The Romans had been to Ynys Trebes, of course, but they had not fortified it, only built a pair of villas on its summit. The villas were still there: King Ban and Queen Elaine had joined them together and then added to them by pillaging Roman buildings on the mainland for new pillars and pedestals, mosaics and statues, so that the island's summit was now crowned with an airy palace, full of light, where white linen curtains billowed with every breath of wind that gusted off the glittering sea. The island was best reached by boat, though there was a causeway of sorts that was covered by every high tide and at low tide could become treacherous with quicksands. Withies marked the causeway, but the surge of the bay's huge tides washed the markers away and only a fool attempted the passage without hiring the services of a local guide to steer him through the sucking sands and trembling creeks. At the lowest tides Ynys Trebes would emerge from the sea to stand amidst a wilderness of rippled sand cut through with gullies and tide pools while at the highest tides, when the wind blew strong from the west, the city was like some monstrous ship crashing her dauntless way through tumultuous seas.
Beneath the palace was a huddle of lesser buildings that clung to the steep granite slopes like sea-birds' nests. There were temples, shops, churches and houses, all lime-washed, all built of stone, all tricked out with whatever carvings and decorations had not been wanted in Ban's high palace, and all fronting on to the stone-paved road that climbed in steps around the steep island towards the royal house. There was a small stone quay on the island's eastern side where boats could land, though only in the calmest weather was the landing comfortable, which was why our ships had landed us at a safe place a day's march to the west. Beyond the quay was a small harbour which was nothing but a tidal pool protected by sandbanks. At low tide the pool was cut off from the sea while at the tide's height the holding was poor whenever the wind was in the north. All around the island's base, except in those places where the granite itself was too steep to climb, a stone wall tried to keep the outer world at bay. Outside Ynys Trebes was turmoil, Prankish enemies, blood, poverty and disease, while inside the wall lay learning, music, poetry and beauty.
I did not belong in King Ban's beloved island capital. My task was to defend Ynys Trebes by fighting on the mainland of Benoic where the Franks were pushing into the farmlands that supported the lavish capital, but Bleiddig insisted I met the king, so I was guided across the causeway, through the city gate that was decorated with a carved merman brandishing a trident, and up the steep road that led to the lofty palace. My men had all stayed on the mainland and I wished I had brought them to see the wonders of the city: the carved gates; the steep stone stairs that plunged up and down the granite island between the temples and shops; the balconied houses decorated with urns of flowers; the statues; and the springs that poured clean fresh water into carved marble troughs where anyone could dip a pail or stoop to drink. Bleiddig was my guide and he growled how the city was a waste of good money that should have been spent on de fences ashore, but I was awestruck. This, I thought, was a place worth fighting for. Bleiddig led me through the final merman-decorated gate into the palace courtyard. The palace's vine-clad buildings filled three sides of the court, while the fourth was bounded by a series of white-painted arches that opened on to a long view of the sea. Guards in white cloaks stood at every door, their spear-shafts polished and spearheads shining. “They're no earthly use,” Bleiddig muttered to me. “Couldn't fight off a puppy, but they look pretty.”
A courtier in a white toga met us at the palace door and escorted us through room after room, each one filled with rare treasures. There were alabaster statues, golden dishes, and a room lined with speculum mirrors that made me gasp as I saw myself reflected into an unending distance: a bearded, dirty, russet-cloaked soldier getting ever smaller in the mirrors' crinkling diminutions. In the next room, which was painted white and was filled with the scent of flowers, a girl played a harp. She wore a short tunic and nothing else. She smiled as we passed and went on playing. Her breasts were golden from the sun, her hair was short and her smile easy. “Looks like a whorehouse,” Bleiddig confided in a hoarse whisper,
'and I wish it was. It might be of some use then."
The toga-clad courtier thrust open the last pair of bronze-handled doors and bowed us into a wide room that overlooked the glittering sea. “Lord King' he bowed to the room's only occupant ”Chief Bleiddig and Derfel, a captain of Dumnonia."
A tall thin man with a worried face and a thinning head of white hair stood up from behind a table where he had been writing on parchment. A cats paw of wind stirred his work and he fussed until he had weighted the parchment's corners with ink horns and snake stones. “Ah, Bleiddig!” the King said as he advanced towards us. “You're back, I see. Good, good. Some people never come back. The ships don't survive. We should ponder that. Is the answer bigger ships, do you think? Or do we build them wrong? I'm not sure we have the proper boatbuilding skills, though our fishermen swear we do, but some of them never come back either. A problem.” King Ban stopped halfway across the room and scratched his temple, transferring yet more ink on to his sparse hair. “No immediate solution suggests itself,” he finally announced, then peered at me. “Drivel, is it?”
“Derfel, Lord King,” I said, dropping to one knee.
“Derfel!” He said my name with astonishment. “Derfel! Let me think now! Derfel. I suppose, if that name means anything, it means ”pertaining to a Druid“. Do you so pertain, Derfel?”
“I was reared by Merlin, Lord.”
“Were you? Were you, indeed! My, my! That is something. I see we must talk. How is my dear Merlin?”
“He hasn't been seen these five years, Lord.”
“So he's invisible! Ha! I always thought that might be one of his tricks. A useful one, too. I must ask my wise men to investigate. Do stand up, do stand up. I can't abide people kneeling to me. I'm not a God, at least I don't think I am.” The King inspected me as I stood and seemed disappointed by what he saw.
“You look like a Frank!” he observed in a puzzled voice.
“I am a Dumnonian, Lord King,” I said proudly.
“I'm sure you are, and a Dumnonian, I pray, who precedes dear Arthur, yes?” he asked eagerly. I had not been looking forward to this moment. “No, Lord,” I said. “Arthur is besieged by many enemies. He fights for our kingdom's existence and so he has sent me and a few men, all we can spare, and I am to write and tell him if more are needed.”
“More will be needed, indeed they will,” Ban said as fiercely as his thin, high-pitched voice allowed.
“Dear me, yes. So you've brought a few men, have you? How few, pray, is few, precisely?”
“Sixty, Lord.”
King Ban abruptly sat on a wooden chair inlaid with ivory. “Sixty! I had hoped for three hundred! And for Arthur himself. You look very young to be a captain of men,” he said dubiously, then suddenly brightened. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you say you can write?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“And read?” he insisted anxiously.
“Indeed, Lord King.”
“You see, Bleiddig!” the King cried in a triumphant voice as he sprang from the chair. “Some warriors can read and write! It doesn't unman them. It does not reduce them to the petty status of clerks, women, kings or poets as you so fondly believe. Ha! A literate warrior. Do you, by any happy chance, write poetry?” he asked me.
“No, Lord.”
“How sad. We are a community of poets. We are a brotherhood! We call ourselves ihefili, and poetry is our stern mistress. It is, you might say, our sacred task. Maybe you will be inspired? Come with me, my learned Derfel.” Ban, Arthur's absence forgotten, scurried excitedly across the room, beckoning me to follow through a second set of great doors and across another small room where a second harpist, half-naked like the first and just as beautiful, touched her strings, and then into a great library. I had never seen a proper library before and King Ban, delighted to show the room off, watched my reaction. I gaped, and no wonder, for scroll after scroll was bound in ribbon and stored in custom-made open-ended boxes that stood one on top of the other like the cells of a honeycomb. There were hundreds of such cells, each with its own scroll and each cell labelled in a carefully inked hand. “What languages do you speak, Derfel?” Ban asked me.