“Nothing,” I said. “I thought I heard something outside, but it's only the wind.”
He said slowly: “You looked for a moment the way you did that night at Tintagel, when you said the air was full of magic. Your eyes went strange, all black and blurred, as if you were seeing something, out there beyond the fire.” He hesitated. “Was it prophecy?”
“No. I saw nothing. All I heard was a sound like horses galloping. It was only the wild geese going over in the wind. If it was prophecy, it will come again. Go on. You were speaking of Badon Hill.”
“Well, the Saxons can't have known that King Uther was in Cornwall, with all the force he'd brought down to fight Duke Gorlois. He gathered his army and called on the Dumnonians to help him, and marched to drive the Saxons back.” He paused, compressing his lips, then finished briefly: “Cador went with him.”
“Did he indeed?” I was thoughtful. “You didn't happen to hear what had passed between them?”
“Only that Cador had been heard to say that since he couldn't defend his part of Dumnonia alone he didn't mind fighting alongside the Devil himself, as long as the Saxons could be cleared from the coast.”
“He sounds a sensible young man.”
Ralf, hot on his grievance, was not listening. “You see, he didn't exactly make peace with Uther — ”
“Yes. One gathers that.”
“ — but he did march with him! And I could not! I went to him, and to my lady, and begged to go, but he wouldn't take me!”
“Well,” I said, reasonably, “how could he?”
That stopped him. He stared at me, ready to be angry again. “What do you mean? If you think me a traitor — ”
“You're the same age as Cador, aren't you? Then try to show as much common sense. Think. If Cador was to go into battle beside the King, then the King, for your sake, could hardly take you. Uther may surfer a few pangs of conscience when he lays eyes on you, but Cador must see you as one of the causes of his father's death. Do you think he would bear you near him, however much he may need the King and his legions? Now do you see why you were left at home, and then sent north to me?”
He was silent. I said, gently: “What's done is done, Ralf. Only a child expects life to be just; it's a man's part to stand by the consequence of his deeds. As we both shall, believe me. So put all this behind you, and take what the gods send. Your life is not over because you have had to leave the court, or even because you have had to leave Cornwall.”
There was a longer silence. Then he picked up his empty bowl and mine and got to his feet. “Yes, I see. Well, since for the moment I can't do much else, I'll stay and serve you. But not because I'm afraid of the King, or because my grandmother wants to get me out of Duke Cador's way. It's because I choose. And indeed” — he swallowed — “I reckon I owe it to you.” His tone was neither grateful nor conciliatory. He stood there like a soldier, stiffly, the bowls clutched to his ribs.
“Then start paying your debt and wash the supper dishes,” I said equably, and picked up a book.
He hung on his heel a moment, but I neither spoke nor looked up. He went then, without another word, to draw water from the spring outside.
5
Bruises on the young heal quickly, and Ralf was soon active again, and insistent that he no longer needed doctoring. The wound on his hip, however, gave some trouble, and left him limping for a week or two.
In “choosing” to stay with me, he had made the best of a bad job, since for the time being he was tied to the cave by his injury and by the loss of his horse, but he served me well, mastering what resentment he might yet feel towards me and his new position. He was silent still, but this suited me, and I went quietly about my affairs, while Ralf gradually fell into my ways, and we got along tolerably well together. Whatever he thought of my quarters in the cave, and the menial tasks which between us we had to do, he made it clear that he was a page serving a prince. Somehow, through the days that followed, I found myself relieved, bit by bit, of burdensome work which I had begun to take for granted; I had leisure again to study, to replenish my store of medicines, even to make music. It was strange at first, and then in some way comforting, to lie wakeful in the night and hear the boy's untroubled breathing from the other side of the cave. After a while, I found I was sleeping better; as the nightmares receded, strength and calmness came back; and if power still withheld itself, I no longer despaired of its return.
As for Ralf, though I could see that he still fretted against his exile — to which, of course, he could see no clear end — he was never less than courteous, and as time went on seemed to accept his banishment with a better grace, and either lost or hid his unhappiness in a kind of contentment.
So the weeks went by, and the valley fields yellowed towards harvest, and the message came at last from Tintagel. One evening in August, towards dusk, a messenger came spurring up the valley. Ralf was not with me. I had sent him that afternoon across the hill to the hut where the shepherd, Abba, lived all summer. I had been treating Abba's son Ban, who was simple, for a poisoned foot; this was almost healed, but still needed salves.
I went out to meet the messenger. He had dismounted below the cliff, and now clambered up to the flat alp in front of the cave. He was a young man, spruce and lively, and his horse was fresh. I guessed from this that his message was not urgent; he had taken his time, and come at his ease. I saw him take in my ragged robe and threadbare mantle in one swift, summing glance, but he doffed his cap and went on one knee. I wondered if the salute was for the enchanter, or for the King's son.
“My lord Merlin.” .
“You are welcome,” I said. “From Tintagel?”
“Yes, sir. From the Queen.” A quick upward glance. “I came privily, without the King's knowledge.”
“So I had imagined, or you would have borne her badge. Get up, man. The grass is damp. Have you had supper?”
He looked surprised. It was not thus, I reckoned, that most princes received their messengers. “Why, no, sir, but I bespoke it at the inn.”
“Then I won't keep you from it. I've no doubt it will be better than you'd get here. Well then, your business? You've brought a letter from the Queen?”
“No letter, sir, just the message that the Queen desires to see you.”
“Now?” I asked sharply. “Is there anything wrong with her, or with the child she bears?”
“Nothing. The doctors and the women say that all is well. But” — he dropped his eyes — “it seems she has that on her mind which makes her want to talk with you. As soon as possible, she said.”
“I see.” Then, with my voice as carefully neutral as his: “Where is the King?”
“The King plans to leave Tintagel in the second week of September.”
“Ah. So any time after that it will be 'possible' for me to see the Queen.”
This was rather more frank than he cared for. He flashed me a glance, then looked at the ground again. “The Queen will be pleased to receive you then. She has bidden me make arrangements for you. You will understand that it will not do for you to be received openly in the castle of Tintagel.” Then, in a burst of candour: “You must know, my lord, there is no man's hand in Cornwall but will be against you. It would be better if you came disguised.”
“As for that,” I said, fingering my beard, “you will see that I'm half disguised already. Don't worry, man, I understand; I'll be discreet. But you'll have to tell me more. She gave no reason for this summons?”
“None, my lord.”
“And you heard nothing — no gossip from among the women, things like that?”