called Caer Ligualid; or, more often, Caer Ligal. I was for passing through quickly and camping on the road – we were so much nearer now, it was hard not to begrudge every moment's delay. But Gwendolau would not hear of it. 'Myrddin, you may be able to ride like the bhean sidhe, but I cannot. If I do not dry out, my bones will turn to mush inside this sodden skin of mine. I need a wanning drink inside me and a roof that does not shed water on me all night long. In short, a lodging house.'

Silent Baram added his terse assent and I knew I was beaten.

'Very well, let us do as you suggest. But I have never been to Caer Ligualid. You will have to find us a place.'

'Leave it to me,' Gwendolau said, spurring his horse forward, and we galloped into the town. Our appearance drew many stares, but we were not unwelcome, and soon Gwendolau, who could coax even the most sceptical mussel to open its shell to him, had made half a dozen friends and achieved his purpose. In truth, travellers were few and becoming fewer in the north, and any news a stranger could bring was prized.

The house was large and old, a mansio of the Roman style with its large common room, smaller sleeping chambers, and stable across a clean-swept courtyard – visiting dignitaries in the old days did not often travel on horseback as we did. Both house and stable were clean and dry, and the fodder plentiful for the horses.

In all, it was an agreeable place, warm and heady with the smell of yeast from bread and beer. There was a fire in the grate and meat on the spit. Baram said not a word but went directly to the hearth and dragged up a stool, stretching his long legs before the fire.

'With the garrison empty now,' the proprietor told us, eyeing us curiously, 'we do not see so many new faces in this town.' His own face was the round, ruddy visage of a man who likes his meat and drink too well.

'The garrison empty?' wondered Gwendolau. 'I noticed there was no one on the gate. Still, it cannot be long empty.'

'Did I say it was? Och! Hang me for a Pict! Just last summer it was full to nearly bursting, and there were Magistrates thick under every bush. But now… '

'What happened?' I asked.

He looked at me, and at my clothing – and I think he made the sign against evil behind his back – but he answered without evasion. 'Withdrawn, they are. Isn't that what I am saying? They are gone.'

'Where?' I asked.

The innkeeper frowned and his mouth clamped shut, but before I could ask again, Gwendolau interrupted. 'I have heard the wine of Caer Ligal has special charms on a rainy night. Or, have you poured it all away since the legionaries no longer drink here?'

'Wine! Where would I get wine? Och!' He rolled his eyes. 'But I have beer to make your tongue forget it ever tasted wine.'

'Bring it on!' cried Gwendolau. The innkeeper hurried away to fetch the beer, and when he was gone Gwendolau said, 'It does not do to ask a thing too directly up here. In the north, men like to feel they know you before they say what is in their minds.'

The innkeeper reappeared with three jars of dark foaming liquid and Gwendolau raised his and drank deep. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he smacked his lips and said, 'Ahh! A drink to make Gofannon himself choke with envy. It is settled, we stay here tonight if you will have us.'

The publican beamed. 'Who else would have you? And, as there is no one else beneath this roof tonight, my house is yours. The beds are not big, but they are dry. My name is Caracatus.'

Baram brought his empty jar to the table. 'Good beer,' he said, and returned to his place by the fire.

'Dry!' Gwendolau exclaimed. 'You hear, Myrddin Wylt? We will be dry tonight.'

'If a man is long on the road, he might forget the comforts of a bed,' observed the proprietor. 'Or so I am told.'

'Na, on the contrary,' replied Gwendolau. 'We have been seven days and nights on the trail and I have thought about nothing else but a hot meal in my belly and a warm place by the fire.'

Caracatus winked and confided, 'I keep no women here, but perhaps, if you were so inclined… ' He made an equivocal gesture and crossed his palm.

Thank you,' replied Gwendolau, 'but tonight I am bone weary and no fit company for women, charming though they must be. We have been in the saddle since first light this morning.'

The innkeeper sympathized. 'It is late in the year for travelling. I myself would not go out unless need were very great.'

Need would have to be very great indeed, to budge him from his beer cask, I thought. Even then I doubted he would go out at all. 'It is not by choice,' I answered. 'No doubt the legionaries felt the same way about their leaving.'

This received a sly, knowing wink. 'Aye, that is the truth of it, long and short. The tears! Were there tears when the soldiers left? I tell you the streets were aflood with tears, for the women crying husbands and lovers away.'

'A sad thing to leave kith and kin behind,' observed Gwendolau. 'But, I imagine they will return soon enough. They always come back.'

'Not this time,' the innkeeper wagged his head sadly. 'Not this time. It is the Emperor's doing -'

'Gratian has much on his plate, what with -' began Gwendolau.

'Did I say Gratian? Did I say Valentinian?' scoffed Caracatus. 'The only emperor I salute is Magnus Maximus!' 'Maximus!' Gwendolau sat up in surprise.

'Himself,' smiled our host, pleased with his superior knowledge. 'Proclaimed emperor last year at this time, he was. Now we will see our interests looked to, by Caesar! And about time, too.'

So, that was what my voices had been telling me, had I but known. With the loyal support of his legionaries, Maximus had declared himself Emperor of the West and had withdrawn the troops from the north. There was only one reason for this: he must march to Gaul and defeat Gratian in order to consolidate his claim. That was the only way he could be emperor unopposed.

Deep dread crept over me. The legions gone…

'They will come back, you will see,' Gwendolau repeated.

The innkeeper sniffed and shrugged. 'I do not care if they return or not – as long as the Pica leave us alone. Know you, we keep these walls up for a reason.'

Baram's burring snore from the corner of the hearth brought the conversation to a close. 'I will feed you, sirs, so you can go to your beds,' said Caracatus, hurrying off to prepare the meal.

'Food and sleep,' Gwendolau yawned happily. 'Nothing better on a rainy night. Though it looks as if Baram has begun without us.'

We ate from a joint of beef, and it was good. I had not tasted beef for three years and had almost forgotten the savoury warmth of a well-roasted haunch. There were turnips as well, cheese and bread, and more of Caracatus' heavy dark beer. The meal went down well and sleep descended almost at once; we were led to our sleeping places where we curled up in our cloaks on clean pallets of straw to sleep without stirring until morning.