Pendragon

'Far less than he needs you,' he replied tartly. 'Ectorius is most competent and able. He will discharge his duties towards Arthur with all honour – whether we remain or no.'

In truth, I did not actually care to spend a winter in the wild alone, so I relented. 'Have it your way, Pelleas. We go! And may God go with us.'

FIVE

We left Caer Edyn as soon as Pelleas had satisfied himself with his preparations. Ector advised us to wait until the trails had thawed once more, but spring always comes late to the north, and I dared not wait until the snows and rains had stopped. Arthur asked to go, but was not disappointed to stay behind.

The day of leaving dawned cold and grey, and did not improve. We camped in the lee of the hill that night, rose early and continued on our way. The sky did not clear, and the wind grew biting, but the snow held off and we were able to press on, wending our slow way through the glens and over the smooth, cold hills – if more slowly than I would have liked.

Prudence demanded discretion; Arthur's continued safety depended on my ability to keep his identity and whereabouts hidden. Secrecy was my most potent ally, but since we could not shun every settlement and holding, nor avoid every other traveller, I made myself as invisible as possible. Thus began what was to become my custom when moving about the land: I would adopt various guises to ease my passage among men: now an old man, now a youth, now a shepherd, now a beggar, now a hermit.

I would embrace humility and wear it like a cloak. Among unsuspecting men, I would hold commerce with the humble things of the world, and so pass unseen and unmarked through the Island of the Mighty. For men seldom heed the humble things that surround them; and what they do not heed, they do not hinder. In this way, we passed through the north country and into the southlands below the Wall, striking an old Roman road just south of Caer Lial. The road was still in good condition and Pelleas marvelled that this should be so. 'Why?' I asked him. 'Did you think these paving stones would vanish with the Legions? Or that the Emperor would roll up his roads and take them back to Rome?'

'Hold!' Pelleas cried, raising a hand to the much-encroached-upon track stretching straight and narrow before us. 'Our path is made smooth for us; the way is clear in the wilderness.' I smiled at his allusion. 'This suits our purpose perfectly, Emrys. We will travel more quickly, and our passing will not be marked.'

It was true, the stone-paved track remained smooth and unbroken as ever; and though shrubs, small trees, and thickets of all kinds now crowded so close as to hide it from view, the undergrowth had not obscured the road. And if other men had long ago forsaken the old roads, preferring more open trails, this same close-grown vegetation would allow us freedom in our movements. We would travel without being seen – appearing here and there when we chose, or when need arose, then disappearing once more… only to reappear somewhere else.

I had to agree, the old Roman roads seemed heaven-made for us, and I praised the Great Light for it. Often I have noticed that when a way is needed, a way appears. This is not to be wondered at, neither is it to be ignored.

We journeyed then with lighter hearts, though deprived of other human company for the most part, since we stayed away from settlements and the hearths of men, camping alone, sleeping under the naked sky at night. Occasionally, we ventured into a settlement along the way for provisions. Everywhere I listened to what men said and I weighed their words carefully, sifting all I heard for any hint of the trouble I feared.

By the time we reached the southlands, warmer weather betokened an early spring, and soon soft air soughed in new-budded trees; blossoms quickly appeared, seeding the drifting currents with sweet, heady fragrance. Water ran high; river, lake and stream swelled to overflowing. In a little while, the hillsides blushed shocking colour: yellow, crimson and blue. The sun wheeled through dappled, cloud-crowded skies, and the moon steered her bright course through star-filled night.

Peace seemed to have claimed the land, but I drew no comfort from this. Indeed, the farther south we rode, the greater my anxiety grew.

'I am yet uneasy, Pelleas,' I confessed one night over the fire. 'I mislike what I sense here.'

'That is no surprise,' he told me. 'We would not have come this far otherwise. Perhaps it means we are nearing the end of our search.'

'Perhaps,' I allowed. 'Morcant's lands are nearby. I would give my harp to know what he is about.'

'There will be a settlement close, no doubt. Perhaps someone will tell us something.'

The next day we set out for the nearest settlement, and found one of goodly size straddling the ford of a swift-running river. A muddy track linked the two halves, whose houses were mud-and-twig thatched with reed, poorly made; but the two large cattle enclosures boasted goodly wealth.

Wearing the guise of a wandering priest – a long, shapeless robe of undyed wool which Pelleas had purchased for me at an abbey along the way, my hair in disarray, my face smudged with dirt and soot – I surveyed the place from the side of an overlooking hill. 'This will do. The people here are trading cattle; they will know what is happening in the world hereabouts.'

As I approached the holding, the skin at the nape of my neck prickled to danger. I leaned close to Pelleas to tell him of my fear, but he waved me to silence and reined his horse to a halt. Rising in the saddle, he called out in a loud voice, 'Is anyone here?'

We waited. No sound came from any of the dwellings. Presently, Pelleas called again. 'We are waiting, and will not leave until we have watered our horses.'

I imagined sly whispers behind the mud walls around us: insinuations, quick and sharp, flung like knives at our backs.

'Perhaps we should go elsewhere,' Pelleas suggested under his breath.

'No,' I replied firmly. 'We have come here in good faith, and I will not be put off.'

We waited. The horses snorted and chafed the ground impatiently.

At last, when I thought we must move on, a thick-necked man with an oaken club appeared. Stepping from the low doorway of the centre house, he straightened and strode forth with a swagger.

'Greetings,' he said, more threat in the word than welcome. 'We do not see many of your kind hereabouts. Travel is difficult these days.'

'Agreed,' I answered. 'If need were not great, we would not trouble you for hospitality.'

'Hospitality?' The word obviously had no meaning for him. His heavy-lidded eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Pelleas feigned indifference to the man's rudeness and swung himself down from his saddle. 'We ask a little water for the animals, and for ourselves. Then we will continue on our way.'

The man bristled. 'Water is all you get, mind.'

'God's precious gift – we ask nothing else,' I replied, smiling loftily.

'Huh.' The man turned abruptly. 'This way.' Pelleas gave me a dark look and fell into step behind him. I gathered the reins and led the horses. We were shown a stone trough filled by a trickle from a hillside spring through an ancient clay conduit.

Pelleas drank first, cupping water into his hands. When he finished, I bent down and drank. 'Sweet the blessings of God,' I said, drying my hands on the front of my robe. 'Thank you for your kindness.'

The man grunted and swung the club against his leg.

'We have been in the north,' I said, as Pelleas started watering the horses. 'Whose lands are these?'

'King Madoc's,' the man spat.

'And is he a good king?'

'There's some as would say that – though some would say otherwise.'

'And what would you say?'

The brute before us spat again, and I thought he would not answer. But he was merely warming to his tale. 'I say Madoc is a fool and a coward!'

'The man who calls his brother fool stands in danger of God's wrath,' I reminded him. 'Surely, you must have good reason for such harsh judgment.'