gruffly, “living as I do, here by the crossway ford, I see a sight of strange things. Who am I to say what to believe and what not to believe? But if I was you I’d go carefully, young master, and if you do stay over at the castle, remember what they say about Queen Morgan ! Faery they call her, and the word goes that she’s readier with her spells than ever was her sister Morgause, the witch from Orkney that tangled with Merlin and was hacked to pieces in her bed by her own son.” And he made the sign again.
“I’ll remember,” said Alexander, who had heard the story, and had no wish to hear it again. He thanked the man, gave him a coin, and rode on between the banks of forest, with his head full of castles and spells and royal names and the promise of a comfortable – or at the least an interesting – night’s lodging.
14
Towards late afternoon he reached the river and found that, as the smith had said, the water was swollen and fierce, pouring seawards below a steep bank that, even as he reached it, broke under the pressure of water and sent turf and stones swirling down in the flood. The only indication that there had ever been a bridge here was a stand of heavy wooden piles jutting from the far bank, where the road climbed up through the woods again.
The trees were thick, but through them he could just glimpse what looked like the corner of a building. The monastery, no doubt. He halted his horse and let it stand for a minute or two, while he calculated the depth and strength of the water. But even to his bold and inexperienced eye the river looked unfordable, so, with a shrug, he turned the horse’s head away and set it trotting upstream along the river bank. The path, steep and rough in places, was nevertheless well trodden, as if this had happened many times before. How many frustrated travellers, he wondered, halted at the grimly named Dark Tower to beg for a night’s lodging and shelter? Now that this prospect seemed fixed, the young man felt, behind the quiver of excited interest, some sort of nervousness. But when dusk began to draw in, and far across the brawling river he heard the first owl calling, he felt nothing but thankfulness as, through the trees some way to the right of the river bank, he saw a light.
His horse saw it, too, and perhaps smelled stable and supper. It pricked its ears and stepped out, suddenly eager, and soon horse and rider came out of the heavy shadow of the trees into a cleared stretch where the valley lay open, and there, on a bare little tableland of rocky grass, the castle stood.
It was small, a pair of towers joined by a curtain wall which curved back to enclose a courtyard where sheds and stables housed beasts and servants, and a big barnlike structure presumably held stores. Round three sides of the castle walls ran a stream, forming a natural moat. The spring that fed it was high in the valley’s side, and poured down, white in its rocky bed, to wash the front of the castle, where a narrow wooden bridge led across to a door sunk in a deep archway. The place was grim rather than grand, an old building of grey stone gone black with age and weather, designed for defence in that wild and lonely place. The valley lay high among the hills, with steep forest to either side rising to crags where ravens barked. In the open valley-foot the grass, even at that time of the year, grew thin between islands of bracken and thorn. A strange castle for a queen, thought Alexander, then remembered what the smith had said of Queen Morgan, that she had been cast off in disgrace by her husband, and had, moreover , grievously offended her brother the High King. So this castle, this well-named Dark Tower, was in effect a place of banishment, a prison? What sort of welcome would there be here for a benighted traveller? It did not occur to Alexander that a lonely and imprisoned queen might well open her gates joyfully to a young and personable prince.
In any case, there was nowhere else
“I’ll remember,” said Alexander, who had heard the story, and had no wish to hear it again. He thanked the man, gave him a coin, and rode on between the banks of forest, with his head full of castles and spells and royal names and the promise of a comfortable – or at the least an interesting – night’s lodging.
14
Towards late afternoon he reached the river and found that, as the smith had said, the water was swollen and fierce, pouring seawards below a steep bank that, even as he reached it, broke under the pressure of water and sent turf and stones swirling down in the flood. The only indication that there had ever been a bridge here was a stand of heavy wooden piles jutting from the far bank, where the road climbed up through the woods again.
The trees were thick, but through them he could just glimpse what looked like the corner of a building. The monastery, no doubt. He halted his horse and let it stand for a minute or two, while he calculated the depth and strength of the water. But even to his bold and inexperienced eye the river looked unfordable, so, with a shrug, he turned the horse’s head away and set it trotting upstream along the river bank. The path, steep and rough in places, was nevertheless well trodden, as if this had happened many times before. How many frustrated travellers, he wondered, halted at the grimly named Dark Tower to beg for a night’s lodging and shelter? Now that this prospect seemed fixed, the young man felt, behind the quiver of excited interest, some sort of nervousness. But when dusk began to draw in, and far across the brawling river he heard the first owl calling, he felt nothing but thankfulness as, through the trees some way to the right of the river bank, he saw a light.
His horse saw it, too, and perhaps smelled stable and supper. It pricked its ears and stepped out, suddenly eager, and soon horse and rider came out of the heavy shadow of the trees into a cleared stretch where the valley lay open, and there, on a bare little tableland of rocky grass, the castle stood.
It was small, a pair of towers joined by a curtain wall which curved back to enclose a courtyard where sheds and stables housed beasts and servants, and a big barnlike structure presumably held stores. Round three sides of the castle walls ran a stream, forming a natural moat. The spring that fed it was high in the valley’s side, and poured down, white in its rocky bed, to wash the front of the castle, where a narrow wooden bridge led across to a door sunk in a deep archway. The place was grim rather than grand, an old building of grey stone gone black with age and weather, designed for defence in that wild and lonely place. The valley lay high among the hills, with steep forest to either side rising to crags where ravens barked. In the open valley-foot the grass, even at that time of the year, grew thin between islands of bracken and thorn. A strange castle for a queen, thought Alexander, then remembered what the smith had said of Queen Morgan, that she had been cast off in disgrace by her husband, and had, moreover , grievously offended her brother the High King. So this castle, this well-named Dark Tower, was in effect a place of banishment, a prison? What sort of welcome would there be here for a benighted traveller? It did not occur to Alexander that a lonely and imprisoned queen might well open her gates joyfully to a young and personable prince.
In any case, there was nowhere else
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