have me do, only a little sooner. Tell her that I’m riding north to seek out my cousin Drustan at Caer Mord, and I’ll send a message to her as soon as I can. It may be that I will ride this way with Drustan, when he goes back to Camelot, and I’ll see her then.”
Brand and Uwain tried to persuade him to go home first with them, and take the northward route after he had spoken again with the Princess Anna , but Alexander (who, once free of the leading-strings, had no intention of letting his mother tie them on again) refused to listen, repeating the message to his mother, and then turning his horse’s head to the north, and leaving them shaking their heads and staring after him.
So he rode north alone, with a light heart. He was seventeen, he had fought in two sharp fights and emerged scatheless from both. He had a good horse, a pouch of money, a new suit of clothing, his mother’s (possible) blessing and his father’s sword, and it was May, with the sun high in the heavens and the early morning dew sparkling on the grass. Small wonder that his spirits were high, and that he sang as he rode. He was young and strong and on his way to seek his fortune. And it was extra fortune that he could, in that year of Our Lord five hundred and twenty-three, seek it at the hand of Drustan, one of the honoured Companions of Arthur, High King of all Britain.
As for his first purpose, revenge for his father’s long-ago murder, and the justice he had been so eager, only a few days back, to seek on King March, he was no longer thinking about that. The day’s promise and the day’s adventure were what filled his mind. When the road he followed led downhill, and he could see, through the trees, the gleam of water which promised a ford, his thoughts and hopes immediately sprang to the tales he had heard, of fording-places guarded by outlaws lying in wait for travellers to rob. As his horse , scenting water, pricked its ears and quickened its pace, he loosened the sword in its scabbard and rode downhill as if to a happy meeting.
What he did find was exactly what he might have expected: a shallow crossing, where the river lisped across its stony bed, and, above the flood markings on the farther bank, the workshop of a wayside smith with the anvil outside, and beside it, crumbling with age but still recognisable, the image of Myrddin the god of going, with an offering of fruit at his feet.
The smith, who was seated against the bole of a nearby oak, with the remains of his dinner wrapped away in a kerchief on the grass, cast an expert’s eye over Alexander’s horse as it splashed through the ford towards him, and then stayed where he was.
“Good day to you, master. You’ll have no need of me today, I see. Are you going far?”
Such men are eager collectors and purveyors of news, and Alexander, even if he had seen any need for caution, was too full of his new freedom to keep it to himself.
“As far north as need be. I go to join Sir Drustan at Caer Mord in Northumbria.”
“Then you’ve a long road ahead of you, young master, but, thanks be to Arthur’s men that ride the roads, it’ll be a safe one.” His little black eyes, twinkling under shaggy brows, were busily taking in Alexander’s clothing, his lack of blazon, the good housing of his horse. “And where are you from, young sir?”
“From Blestium.” No need for more, to have every traveller knowing that the young lord of Craig Arian took such a long journey alone. “You’ll know the best road, smith?”
“I should. I keep my eyes and ears open,” said the smith, “and I hear all that passes. You’d best keep to the old road, the Romansway, they call it. You can strike it at Viroconium, and then it’s straight north into Rheged, and the road east from Brocavum. It’s a long road, master, but you’ve a good horse there. Take care of him and he’ll take care of you.”
“Of course. But – Rheged? So far north? I thought to head north-east long before
Brand and Uwain tried to persuade him to go home first with them, and take the northward route after he had spoken again with the Princess Anna , but Alexander (who, once free of the leading-strings, had no intention of letting his mother tie them on again) refused to listen, repeating the message to his mother, and then turning his horse’s head to the north, and leaving them shaking their heads and staring after him.
So he rode north alone, with a light heart. He was seventeen, he had fought in two sharp fights and emerged scatheless from both. He had a good horse, a pouch of money, a new suit of clothing, his mother’s (possible) blessing and his father’s sword, and it was May, with the sun high in the heavens and the early morning dew sparkling on the grass. Small wonder that his spirits were high, and that he sang as he rode. He was young and strong and on his way to seek his fortune. And it was extra fortune that he could, in that year of Our Lord five hundred and twenty-three, seek it at the hand of Drustan, one of the honoured Companions of Arthur, High King of all Britain.
As for his first purpose, revenge for his father’s long-ago murder, and the justice he had been so eager, only a few days back, to seek on King March, he was no longer thinking about that. The day’s promise and the day’s adventure were what filled his mind. When the road he followed led downhill, and he could see, through the trees, the gleam of water which promised a ford, his thoughts and hopes immediately sprang to the tales he had heard, of fording-places guarded by outlaws lying in wait for travellers to rob. As his horse , scenting water, pricked its ears and quickened its pace, he loosened the sword in its scabbard and rode downhill as if to a happy meeting.
What he did find was exactly what he might have expected: a shallow crossing, where the river lisped across its stony bed, and, above the flood markings on the farther bank, the workshop of a wayside smith with the anvil outside, and beside it, crumbling with age but still recognisable, the image of Myrddin the god of going, with an offering of fruit at his feet.
The smith, who was seated against the bole of a nearby oak, with the remains of his dinner wrapped away in a kerchief on the grass, cast an expert’s eye over Alexander’s horse as it splashed through the ford towards him, and then stayed where he was.
“Good day to you, master. You’ll have no need of me today, I see. Are you going far?”
Such men are eager collectors and purveyors of news, and Alexander, even if he had seen any need for caution, was too full of his new freedom to keep it to himself.
“As far north as need be. I go to join Sir Drustan at Caer Mord in Northumbria.”
“Then you’ve a long road ahead of you, young master, but, thanks be to Arthur’s men that ride the roads, it’ll be a safe one.” His little black eyes, twinkling under shaggy brows, were busily taking in Alexander’s clothing, his lack of blazon, the good housing of his horse. “And where are you from, young sir?”
“From Blestium.” No need for more, to have every traveller knowing that the young lord of Craig Arian took such a long journey alone. “You’ll know the best road, smith?”
“I should. I keep my eyes and ears open,” said the smith, “and I hear all that passes. You’d best keep to the old road, the Romansway, they call it. You can strike it at Viroconium, and then it’s straight north into Rheged, and the road east from Brocavum. It’s a long road, master, but you’ve a good horse there. Take care of him and he’ll take care of you.”
“Of course. But – Rheged? So far north? I thought to head north-east long before
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