Finally, when I was convinced he knew what I required of him, I gave Donuil the letter I had written and with it my instructions, taking pains to make it clear to him that I was merely taking precautions against a premonition I had dreamed of, and no more than that. He would give the letter to my aunt in the morning, bidding her keep it sealed and safe. In the highly unlikely event that I had not returned to Camulod within a year from this date, she was to give the letter to Ambrose and remain with him while he read it. And if, for any reason, Ambrose had not come to Camulod, she was to do the same with Uther; failing Uther, with Titus or Flavius or the senior officer in command at that time.
Donuil was mystified by my instructions, but I did not enlighten him. In my own mind, I had done all I could do, and I had no options. My responsibility was clear. If Uther were here two years from now and I were not, then I would be dead and Excalibur, for better or for worse, would be rightfully his. If neither of us returned, this way at least the weapon would remain in Camulod and might, some day, fulfill its original purpose. I watched as Donuil locked the letter safely in his chest, then I made my way to the stables, where I took time to ensure that my various possessions, including Publius Varrus's great bow, were securely stowed, fastened and wrapped against the elements.
In recognition of the foulness of the weather, I lashed a thin, tightly rolled, straw-filled palliasse behind my saddle, having wrapped it in a firmly bound length of the same material from which my foul-weather cloak was woven:
dense-fibred brown wool, thick and springy, with a waterproof texture that was strengthened by a scraping of rendered wax. My great black war cloak with the embroidered bear on the back was folded in a pannier on the pack-horse, protected by a covering of the same waxed wool and safe from rain, damp and mildew. Finally satisfied that everything I could do had been done, I mounted the big black that had once been my father's, and as I clattered over the cobblestones and through the main gates leading the pack-horse and an extra mount, two lonely, chilled, wet sentries were the only ones to mark my passing.
XXXIX
On leaving Camulod, I rode directly east along our own well-used roadway until it intersected the great north-east to south-west road built four hundred years earlier by the soldiers of Julius Agricola. From there I headed directly southwest. Uther had led out his two thousand men by the same route, although all signs of their passing had been blotted out months earlier, long before the fury unleashed by the lashing rain that had begun the day before I left and poured without respite for the next three days. As night was falling, I approached the tiny town the native Celts were now calling Ilchester. Apart from its unmistakable layout, nowadays the town bore little resemblance to anything Roman, and the original fortifications were almost completely obliterated already. It was a dismal, squalid little place where nothing ever happened, and yet no one I asked there showed any awareness of Uther's having passed through three months earlier, which led me to infer that he had skirted the town, preferring to keep his movements secret from the citizenry. I spent the night there, despite the threat of verminous bedding, determined to enjoy the dryness of a roof over my head for what might well be the last time for several nights. I pressed south again in the morning, making only slow headway, however, against the driving rain.
I slept beneath the dripping trees the second night, no more than twenty miles south-west of Ilchester, having given up all hope of reaching Isca that day, and was surprised to find I slept quite well, wrapped more or less warmly in my blanket-like cloak, which was lined with softer wool than the coarse nap that formed its exterior. Everything was wet, however, even far in from the road in the depths of the forest, and I had no hope of lighting a fire. As I rode on the following day, the unrelenting cold finally began to penetrate the warmth of my heavy, weatherproof clothing and I felt myself becoming chilled, bone deep, until I began to shiver uncontrollably. I knew I had to find shelter, a dry place where I could light a fire and dry out my damp, cold clothes. The rain blew endlessly into my face in icy spikes, chilled by a blustery wind that swirled around me and my horse as though determined to obliterate us, the last two living creatures in this grey, sodden world. I had not met a living soul on the road since leaving Camulod— only mad people and soldiers on urgent duty would brave weather like this without dire need.
By mid-afternoon, my self-absorbed misery had become so all-encompassing that I nearly passed by an old, dilapidated road house, set so far back from the roadside that I had almost not seen it. I reined in my horse and peered at the place through the curtain of driving rain that obscured it. It looked unprepossessing; neither clean nor friendly, and normally I would not have considered stopping there, but I was cold, wet and miserable, and I told myself that the dismal weather would have made even Camulod look dingy and uninviting.
I tethered my horse in the yard, removed my bow, quiver and pack roll, and entered the building without seeing one person. The mansio was small. Its atrium had been roofed over, creating a central hall two storeys high, with covered stairs leading to the second floor where a passageway protected by a waist-high wooden wall ran around the sides of the enclosure, giving access to a number of rooms that were presumably for the guests. The large, roofed space was warm and dry at least, if very dark, and from the ground floor area passages and doorways radiated in all directions. A countered space against the west wall was obviously intended to serve as some kind of porter's or receiver's station, but it was untenanted, although it was lit by two small tripods, each holding the dwindling, messy stubs of four fat, sputtering tallow candles.
I called for attention and eventually the proprietor came striding from the rear of the place to greet me, appearing surprised that anyone should be travelling on such a night. He was a heavy-set, red-faced fellow with a wispy beard and a truculent, ill-tempered look about him.
"Good day to you. I need a room. One with a warm bed and a door that locks."
He eyed me, taking me in from the top of my dripping head to the soles of my chilled feet, and nodded. "Aye," he grunted, "you do, and towels and a large fire and hot food. I'll have my wife prepare them for you. How long will you stay with us?"
I grinned at him through chattering teeth, relieved by the warmth of his greeting, which his initial expression had not led me to expect. "Perhaps forever; at least until I'm warm again and the rain abates, but probably only until tomorrow."
He nodded and, beckoning me to follow him, led me directly upstairs to a pleasant, clean-smelling room where, during the next quarter-hour, I unpacked my belongings and spread them out to air, having carried all of them in from the yard in three journeys, leaving my horses in the care of a groom who seemed to know what he was doing.