His voice matched his frame, being deep and booming. He spoke as someone sure of himself, and laughed readily. And however he may have behaved among his lunatic followers, with us he talked in a rational fashion. He spoke of the city, which he said he had long wished to see, and told us things concerning its past, before the Disaster, which were new to me. I had learned from the Seers that there had once been kings and queens in the great city called London, who had ruled all England and territories beyond the oceans as well. The Bishop told us that in still earlier days English kings had ruled not from London but from this city of Winchester. It may have been no more than a fanciful tale, but he told it convincingly.
He did not say anything about his Christian god until Blodwen put questions to him, but then he told that tale well also. It was the wildest fantasy, this story of the maker of the whole universe being born in a stable, living as a man and dying a painful and degrading death, but he described it so well that for the moment one could almost believe it.
But Martin said: “You have not told all, Bishop.” There was anger in his voice. “You have not spoken of his mother being a virgin, or a star moving through the sky to lead kings to worship him.”
The Bishop said: “These things are less important.”
“Are they? Your Christians do not think so. Nor do I. Truth does not surround itself with lies.”
“You speak warmly, Acolyte,” the Bishop said. “You are a devotee of truth?”
“I know of no better thing to seek.”
“And do you find it in the darkness of your Seance Hall, when the Spirits speak with the tongues of men?” His voice was amused, and I saw Martin’s face flush. “But let us keep to abstract matters. There was a poet in ancient days who wrote about truth. He said:
“ ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty. That is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’ ”
Martin stared at him. “It is well said.”
“Well said, but he gives himself the lie. His words are beautiful but they are not true. Truth can be ugly.”
“I deny that!”
“Do you? Listen. A good woman lies dying. She asks after her son. The truth is that he is a convicted felon and will be hanged in the morning. Will you tell her so? Truth which lacks pity is a cruel thing, and where there is cruelty there can be no beauty.”
Martin said: “The poet spoke of the nature of things, not of men’s speech.”
“Is not men’s speech part of the nature of things? What men do matters more than what they know. Our ancestors had wonderful machines.” I started at that word; even to use it was improper. “Men turned against them because it was machines, through the agency of evil spirits, that caused the Disaster.”
The Bishop smiled. “At any rate, that is what the Seers tell us. I am glad myself that the machines are gone but for a different reason. Machines put a distance between men. A man could give an order on one side of the world and command obedience on the other. Our Prince here must earn obedience, from men he sees and who see him. In those days a man could press a button and kill a thousand men a thousand miles away. We Christians, as you know, do not accept any kind of killing, but if killing there must be I would rather it were done by a warrior who kills with his own hand, and knows what bloody corpse he leaves behind.”
I did not like this talk of forbidden things. I would have ordered him to be silent, even though he was a guest of Blodwen’s, but she herself spoke first. She said:
“The old days are dead and gone and it does no good to talk of them. And of course you are right, Bishop, to say that one does not tell harsh truths to someone not strong enough to bear them. But it is a better case when people have that strength.”
“It may be better,” the Bishop said, “but it is not a common thing.”
“Not among your Christians, maybe,” I said.
He shook his head. “Not even among warriors.”
• • •
They were good days, passing lightly, and quickly. I forgot the doubts which Blodwen’s words had put into my mind on that first evening in the palace. And she did not speak in such a way again. If she had seemed unhappy I might have been troubled. But she was content, and that contented me.
I remember a day in high summer when we went in boats on the river. There were no more than a dozen of us in the party, all young. We went down river, scarcely needing to row because the current took us. It was a fine morning, the sky blue and white, the sun hot when it pierced the clouds. We went a long way, past Twyford, and on to the place where the river meanders through a broad valley of water meadows.
We picnicked there and then lay idly on the grass of the river bank, the boats moored and bobbing beside us, and talked and laughed and were pleasantly idle. We were on our own, with no servants even, and I could lay aside the cares and countenance of a Prince. Apart from Blodwen there were three other girls, one of them Jenny. They were pretty enough in their summer dresses. But compared with Blodwen they were daisies to a rose.
Her dress was green, with long full sleeves. It was a Wilsh cloth, more brightly hued than any we had in the south. Its brightness made the grass look dull, as her beauty made the other girls seem plain.
We had no minstrels either, but Edmund and Matthew Grant had brought their lutes. They played them for our amusement, and Edmund sang. He had a good voice, high but sweet and true. One of his songs was “The Miller of Dee,” and Blodwen, applauding it, said:
“We have that same song in my country! In fact it is said that he lived beside the river higher up the valley in which Klan Gothlen lies. It is called the Dee.”
Edmund laughed. “And do you have this song also?”
His fingers plucked the strings in a slow haunting tune. He sang:
“Oh Greensleeves was all my joy,
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
And who but Lady Greensleeves?”
She clapped her hands and said: “I have heard it, but never so well sung, I think. You should be a minstrel, Edmund.”
I laughed. “I cannot spare him, though! I have more need of him as a warrior.”
It was not long after that the cares of state caught up with me again. Horsemen came riding toward us along the river bank. It was Greene with a small troop. The pigeons had brought word from Romsey: there was trouble there. It had been put down and the garrison was in no danger, but Greene had thought it best to tell me.
He had had the sense also to bring a spare mount. We were almost as near Romsey as Winchester. I said:
“We had better ride over and make sure.”
Blodwen protested: “Do not spoil such a day as this, Luke! He has told you there is no danger.”
I hesitated, but said: “No, I must go, my love. There will be other days to enjoy. Edmund will row you back for me. Will you not, Edmund?”
“As my Prince commands,” he said, “though I would point out that it will be against the stream. I shall expect a good wage for such heavy work.”
We laughed, and I said to Blodwen: “Give him his supper, and a pot of ale to cool him.”
“You will not be back this night?”
I shook my head. “I think not. But tomorrow, certain.”
I looked back as we rode away. Blodwen sat with her knees drawn up and her small hands clasped over them. Edmund stood by her, playing the lute and singing. It was a fine scene and I was reluctant to leave it. But as I had said, there would be other days.