leather to stare with undisguised curiosity as the traveller shed his outer coverings, layer by layer.
The man who emerged from the cocoon of cloth and fur was nearly as tall as the great King Artor himself. As he stripped to his bare skin, the ostlers had ample opportunity to determine that the itinerant entertainer was broad of shoulder, narrow of hip and virtually hairless except for a mane of raven black hair that hung down his back. His feet and hands were very long and narrow, while some quality in him sent one youth, unasked, to collect two pottery jugs, one of warm water and the other of cold. When he offered the water jugs to the stranger, the man smiled with such sincerity that the lad felt warmed to his toes.
‘My thanks, young sir. As you have heard, I must wash before I entertain the king.’
‘It’s nothing, lord,’ the boy replied, tugging on his forelock with respect. ‘The horses have plenty and we can heat more for our supper.’
‘Then I will fashion a song for you. What is your name?’
‘It’s Gull, sir. My mother once lived near the sea and she says I was a squawking babe.’
The traveller laid his left hand upon the boy’s forehead and immediately Gull felt warmth radiate through his flesh and bones.
‘Like the bird after whom you’ve been named, Gull, you will sail far in this world. And I hope you remember that it was Taliesin who told you this, for I know it to be true.’
Gull backed away from the traveller, for this Samhein was proving to be a night of marvels and he was a little afraid. He rejoined his friends among the bales of hay and gently placed his grubby hand upon the spot where Taliesin’s fingers had rested.
Taliesin grinned ruefully at the look of awe and expectation that brightened the boy’s face. He was no mountebank, handing out prophecies like greasy, base coinage; Gull’s inquisitive eyes had spoken to Taliesin more clearly than any foresight could have done. The harpist knew that the boy was a born traveller who would be gone from Cadbury long before he was a full-grown man.
When Percivale returned for his charge, the traveller was washed, scrubbed and dressed in a long robe hidden by a black cloak and hood.
‘I am ready, my lord. Rhiannon has been ordered to await my return, so I’ll collect my harp and we shall meet my new master.’
Percivale looked up at the long, shrouded form and noted the clean-shaven jaw and sensitive mouth exposed by the light of his torch.
‘I hope you’re in good voice, traveller. The king has had a trying day and needs amusement.’
‘I’ll do my best, for I’m duty bound by a familial oath to serve the High King.’
As Percivale led the way towards the feasting hall, he could feel the strong presence of the dark stranger close behind his heels.
All we need is more discord, Percivale thought to himself. Artor’s court is already a hornets’ nest that is stirred to fighting against itself, so I hope this man can charm away some of the evil that permeates our house.’
Percivale’s ever-loyal heart knew that fate was rarely kind, even to the good and the pious, so he prayed silently to the Christ to protect his Artor from any malice that had entered the goodly house of Cadbury Tor. But in his heart, he could feel time running quickly towards an unknown and grim destiny.
CHAPTER V
THE SINGER AND THE SONG
In a room full of warriors, prominent citizens and genteel ladies, Artor stared around his feasting tables and glumly endured this Samhein feast. Braziers and wall sconces provided illumination and caught the soft glitter of gold, bronze, silver and a variety of gems. Their wearers posed and pouted, and spoke to each other with animation, while their eyes gauged the responses of their fellow guests. Warrior vied with warrior over the splendour of their harnesses, the rareness of their furs and the artistry of their torcs, arm rings and hair ornaments. Women in wool, dyed in every conceivable shade, shaped to
The man who emerged from the cocoon of cloth and fur was nearly as tall as the great King Artor himself. As he stripped to his bare skin, the ostlers had ample opportunity to determine that the itinerant entertainer was broad of shoulder, narrow of hip and virtually hairless except for a mane of raven black hair that hung down his back. His feet and hands were very long and narrow, while some quality in him sent one youth, unasked, to collect two pottery jugs, one of warm water and the other of cold. When he offered the water jugs to the stranger, the man smiled with such sincerity that the lad felt warmed to his toes.
‘My thanks, young sir. As you have heard, I must wash before I entertain the king.’
‘It’s nothing, lord,’ the boy replied, tugging on his forelock with respect. ‘The horses have plenty and we can heat more for our supper.’
‘Then I will fashion a song for you. What is your name?’
‘It’s Gull, sir. My mother once lived near the sea and she says I was a squawking babe.’
The traveller laid his left hand upon the boy’s forehead and immediately Gull felt warmth radiate through his flesh and bones.
‘Like the bird after whom you’ve been named, Gull, you will sail far in this world. And I hope you remember that it was Taliesin who told you this, for I know it to be true.’
Gull backed away from the traveller, for this Samhein was proving to be a night of marvels and he was a little afraid. He rejoined his friends among the bales of hay and gently placed his grubby hand upon the spot where Taliesin’s fingers had rested.
Taliesin grinned ruefully at the look of awe and expectation that brightened the boy’s face. He was no mountebank, handing out prophecies like greasy, base coinage; Gull’s inquisitive eyes had spoken to Taliesin more clearly than any foresight could have done. The harpist knew that the boy was a born traveller who would be gone from Cadbury long before he was a full-grown man.
When Percivale returned for his charge, the traveller was washed, scrubbed and dressed in a long robe hidden by a black cloak and hood.
‘I am ready, my lord. Rhiannon has been ordered to await my return, so I’ll collect my harp and we shall meet my new master.’
Percivale looked up at the long, shrouded form and noted the clean-shaven jaw and sensitive mouth exposed by the light of his torch.
‘I hope you’re in good voice, traveller. The king has had a trying day and needs amusement.’
‘I’ll do my best, for I’m duty bound by a familial oath to serve the High King.’
As Percivale led the way towards the feasting hall, he could feel the strong presence of the dark stranger close behind his heels.
All we need is more discord, Percivale thought to himself. Artor’s court is already a hornets’ nest that is stirred to fighting against itself, so I hope this man can charm away some of the evil that permeates our house.’
Percivale’s ever-loyal heart knew that fate was rarely kind, even to the good and the pious, so he prayed silently to the Christ to protect his Artor from any malice that had entered the goodly house of Cadbury Tor. But in his heart, he could feel time running quickly towards an unknown and grim destiny.
CHAPTER V
THE SINGER AND THE SONG
In a room full of warriors, prominent citizens and genteel ladies, Artor stared around his feasting tables and glumly endured this Samhein feast. Braziers and wall sconces provided illumination and caught the soft glitter of gold, bronze, silver and a variety of gems. Their wearers posed and pouted, and spoke to each other with animation, while their eyes gauged the responses of their fellow guests. Warrior vied with warrior over the splendour of their harnesses, the rareness of their furs and the artistry of their torcs, arm rings and hair ornaments. Women in wool, dyed in every conceivable shade, shaped to
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